#taskmaster close up

[fofi42]

Thumb war? Tequilla!

Taskmaster s17e06 SPOILERS

[102ki]

[rooolt]

I know series 15 of taskmaster wasn’t everyone’s favorite but I do implore you even if you dropped the season to watch the lullaby task because it made me laugh so hard I was in tears and choked so badly on the popcorn I was eating that my vision started spotting

[adreamthatsworthkeeping]

Suffering Austin Powers style with subtitles on Het Grootste Licht today

[undyingdecay]

pairings: the void x reader, robert reynolds x reader cw: smut, afab reader, sub!bob, sub!void (?), nursing, somo, ptsd, trauma responses, oral (female receiving).

a/n: usually i'd write void as dominant, but this is very experimental. so let me know what you think!!

taking care of bob was like cradling a wounded animal—tender, trembling, and easily spooked. 

not a task for the faint of heart. he needed softness, patience, and the kind of love that asked you to go quiet with your breath when his hands trembled too hard to lace his boots. some days, he’d curl into you like he’d never been touched right in his life, and you had to wonder if that was true. he needed direction too, sometimes; a steady hand, a firmer voice when the static in his skull grew loud enough to turn rooms into warzones. there were days you had to pull him back from the edge with nothing but a whisper and the weight of your palm on his chest.

letting him wrap his precious, pink, heat-flushed lips around your nipple whenever he needed grounding probably didn’t help the situation, if you wanted to be technical. but when he latched on with that same bruised devotion he gave everything—eyes fluttering shut like his lashes were kissing his cheeks, murmuring broken things like “love you so much,” and “never leave me, never leave me”—you found it hard to draw a boundary. his need softened you, rewrote your parameters for intimacy. bob didn’t just touch; he clung. worshipped.

and he never just slept. that would be too simple.

nights with bob meant feeling him jolt awake, lungs pumping like he’d clawed his way out of deep water, the sheets damp with sweat and tension. his containment with the thunderbolts had made things worse—val’s voice, the electric hum of the restraints, the offhanded cruelty of taskmaster or the wary glances from walker all nested in his subconscious, feeding nightmares that turned into full-blown delusions if you didn’t anchor him quickly enough.

you’d learned to soothe him without asking questions, just letting his face find the curve of your neck, whispering gently into his hair until he found his way back to you.

but what you hadn’t anticipated was waking up to the distinct warmth of his cock already pumping inside you, slow and soaked in pre, a desperate rhythm like he’d been working himself up for minutes before you stirred. the first time it happened, he cried—actual tears—as he begged with wet, choked whispers, ”’m sorry, i just—needed, needed to feel close.”

his forehead pressed against yours as he moaned your name like it was the only prayer that worked. he trembled all over, arms anchoring you to him in a grip no human could break, and even if you’d wanted to pull away, your body was his—soul first, then skin.

“coming!—‘m coming, please,” he whimpered against your throat, voice cracking like he was breaking all over again as he spilled inside you with a full-body shudder. the warmth was sudden, thick, filling, a reminder that even now, even like this, bob could only come when he felt utterly safe.

yes, taking care of bob was work. but work worth it nonetheless.

taking care of bob and the void was nearly a full-time job. a job without hours, without pay, and without breaks.

you’d learned, early on, that the void wasn’t some passive thing lurking behind bob’s eyes like a parasite waiting to feed.

no, he was present. and yes—you’d come to call him he. not “it.” not “the other.” he had thoughts, shape, intent. he had emotion. he wasn’t just an aftershock of trauma or the chemical cost of power; he was born of bob, born from the same ocean of feeling that made bob cry into your skin and beg you not to leave him.

cruel at first. he was that, certainly. lurking in the shadows of bob’s mind like a poison-black tide whispering barbs just under the threshold of sanity. late nights were the worst. that was when the void would come, all sharp teeth and black honey voice, tormenting bob with visions and disembodied accusations—they’re going to take her from you, bob. she doesn’t love you. she pities you.

you learned to fight back the only way that worked: your body. your breath. your breast offered up like a peace treaty, letting bob latch on and suck delicately until the tension in his spine melted and he sobbed his love into your chest. but even then—especially then—you could feel him. the void. watching. sulking.

tonight was no different.

you shifted slightly beneath bob’s weight, the thick, post-coital warmth of his body heavy atop yours. his cock, still soft inside you, twitched once with some residual need, though his face was slack with half-sleep. sweat glued his golden curls to his temple, and you stroked them away tenderly, your other hand absently combing the length of his back.

but the room had gone still. too still.

you glanced up. scanned the shadows like a prey animal, listening not with your ears but your instincts. you’d come to know what it felt like when he was near. that sudden, uncanny drop in temperature. the thrum of tension in the walls like the building itself had a heartbeat.

and then—there. in the left corner.

dark. staring. you couldn’t see him, not exactly, but you felt him. the way you might feel your own reflection glaring back at you with different thoughts.

it wasn’t sadness tonight. that had passed. there was no grief in the room now.

what had settled in its place was green. sickly, ancient, choking envy that poured over the bed like smoke. it slithered between your toes, coiled around your throat—not enough to harm you, just to remind you you weren’t alone.

he wasn’t alone.

you felt it in bob’s body before he did. his grip on your waist tightened. just slightly, but enough. enough to feel possessive, to feel panicked. like even in the safety of your arms, he could hear the void creeping in, breathing lies into his skull.

you kept your gaze locked on that corner of the room. not with fear. not anymore.

he stares back. fist beginning to ball up before after a singular blink, he’s gone.

there’d been a shift after that night. small at first. subtle.

a breath caught in silence. a shadow that lingered too long.

you weren’t sure when you started counting how many seconds it took for bob’s pupils to dilate after a mission, or how often he blinked before speaking. these days, you measured time in the flicker of his gold-rimmed eyes and how tightly he clung to you in bed.

you wondered if anyone else noticed. once, after a mission—when bob’s hands still trembled faintly under the gloves and his breathing hadn’t quite evened out—you tried to confide in bucky. just a quiet, cautious sentence over lukewarm coffee in the kitchen.

but before bucky could say anything, walker cut through with a gruff, “don’t jinx it—what the hell are you even implying?” the chair scraped against the floor as he stood and left. conversation over.

so you stopped asking.

but you noticed. every moment. every shift.

bob wasn’t just calmer—he was quieter. the stillness didn’t stretch in tension anymore. it curled into you like an animal that had found the one place it wasn’t hunted. the nightmares came less often. and when they did, they weren’t as violent.

but the quiet had a cost.

he was everywhere now. not just bob—but him. the void. that endless shadow that was supposed to be a force of destruction but had become something far stranger. more present. more intimate.

in the shower, a cold gust would wrap around your spine—tight, deliberate, almost possessive. when you washed dishes, you’d glance down and find more soap on the sponge than you remember using. when you stripped for bed, sometimes you could feel his eyes dragging across your skin like a velvet shroud.

at first, it unnerved you. but then you saw what it did to bob.

he softened.

and that, above all, was what mattered.

he’d wake before you now, sometimes in the deepest hours of night, his body already half-curled around yours. you’d open your eyes to gold-streaked irises, wide and glassy in the dark. he never spoke. just stared. past you. through you. like someone watching a storm move through a window and waiting to see if it would break the glass.

the void was growing bolder.

what began as glances became touches. not overt—not at first. a ripple in the mattress. a cold draft across your throat while bob was buried between your thighs. then bob would whisper something afterward, shuddering, dazed, like he couldn’t stop himself: “he—likes the way you taste.”

you didn’t flinch.

it was never about fear. not anymore.

bob needed so much, and you had given it willingly. your mouth. your body. your voice. your patience. and now—your presence. you began to understand what it meant to be his anchor not just in flesh, but in the split seam of reality he lived in. when the void stirred, bob became gentler. hungrier. desperate to tether himself deeper into you, to press himself so close you couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended.

that night came in a hush.

rain etched slow silver trails down the window, glass shuddering now and then from far-off thunder. the overhead lights were out—containment maintenance again—so the room glowed faintly blue from the emergency strips along the walls. you could hear the hum of dormant tech and the wind slithering down the corridors, like the building itself was breathing through its vents.

you were already slick between the legs. not purely from arousal but from him—bob—his cum warm and leaking where he’d emptied himself in you less than an hour ago. soft now, but twitching occasionally, like even in his sleep he was reaching for you. always reaching.

then he moved.

not much. just a subtle shift of his spine, a hitch in breath.

and then colder.

the air dropped—sharp and immediate, like the temperature itself was pulled into the marrow of your bones. you felt it before you even registered the sound of his breath catching. bob tensed against you, curling inwards like a wing folding under pressure. his face, always so soft in sleep—boyish, angelic—began to twist.

his brow furrowed. his eyes squeezed shut. his mouth opened—no words, just a tremble, a flinch—and then he whispered, voice raw and too small:

“he’s coming.”

your body moved before your mind could catch up. you sat upright, one hand on his cheek, the other looping around his bare, trembling torso. his skin burned hot with panic.

“hey, hey—breathe. i’ve got you. you’re okay. just stay with me.”

but he wasn’t seeing you.

his eyes opened, golden and glassy, flickering around the room with frantic, unanchored energy. not looking at you—looking past you. through the walls. through the veil.

“he’s in my ribs,” bob choked. “in my chest. i can’t—he’s too close—i can’t breathe—”

and that’s when you felt it.

not from him.

from behind you.

from the other side of the bed.

a slow, deliberate shift. the mattress depressed as if a second weight settled into it. the air didn’t just go cold—it warped. like grief. like memory too old to hold.

you turned your head.

and he was there.

just like in the classified footage you weren’t supposed to see—filed away in some hard drive under val’s office, locked behind biometric clearances and layers of redacted history. the thing that tore through a battalion in syria like wet paper. humanoid, yes—but only in shape. his body was made of something that defied category: shadow like smoke, skin like liquid static, always shifting, never choosing. his form cracked in and out of visibility like the very laws of physics couldn’t bear his presence.

but his eyes—if that’s what they were—shone like slits of white flame, narrow and hollow, like lightning trapped inside a skull-shaped storm.

he didn’t speak at first.

he just stared at you.

you tightened your arms around bob.

this was the part where you were supposed to scream. or cry out for help. or do something logical—something human.

but you didn’t.

because even through the fear—even with bob trembling in your lap, gasping out ragged, nonsensical breaths—you felt it.

the void wasn’t angry.

not yet.

but he was hungry.

and so unbearably lonely.

the void crouched at the edge of the bed like a creature not used to being let in. his form shimmered with frustration—smoke fighting muscle, mist struggling to settle. he looked like he had been trying to form a body that wouldn’t scare you and failed halfway through. his presence soaked the room like a black tide pulled in from somewhere deeper than space, and all you could think was: he’s trying.

then—warped, slow, like it came through water:

why not me?

it wasn’t a question, not something sweet or fragile like bob.

it was a demand.

you stared at him, throat tight, and suddenly everything snapped into place. you remembered the way bob always came in you like it wasn’t about pleasure but release. the way he moaned your name like a prayer too full of guilt. the way his panic always lessened when he suckled at your breast—mouth pink and needy and trembling, voice murmuring “don’t leave” against your skin.

and the void had watched it all.

every second.

you took a breath that trembled at the edges.

“i didn’t know you wanted to be… held,” you whispered. “i didn’t know you could be.”

the void didn’t speak again.

but the air changed. the cold lessened—not gone, but quieter. like the difference between standing outside a locked door and being invited in.

bob whimpered softly. you turned back to him—his arms now limp around you, face pressed into your collarbone, breath hiccuping like a child coming down from a nightmare.

he wasn’t alone in that body. not anymore.

“you’re not hurting him,” you said gently, eyes shifting back to the shadow crouched at the bed’s edge. “but you’re scaring him. he doesn’t understand what you want.”

you paused.

“but i do.”

the void moved—slow, impossibly quiet. a crackle of static ran through the mattress, like electricity testing the space between bodies. he shifted closer. not aggressive. not violent. just present. needing.

you turned your body slightly, enough to cradle bob with one arm and open your chest with the other. the gesture was small. human. but it held weight.

“come here,” you said, not demanding our of pure fear of what would happen if he did become angry.

he didn’t so much crawl as unfold. like a shadow drawn forward by gravity. you didn’t flinch as the cold pressed against your side. as his not-hands touched your thigh, tentative and unsure.

bob whimpered again. you guided his mouth back to your breast, brushing his hair away from his forehead. “it’s okay,” you whispered. “i’ve got you.”

the void’s not a gentle creature. not an innocent one. he is a storm wrapped in bone and shadow, a rage too deep to untangle, and a loneliness that tastes like poison.

“go on,” you whispered. “if you want… hold on to me.”

the void’s form flickered uncertainly, then moved with a slow, trembling grace—no longer lurking at the edge, but bridging the divide.

and then you felt it.

the other mouth.

cooler. heavier. not flesh, but not entirely foreign. a mouth that had no business tasting but needed to. that suckled with a kind of starvation you had no name for. he latched onto your other breast with wet reverence, tongue colder than bob’s but just as desperate.

you gasped—soft and involuntary—as both mouths worked in tandem.

bob suckling on one side, warm and trembling, his fingers digging into your waist like a lifeline. the void on the other, pulling from you with slow, aching hunger. not rough. not cruel.

just possessive.

you were the center of something impossible—of one body split into two forms, held together by want and trauma and the unspoken promise that you would not run.

the rain let down slowly.

you moaned, head falling back, breath trembling.

bob whimpered around your nipple, soft and lost.

the void suckled like he had been waiting since before language.

and between them, you breathed.

held.

anchored.

loved.

and not one of them let go.

[controld3vil]

letting them pick your weapon

pairings: yelena belova, bucky barnes, john walker, robert reynolds/sentry, ava starr/ghost, taskmaster (comic ver.), alexei shostakov/red guardian x gn!thunderbolts!reader

synopsis: The fact that you value their opinion catches them off guard.

notes -> working on requests rn, but inbox’s still open !! I WANNA WRITE MORE tags/cw: inaccurate characterization/have not seen the film, minor scene mention (it’s in the trailer!), descriptions of weapons (flash bombs, bucky’s grappling hook, retractable shield, emergency teleporter, static boots, weapon gauntlet, combat enhanced gloves) headcanons can be read as platonic/romantic

YELENA BELOVA

-> believed you were joking at first. her? you have lost your mind if you thought she would be a good idea to offer advice to. but because it’s you, she’s willing to consider your preferences and style of combat. most of the team already use guns, tactical knives for hand-to-hand combat. you’re a great candidate for any challenge, so she’s not going to pick something easy. if you wanted easy, you would’ve asked someone else. 

“Well, I’m flattered you think so highly of me,” The former Black Widow turned to you with a delighted grin slowly spreading across her face. It’s obvious how smitten she is after your suggestion regarding the weaponry. Valentina had experts for those kinds of things: weapons, gear, and training. Yet, you sought her out for her opinion. Yelena rarely swoons at compliments, but you make her feel lighter on her feet on rare occasions. 

“Is it so wrong not to?” you jest with a smirk. You continued down the hallway of the Tower. The armory is built with a fingerprint pad at the end of the hall. Once you are allowed access, the bulletproof doors open. 

“You’ve got quite the selection,” Yelena notes, her eyes scanning the close-combat display. A few new additions catch her eye – one’s she’s certain weren’t there last week. It’s obvious you favor hand-to-hand combat over long-range, but she has no intentions of making this easy for you. Yelena knows you enjoy pushing boundaries, not just with weapons, but with strategy, roles, anything that keeps you one step ahead. “You’re still positive you want my advice?”

“Of course!” You beam, scanning down the aisles of the collection Valentina has managed to grab for the team. This was something you wished you had, and not just a temporary use. Still, you’re unfazed by Yelena’s pondering. “You’re one of the best I know of.” 

“That you know of,” She corrects, placing her hands on her hips. She’s thinking carefully now. What to give you. Would you like what she suggests? It shouldn’t matter as much, but Yelena now considers your combat style. The way you navigate around the battlefield, how you look both ways before crossing an alleyway. You’re very meticulous when it comes to closed operations, which is why she works so well with you. 

You see her grab something from a barrel, close to the heavy weapons. She holds it in her hand, feeling the weight of it. Her palms bounce the spherical object up and down as if it were a baseball and not something to be messed with. Yelena seems satisfied, as you can tell by the glint in her eyes when she turns to you. Her grin is devilish as she picks up a few more and lays them out in her hands. 

“Flash bombs, huh…” Your expression is neutral, studying them like an ancient artifact. You rarely use them, as it really depends on the mission. If it were a search and rescue, you wouldn’t think to use flash bombs. But then again, it’s slowly that you realize how typical your preferences are. “Never used them.”

“Exactly the point,” the ex-assassin beams with a lighthearted jab. “We rarely use flash bombs– makes it more fun when we do.” 

“So you’re suggesting them because you think they’re fun?” You crossed your arms, a smug smile tugging at your lips. You knew better than to expect Yelena to take your request seriously. She was trying to make peace with a past she rarely spoke of. But still, she had a way of making her life a hell of a lot more interesting.

“Flash bombs are like party tricks–best when no one sees them coming,” she said with a pout, holding one up like it was a priceless treasure.

BUCKY BARNES

-> question your mental fortitude. are you serious? but then he listens to you spouting about his days as the Winter Soldier. he doesn’t think highly of those days but the way you boast about his expertise is almost bizarre. do you admire him? that makes him feel oddly appreciated and conflicted. however because of your persistent pleas (you said please once!), he complies and leads you to his room. 

“Where did you think we were going?” The team leader grumbled, eyes fixed ahead as he passed Walker’s door without so much as a glance. There was a hint of playfulness in his voice–subtle, nearly invisible–but you caught it. You always did with him. 

He didn’t look at you. He rarely did when he was in one of these moods. Still, you followed close behind, practically on his heels like a loyal, overly eager puppy. And you couldn’t have looked more pleased. Because the truth was, you never expected to be allowed into Bucky’s room. 

“I mean no one’s allowed in your room,” you said, your voice light, stating the obvious. 

That made him stop. 

Bucky turned to look at you, his expression unreadable. To anyone else, he probably seemed annoyed–grim even. But you had spent enough time watching the subtle gestures to notice the truth. The slight droop in his eyes. That flicker of something softer. 

“Well– you’re the leader,” you added quickly, voice quieter now, “and out of respect, I just… never thought I’d be invited.” Now he looks at you even more deeply. Great, now he looks like a kicked puppy. 

“I mean, I appreciate the kind assumption, but really–” he pauses, eyes locking onto yours with surprising intensity. “You’re always welcome. If you need anything, that is.” 

You nod, taking in the quiet sincerity in his words. For a moment, it felt like you two had cleared the air. The weight of the conversation felt lighter, more comfortable. 

When he opens the door, he steps aside to let you enter first. 

Bucky’s room is nothing out of the ordinary. It was plain and expected, maybe, but not without hints of the man who lives there. A few photos hang crookedly on the wall. Clothes are scattered on the floor, like they were left there in a hurry or maybe forgotten. He doesn’t spend much time here, but it’s undeniably his space.  

“Sorry for the mess.” He passes by you and heads to his closet. You watch as he grabs a case, pulling it down with the kind of care that says it’s something important. You have no idea what’s inside, but you can guess. What screams Bucky Barnes? Probably a custom-modified handgun. Maybe a combat knife with a story behind it.

“Here it is,” he says, setting the case down on the bed. You stare at it, curiosity buzzing as he unlatches the safety lock. His gaze flicks to yours for a split second before he opens it. And when you finally see what’s inside, you can’t help it. 

You laugh.

Bucky turns to you, almost abruptly. “What’s so funny?”

Your eyes cross his. “Is this the grappling hook you used to destroy that military vehicle when you were chasing us?” Recognition flickers in his face. The realization hits him–it is the same one. And for a moment, his expression is as unforgettable as the day you first saw him, tearing across the empty drylands on that motorcycle like something out of a war film.

“Oh… right,” Bucky says, rubbing the back of his neck, guilt creeping into his voice. “Sorry. I didn’t exactly plan that part out.”

“It’s alright…” You said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. The light streaming through the window catches the gleam of his metal arm, making it shine with an almost haunting beauty. “We're past that now.”

His eyes held a longing, a deep, mysterious intensity that you couldn’t quite figure out. He glances back at the grappling hook, it’s been since the beginning of your journey together as a team. He hasn’t used it since then, storing it as a keepsake, but now he’s looking at you.

“It’s yours now."

JOHN WALKER

-> gives you a skeptical look. you know yourself best, why would you go out of your way to ask him? doesn’t turn down the suggestion, but will constantly ask you why. He's been in the military, served two tours in Afghanistan. All he’s ever good for is punching things and shooting. And now, Valentina has given him a mediocre shield in place of Captain America’s. It’s safe to say he doesn’t choose his weapons, he earns them.

“I thought Yelena would be the one to ask, not you.” Walker doesn't seem just mildly annoyed; no, he’s genuinely in disbelief. No one’s ever asked him for a weapon before, and while his options were somewhat limited, he’s beginning to think that with the super serum coursing through him means he’s capable of more than he used to be. But his go-tos have always been the same: his shield and gun.

“You’re a strong guy,” you shrug casually, stripping off the protective gear you’d brought along. The two of you had just finished an operation, and the exhaustion was settling in, yet you couldn’t ignore the curiosity that spurred your suggestion. “I trust your instincts.”

Walker just stares at you, the look on his face speaking volumes. Seriously? He’s caught off guard. After everything that’s happened, now you’re asking him? But you can see he’s weighing your words, even if it’s only for a moment.

“You should trust your intuition,” he says, his tone softening just a little, though the faint skepticism still lingers. “Choose whatever you’re comfortable with.” 

“Comfortable?” You raise an eyebrow, pretending to think it over. “Well, if comfortable means picking a weapon that might get me killed, then… sure, I’m all in.” You smile, as if this were no big deal, even though deep down, the weight of your decision isn’t lost on you. “I trust you enough to make it interesting.” 

The former soldier exhales, clearly irritated, though mostly with himself. You weren’t going to give up, and he knew it. If he let this go now, you’d just come back tomorrow with the same question. You were rarely this persistent, but when you were, there’s no way of convincing you out of it. He could either make a decision now or risk you asking him again later. 

“Fine,” he muttered, scanning the armory. 

As you busied yourself, putting away gear and organizing supplies, Walker moved around the racks, his eyes flickering over the options. But the more he looked, the more he found himself caught in a mental loop. 

The rifle? Too heavy. That pistol? Not enough range for someone with your skills. That polearm? Too awkward for you to wield efficiently.

Finding a weapon that matched your needs, something that fit your style, was proving to be harder than he anticipated. He muttered under his breath, his frustration slowly building. Then he stole a glance at you, assessing. His eyes narrowed, running through the possibilities. He paused. The mission… in that moment. He remembered how you struggled to dodge the bullets while also taking down some thugs. His gaze lingered for a moment longer before he sighed and reached for something on a high shelf. 

Before he makes it down, you’re already by his side. 

“Whatcha got there?” You look eager, excited by the fact that Walker was this tolerant of your persistent pestering, that he’s willing to go through with his promise. 

“A retractable shield.” He removed the cover, and there it was. The shield was smaller compared to Walker’s, but confident in size to contract in and out like a gadget. It had a charred black matte finish, with dark silver lining across the edges. It had an adjustable cuff. It resembled similarly to a Wakandan shield, which Bucky saw during his time there. It was beautiful. “It was a prototype Valentina had ordered for me, but I never used it. I got this one already,” he gestured to his shield, clasped behind his back. 

“If you like, you can keep this one.” 

“Wait—really?!” 

“I mean— I don’t use it, so it’s all yours,” he says delicately, placing it into your hands. “I can teach you a few tricks, too, if you like.”

ROBERT REYNOLDS/SENTRY

-> extra extra nervous. you asked the guy who doesn’t need weapons or any kind of gadget to fight. if any of the members were in the room, they would be looking at you like you were crazy. bob’s first answer is no, but after seeing you pout at his refusal, he’s quick to please you. but then again, he has no idea what he’s doing. 

“Okay! Knives, guns—uh, what are you looking for?” You appreciate the effort of his trying to act like he knows what he’s doing. But he’s trying desperately to meet your expectations. Bob looks nervous, like a lamb to the slaughter in the weapons room, jumping from cabinet to cabinet, looking at all of the variety. 

“Just something new to try out,” You grin, letting his nervous energy follow him around. You stand by the doorway and watch as Bob tries to analyze each piece of equipment. 

“Uhm—are you looking for something practical or—“ 

“Bob,” that startles him, making him freeze momentarily before meekly turning to face you. He was expecting you in mad rage, yet you weren’t. You just had a cute, goofy smile on your face. “Pick something with your heart. I know whatever you choose will be fine.” 

It’ll be fine. He thinks to himself, before nodding, allowing his nerves to slowly subside. Bob takes a deep breath, and in slow strides, he reaches out to something. 

When he turns, your gaze follows, all innocent and cute. 

“Ahh, an emergency teleporter!” You’re in awe because it was something you didn’t think Bob would pick as his first choice. There were plenty of gadgets you thought of— force fields, bulletproof vests, iron-plated brass knuckles. 

“Thought it might come in handy,” he nervously laughs, fiddling with the device, not knowing what to do with his hands. “Uhm— you know, in case you have to go on missions with me— and I don’t know— if something were to happen—“ 

You could practically see his thoughts unraveling from where you stood, Bob always rambled when he was anxious. But the fact that he was worrying about your safety left a warm, fluttery feeling in your chest. 

“Hey– I get it,” you say gently, taking the teleporter from his hand. Only then does he realize he’d been speaking out loud, not just thinking it. He freezes, suddenly stiff and wide-eyed, like a deer caught in headlights. Embarrassed and tense. You offer a reassuring smile, one that says you don’t mind if anything, you appreciate it.

“It’s smart to have a backup plan,” you add. “And hey, maybe once this mission’s over, we’ll use it to teleport straight to that pizza place.”

AVA STARR/GHOST

-> pokes fun at you. jokes about all the possibilities of how you’ll slip up with whatever item she picks. obviously you don’t take it to heart, but ava’s light-hearted nature is a breath of fresh air— after so many grueling missions, her jokes are something that keeps you motivated for the next. need advice on using the element of surprise? she’s your gal! 

“I mean, come on–sneaking in with suppressed pistols but still blowing the whole operation?” Ava giggles, clearly enjoying herself while you look away, pretending to be interested in the horizon. 

“It was one of my first missions, okay?” you snap, pouting as a hot mix of embarrassment and irritation bubbles up inside you.

“Yeah, yeah—amateur,” she teases, ducking her head and biting back another laugh. 

“Oh, like you didn’t have any screw-ups when you started?”

“Don’t even get me started.” 

You raise a brow. “Well? I’m listening.” 

“I’m not telling you,” Ava says with a teasing hum as she strolls toward the armory, already scanning the gear selection menu. You trail after her, fuming. 

“I just told you my most embarrassing story, and you won’t even share yours? That’s not fair!” Steam practically pours from your ears. You’d laid bare your humiliating failure, and Ava–cool, composed Ava, refuses to give even a scrap in return. 

But instead of responding, she flashes a sly smile. “Because I got you something better.” She stops in front of a reinforced gear locker, a sleek metal container stacked with tactical essentials: vests, gloves, helmets. Everything you’d expect. But apparently, Ava has something different in mind. You pause, watching as she places her hand on the scanner. With a soft click and mechanical hiss, a hidden shelf slides out. 

It gleams. Brand new. Sleek like fresh sneakers out of the box. Ava hums before she accesses the armory, heading to the gear selection. 

“For when you’re trying not to sound like a herd of elephants,” she smirks, nodding to a pair of matte-black static boots. She leans casually against the frame, one eyebrow raised in silent amusement.

You blink at her, deadpan.

“Seriously?” 

“I mean, I can hear you walk from your bedroom to the kitchen–from my room,” Ava says, casually shrugging like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

You blink. That’s new information.

“Wait… I’m just a loud walker?” She gives you a pointed look, and suddenly it all clicks. “That explains why Walker’s always giving me weird looks,” you mutter, half to yourself. “Guess my feet have a mind of their own.”

Ava snorts. “No, love–you just have really bad shoes.”

TONY MASTERS/TASKMASTER

-> looks your way in deep silence. for how long you’ve known each other, you’re starting to believe tony chooses not to talk. he expresses much more with his actions, such as offering you extra bullets, or medical tape if things go south. tony is an experienced man with many talents, he’s able to copy and replicate his opponent’s moves. he’s done the same with teammates, with you when training, allowing you to point out the mistakes you hadn’t seen there before. sometimes you think he knows you better than yourself. 

“A weaponized gauntlet, huh?” you say, not even pretending to be surprised when Tony hands it to you, seemingly out of thin air. No trip to the armory, no formal request. Apparently, Tony knew you were going to ask him about this and waited for you to ask. 

You study the gauntlet closely, fingers tracing its sleek design. Every button, switch, and panel feels deliberate. Precise. You press one. Click! A retractable blade slides out with satisfying ease. Another press–a grappling line. Then a short-range stun charge. Then a blinding flash ejector. You can’t help it. A grin creeps across your face.

This was so him. 

Tony embodied versatility in his work. He didn’t rely on brute force–he struck with speed, precision, and timing. This gauntlet? This gauntlet was just like him: tactical, efficient, and sharp.

“Thank you,” you say softly, still a bit in awe as you reset the device to its default mode. Your eyes are locked on the gauntlet, taking in every detail. But Tony’s? His eyes haven’t let you once. 

If the circumstances were different, you might’ve mistaken this moment for something romantic.

“It’s pretty neat, has everything I need,” you say, trying to fill the silence with something, anything. You don’t mind the quiet, not really, but sometimes the stillness between you feels too heavy not to break. Tony doesn’t reply. Not verbally, at least. But you can tell his focus has shifted, drawn in closer. He’s leaning slightly toward you now, just enough for you to notice the space closing. 

You feel compelled to try the gauntlet on. As you unfasten the straps and slide it onto your wrist, it clamps down, not tightly, threatening. More like a perfectly fitted bracelet. Secure and purposeful. There’s a subtle hum as the device calibrates, adjusting to the shape of your hand. The pressure eases, and it begins to feel more like a part of you than an accessory. Almost like a second skin. 

Tiny scanners flicker along your fingertips, mapping them precisely–each digit now linked to a specific function, a silent promise of the power you had. You lift your pointer finger, and almost instantly, a blade slides out with fluid precision. 

“This feels like straight-up nanotech…” You murmur, raising your wrist toward the ceiling light, eyes wide with wonder. You probably look like a kid on Christmas morning. If a civilian saw you now, they might assume you’d completely lost it. 

“Where did you even get this?” you ask, unable to hide your curiosity. Tony tilts his head, deliberate and unreadable. You already know he won’t answer, but that never stopped you from asking him pointless questions anyway. It’s become a quiet repetition between you. 

You lower your arm, bring the gauntlet down to chest level–just enough to create a sort of invisible line between you and him. A barrier, but a playful one. 

“If you ever need it,” you say, mimicking his earlier head tilt with a smile, “just ask.”

ALEXEI SHOSTAKOV/RED GUARDIAN

-> very excited. so excited you asked him! alexei is really a lovable guy— even though he often doesn’t use any weapons or gadgets, he thinks of his teammates whenever he goes out window shopping. he sees a new brand Glock 19 by the window? yelena would love it! an energy stabilizer on the dark web? bob’s gonna flip! but you? good old you get special treatment because he’ll personally get you whatever you want. 

“When I heard you needed a new weapon, I was so happy!” Alexei beams as the two of you make your way into the living room. His accent thickens with excitement as he waves a hand. “Not in a bad way, of course, but it’s good, da? Trying something new!” 

“You get me, Alexei,” you say, arms crossing instinctively. Apparently, you weren’t the only one picking up on your growing restlessness. Same weapons, same tactics, and same rhythm, it all started to feel stale. You figured switching things up might help you see things differently. 

Everyone on the team had their niche. Alexei, with his brute strength. Bucky, his guns, and that metal arm. Ava could phase through about anything. Everyone had their thing. And you? You’d been stuck in the same position for far too long. 

“That is why I was so excited when I found this,” he says, crouching to pull a box from under the couch with a mischievous grin. 

Your brows lift, your curiosity piques. “What’ve you got?”

“Close your eyes!” he orders, and you obey, hands outstretched like a kid waiting for a surprise. Behind your closed lids, you hear the ripple of tape, the crinkle of bubble wrap, and then clank... a solid metallic sound, followed by the stretch of fabric. Then something is gently placed into your palms. 

It’s lighter than you expect. Smooth and flexible, but as your fingers trace further, you find the contrast, the cold, hard metal beneath the fabric. 

“Open your eyes!” he announces, barely able to contain his excitement. 

You do. And you’re impressed.

Combat-enhanced gloves, sleek Kevlar-weave across the surface, making your hands feel impossibly light and agile. Carbon-titanium plates reinforce the knuckles and strike zones, and the inside? A smart gecko-grip polymer, designed to boost grip on any surface. 

You stared, stunned. Not just by the gloves, but by the fact that Alexei went through the trouble to find them. Valentina might have gotten you something, if she wasn’t constantly ranting about budget cuts. But this? This came from someone who genuinely wanted to help. 

“You really are the best,” you say, laughing softly as you wrap your arms around his neck, the gloves still clutched in your hands. He lets out a big, satisfied huff of a laugh, and when you pull back, his smile nearly outshines the room.

Who could hate him? You hadn’t known Alexei that long, but somehow he already understood you better than most. 

“I know you like your shooting and whatnot,” he says, mock innocent. You roll your eyes and give him a playful jab to the shoulder. 

“But I also know,” he grins, “you really like punching things. So I thought–'Hey, you know who’d love combat gloves?’”

You can’t stop smiling. It actually hurts a little, but you don’t care. 

“Then I saw them, just sitting there in the market! I couldn’t believe it. Like the universe wanted me to buy them for you!”

“Universe said received,” you say, voice bubbling with gratitude and affection. You look down at the gloves, then back at Alexei. You’ll get him something too. Not because you owe him, but because it’s rare to be known like this. And his gift? 

It’s perfect.

[taskmastercaps]

[ID: Five screencaps from Taskmaster. Mathew Baynton kneels on the ground, curled up in a ball with his face buried in a cushion. Later, in the studio, Greg Davies says, "Mathew, we're not even one full episode into this series, and I... I think you might be close to the edge." Mathew says cheerfully, "That is not even close to my lowest ebb. I remember that fondly, if anything." End ID.]

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You are extremely physically affectionate towards your lover

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter Parker was not used to this. The easy touches, the warmth of your hand against his, the way you leaned into him as if gravity itself was pulling you closer. He had spent so much of his life keeping a careful distance, making sure the people he loved never got too close—because close meant vulnerable, and vulnerable meant loss. But you? You never seemed to care about the dangers or the excuses. You curled into his side when he sat on the couch, laced your fingers through his when you walked together, kissed him just because you felt like it. And Peter—awkward, hesitant Peter—was utterly helpless against you.

- At first, he didn’t know what to do with it. The first time you pressed your face into the crook of his neck while he worked on his web-shooters, he short-circuited so hard he nearly ruined the entire mechanism. "Uh—babe? Not that I’m complaining, but—is this a thing? Are we doing this now? Oh, we are doing this now. Okay. Cool. No problem. Just—uh, gimme a sec to process." But you never waited for permission. You just kept touching him—soft, constant, reassuring—until eventually, he stopped questioning it and started needing it.

- The first time he realized just how much he needed it was after a particularly brutal night. A fight that left his body aching and his mind even worse. He barely made it through the window before you were there, wrapping yourself around him like you knew. And suddenly, everything that had been clawing at him—the guilt, the exhaustion, the loneliness—dissolved. He didn’t say a word. He just held you tighter, buried his face in your hair, and breathed.

- Now, Peter craves it like oxygen. He reaches for you before he even realizes it—pulling you against him in his sleep, hooking an arm around your waist as he scrolls through his phone, nudging his nose against yours just because he can. The world is cruel, unpredictable, dangerous—but your touch? Your warmth? That is something Peter Parker will never take for granted.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony Stark was a man who built walls. Not the kind that crumbled easily under the weight of kind words and patient gestures—no, his were reinforced, designed to keep people out. He had spent years perfecting the art of distance, of making sure no one got too close. But you? You were different. You didn’t knock on the door, waiting for permission—you climbed right over the walls, landed in his space, and stayed. With your hands, your lips, your unwavering need to touch him, to hold him, to remind him that he was not alone.

- At first, it was… jarring. Tony was used to attention, yes, but not this kind. Not the kind that wasn’t expecting something in return. The first time you hugged him—just because—you felt the way his body went rigid, the way his hands hovered awkwardly before settling on your back. "Wow. This is… new. Okay. Hugs. We’re hugging. Cool, cool, cool. No existential crisis here." But you never relented. You pressed into his side when he worked late, kissed the back of his neck when he got lost in his own head, traced absentminded patterns into his palm during meetings. And Tony? He found himself melting into it before he even realized what was happening.

- The real turning point came one night when he woke up gasping, his chest tight, his mind drowning in memories that refused to stay buried. He didn’t even have to reach for you—you were already there, pulling him close, pressing soft kisses against his shoulder, grounding him with your touch. "I’m here," you murmured against his skin, and Tony Stark—genius, billionaire, survivor—broke. He clung to you like a lifeline, burying himself in your warmth, letting himself be held in a way he had never allowed before.

- Now, he seeks it out. He’ll act like he doesn’t, make some snarky remark about "needy girlfriends", but the second you stop touching him? He’s pulling you back in, draping himself over you like the most dramatic man alive. "Hey, where do you think you’re going? My affection quota isn’t filled yet." And if anyone so much as thinks about commenting on it? He just smirks, pulls you even closer, and says, "Jealous? You should be."

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve Rogers was a man out of time, a soldier who had spent most of his life with his fists clenched, his mind trained to endure. He was not accustomed to softness, to indulgence, to the kind of affection that did not come with conditions. And yet—here you were. Always reaching for him, always pressing close, always reminding him that he was yours. You kissed the inside of his wrist like it was sacred, ran your fingers through his hair when he let himself relax, curled against his chest like you belonged there. And the truth was? You did.

- At first, he didn’t know what to do with it. The first time you wrapped your arms around him from behind, he went stiff, his body tensing as if bracing for an attack. But when you simply hummed, resting your head against his back, something in him unraveled. He exhaled—slow, steady—before covering your hands with his. And that was the moment he realized—this was not something to fear. This was something to cherish.

- The first time he sought it out was after a particularly difficult mission. The kind that left blood on his hands and ghosts in his mind. He came home, exhausted, battered, but the moment you reached for him—he melted. He let himself sink into your arms, let himself need you in a way he rarely allowed himself to. And when you whispered, "I’ve got you," he closed his eyes and believed it.

- Now, it’s second nature. He reaches for you without thinking—pulling you into his lap when you’re both reading, brushing his knuckles against your cheek as he passes by, resting his hand on the small of your back whenever you’re near. Affection is not something he was raised to expect, but with you? With you, it is something he will never stop craving.

Thor

- Thor Odinson is a man of grand gestures, of roaring laughter and earth-shaking love. But when it comes to you—his affection is not just thunderous, but constant. He adores the way you reach for him without hesitation, the way your hands find his in quiet moments, the way your touch lingers as if you cannot bear to be apart for too long. And oh, how he thrives under it.

- The first time you showered him in affection, he grinned—wide, bright, eager. "Ah! My love, you are truly as radiant as the stars!" He embraced you effortlessly, lifting you into the air, delighting in the way you laughed against his chest. He was never one for restraint—if you wanted to touch him, to hold him, to kiss him senseless—he would let you. Encourage you. Because there was nothing Thor loved more than being loved.

- But it was the quiet moments that truly undid him. When you curled against him after a battle, your fingers tracing over his scars. When you pressed sleepy kisses to his shoulder before drifting off. When you simply held his face in your hands, looking at him like he was more than just a god, more than just a warrior. Like he was yours. And in those moments, Thor Odinson—Prince of Asgard, champion of realms—felt human.

- Now, he craves it like a force of nature. He pulls you into his lap without warning, presses lingering kisses to your forehead, wraps his arms around you so tightly you can feel the strength in them. If anyone dares to comment, he simply laughs, throwing an arm around you with a smirk. "Jealous, are we? Ah, but who could blame you? My beloved is irresistible!" Because to Thor, your love is not just something he accepts—it is something he reveres.

Loki

- Loki was not accustomed to tenderness. Affection, in his experience, had always been fleeting—given only in exchange for something, laced with expectation, or worse, manipulation. But you? You gave without asking. You touched without hesitation. Your fingers traced the sharp lines of his face as if he were something to be studied, not feared. You kissed his knuckles absentmindedly, tangled your fingers in his hair, rested your head against his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And Loki—cunning, guarded, untouchable—let you.

- At first, he did not know what to do with it. The first time you cupped his face in your hands, he had gone utterly still, his breath caught between his ribs, waiting for the inevitable trick, the hidden knife. But all you did was smile, tracing the delicate skin beneath his eyes as if he were precious. As if he were yours. And something in him—something ancient, something wounded—cracked apart.

- He is not a man who gives easily, but when he does, he gives completely. Now, Loki seeks your touch like a starving thing—leaning into your warmth as you press against his side, pulling you into his lap without a word, letting your hands wander over him as if to prove he is real. He teases, of course—"Darling, do you find me so irresistible that you cannot keep your hands to yourself?"—but his voice is softer than it should be, his hands tightening against yours as if begging you never to stop.

- And if anyone so much as questions it? If they dare to call him weak for the way he melts beneath your hands? He merely smirks, his arm curling around your waist as he whispers, "Ah, but love, what better trick is there than to make the gods themselves fall to their knees?"

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint Barton had spent a lifetime watching his back, expecting the worst. He was not used to gentle hands, to soft embraces that did not come with conditions or an ulterior motive. He had lived his life running—always moving, always fighting, never letting anyone get too close. And then you happened. You, with your touch that lingered like a second heartbeat. You, with your hands that grounded him when the world spun too fast. You, who reached for him not because you needed something, but simply because you wanted him.

- At first, he brushed it off with humor. The first time you reached for him—grabbing his hand absentmindedly, brushing your lips against his temple—he raised a brow, smirking. "Wow, you just can’t help yourself, huh?" But then he noticed the way he relaxed under your touch. The way the tension in his shoulders eased when you pressed a hand against his back. The way his pulse slowed when your fingers traced lazy circles against his skin. And suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore—it was necessary.

- He never asks for it outright—he’s too stubborn for that—but you start noticing the way he lingers. The way he moves closer without realizing it. The way his fingers brush against yours just a little too long before he actually grabs your hand. And when you finally call him on it—"Clint, you like this."—he just huffs, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, don’t get a big head about it." But his grip on you tightens. Because for all his bravado, he’s never letting this go.

- Now, he doesn’t even try to fight it. He pulls you against him when you’re standing still too long, rests his chin on your shoulder, tugs you into his lap with a grin. If anyone makes a comment, he just shrugs. "What? She’s warm." And if you ever stop touching him? If you deny him affection? He’ll groan dramatically, throwing himself onto the nearest surface. "Babe, please. I’m literally dying. Have some mercy."

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha Romanoff was not built for softness. She was trained to endure, to resist, to survive—but not to need. Affection had always been a tool, a weapon to be wielded when necessary, but never something meant for her. So when you came along—when you touched her so easily, so freely—she did not know what to do with it. The first time you hugged her, without hesitation, without purpose, she had simply frozen.

- It wasn’t that she didn’t want it—God, she ached for it—but want was dangerous. Want could be exploited. So she told herself it was nothing, that it didn’t matter. But then it kept happening. You would take her hand absentmindedly, lean into her warmth without hesitation, press a kiss to her shoulder just because you could. And she—cold, untouchable Natasha—let you.

- The first time she reached for you, it was barely noticeable—a hand on your waist, a finger brushing against yours. But once she let herself have it, she couldn’t stop. Now, she seeks it. She won’t ask, won’t say a word, but if you sit beside her without touching her, she will fix it. A hand on your knee. A foot nudging against yours. A quiet, steady reminder that she is here. That you are hers.

- And if anyone so much as mentions it? She raises a brow, her expression unreadable. "What? You think I don’t deserve nice things?" Because Natasha Romanoff may not have been made for love, but with you? With you, she is relearning what it means to have it.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky Barnes was a man starved of warmth. For so long, his body had belonged to everyone but him. He had been touched in violence, in control, in suffering—but never in love. Never in a way that asked for nothing. And then there was you. You, with your gentle hands and your stubborn refusal to let go. You, who traced the lines of his palm as if mapping a constellation, who pressed kisses against the cold metal of his arm as if it were worthy of tenderness. You, who reached for him as if he were not something broken.

- At first, he flinched. Not because he didn’t want it, but because he didn’t know how to take it. The first time you pressed your forehead against his, he nearly pulled away. But then you sighed—soft, content—as if this was normal, as if he was normal. And he… let it happen. Just this once.

- But once was never enough. He started to crave it, to need it. Now, he is the one reaching for you—pulling you closer in the middle of the night, pressing his nose into your hair, grounding himself in you. If you so much as walk by, he is grabbing your wrist, tugging you into his lap, resting his chin against your shoulder. He doesn’t ask for it—he just takes it. Because after years of being denied choice, of being denied himself, this is something he chooses.

- And if anyone dares to comment on how much he clings to you? He just gives them a slow, dangerous smile. "You got a problem with the way I love my girl?" Because Bucky Barnes has lost too much already—he will not lose this. He will not lose you.

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matthew Murdock feels you before you even touch him. Your presence wraps around him like a second skin, the scent of you lingers in the air, the warmth of your body radiates inches away. He hears the tiny shifts in your heartbeat before your fingers even graze his skin, the way it quickens ever so slightly before you reach for him. And he loves it—craves it. He is a man made of contradictions, torn between faith and sin, violence and tenderness. But you? You are the one indulgence he does not seek penance for.

- He drinks in every touch like a dying man. Your fingers threading through his hair, the press of your lips against his jaw, the way you trace patterns over his scars as if rewriting his past with something softer. He does not flinch, does not pull away—no, he leans into it, into you. Because for all the things he has lost, all the things he has chosen to lose, this—you—he will hold onto with both hands.

- He lets you guide him in ways he never allows anyone else. You tilt his chin up before pressing a kiss to his lips, brush your nose against his as if memorizing him in your own way. He revels in it, in the way you seek him, the way your affection comes without hesitation. He doesn’t have to ask, doesn’t have to reach—because you are always there, grounding him, holding him together when the weight of his double life threatens to break him apart.

- And if anyone ever dares to call it weakness? If they think for one second that loving you makes him soft? He only smirks, tilting his head. “You think I don’t know exactly how lucky I am?” His fingers tighten around yours, thumb brushing against your wrist where your pulse beats steady beneath his touch. “I’d rather be a fool in love than a man without her.”

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- Frank Castle is not a man built for softness. His hands are meant for war, his body carved from violence, his heart a thing long since buried beneath grief and blood. But then there’s you. You, who touch him with something gentle, something that does not demand or take or wound. Your fingers ghost over his scars as if rewriting history, your hands linger on his shoulders as if reminding him that he is still here. Still alive. Still worthy of being touched.

- He does not know what to do with it at first. The first time you reached for him—cupped his face, pressed your lips to his temple—he went rigid. Not out of fear, but out of something worse. Because he had forgotten what it felt like. Forgotten the weight of tenderness, the way affection could seep into a man’s bones and soften him. And Frank Castle does not do soft.

- But then you kept doing it. You never hesitated, never recoiled from him, never asked before reaching for him as if you knew he needed it before he even did. And soon, he began to crave it. Now, his hands find yours before you even offer them. His arm wraps around your waist instinctively, tugging you close, keeping you there. And when he buries his face in your neck after a long night, when his hands grip your hips like a man desperate to hold on, he does not speak—but you know. You know.

- If anyone ever dares to question why the Punisher—a man feared, a man unstoppable—allows himself to melt beneath your hands? He only levels them with a look that could kill. "You think love makes a man weak? Love is the only thing that ever made me fight harder." And then, without hesitation, he pulls you into his arms, presses a kiss to your forehead, and lets the world watch.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye is a man who takes. He is selfish, greedy, unapologetic in his desires. He is a man who was never given love, who was never taught tenderness. So when you give it to him—freely, without hesitation—it both amuses and terrifies him. You, with your hands always reaching for him. You, with your lips that press against his skin like a promise. You, who touch him not with fear, not with reverence, but with something even more dangerous—affection.

- He lets you do it, of course. Hell, he wants you to do it. He soaks up every touch like an addict chasing his next hit. Your fingers in his hair, your nails scraping down his back, your lips trailing over his scars like a silent claim. He thrives on it, thrives on the way you never shy away, never flinch, never hesitate. It’s a game to him at first—seeing how far he can push you, how much you’re willing to give. But then? Then it becomes something else. Something real.

- He doesn’t like to admit it, but he gets jealous. Not in the way most men do—no, his jealousy is something sharper, something deadly. If someone so much as looks at you too long, if they think they can take what is his, he makes it known that you belong to him. Not with words—words are useless—but with a smirk, a hand curling around your throat just to feel your pulse race beneath his fingers, a kiss so possessive that it leaves bruises.

- And if anyone questions why he allows himself to be loved? Why he lets himself have this? He only grins, something sharp and cruel. “Why wouldn’t I? You ever seen what happens when I want something?” His grip on you tightens, his lips brushing against your ear as he adds, “And trust me, baby—I want you.”

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc Spector does not believe in good things lasting. He has lived too many lives, worn too many faces, bled for too many gods to believe in permanence. He is a man who knows how to fight, how to kill, how to survive—but not how to be loved. And yet, here you are. Always touching him, always pulling him closer, always reminding him that he is yours.

- He doesn’t know how to handle it at first. The first time you brushed your fingers across his jaw, he flinched. Not because he didn’t want it—but because he did. And wanting was dangerous. Wanting meant losing. But you were patient. You never pushed, never demanded—just gave. And little by little, he let you in.

- Now? Now he is desperate for it. If he wakes up in the middle of the night, his hands seek you out before his mind even catches up. If he is spiraling, if the weight of his past is too much, he finds solace in your arms, in the press of your lips against his knuckles, in the way you hold him without needing a reason. You ground him. You keep him whole.

- And if anyone ever thinks that loving you makes him weaker? That your touch somehow softens him? He only chuckles, dark and low. “You think love makes a man weak?” His arm tightens around your waist, his grip steady, unyielding. “No, love makes a man dangerous. Because now? Now I have something worth fighting for.”

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster is a man of reflexes, of calculation, of knowing before it happens. He has memorized a thousand different ways to break a man apart, has studied movement until it is nothing more than muscle memory. And yet, when it comes to you, all of his instincts—his sharp, honed precision—fail him. Because how does one prepare for you? For the way you reach for him without hesitation, for the way your fingers trace the edge of his mask before pushing it away so you can kiss the scarred skin beneath?

- He doesn’t flinch, but he stiffens—not out of rejection, but out of unfamiliarity. He is a man who has lived in the shadows, who has worn a thousand faces but never his own. But you? You do not want his skills, his talents, his ability to mimic the perfect kill. No, you want him, the man beneath the mask, the one no one else has ever bothered to know. And that is something he cannot prepare for.

- At first, he makes it a game—testing you, pushing you, waiting for you to hesitate. But you never do. Your hands are steady, your touch unwavering. You press kisses to his scars as if rewriting the story of how they got there. You run your fingers through his hair like it is something precious, something yours. And slowly, without realizing it, he starts to crave it. Now, if you pull away first, if your touch is missing for even a second too long, he misses it.

- And if anyone so much as questions why Taskmaster—a man feared, a man whose skill is his everything—allows you to touch him so freely? He only smirks beneath his mask, tilting his head. "Because she's the only thing in this world I don’t want to copy—I just want her to be mine.”

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny Storm is made of fire, of heat, of something too wild to be tamed. He burns bright, so bright, and yet—when you touch him—it does not hurt. He does not let it. You press your fingers to his cheek, and the flames simmer beneath your touch. Your lips graze his jaw, and he melts into you, his hands pulling you close, always close, as if the space between you is unbearable.

- He thrives on your affection. It fuels him like oxygen to a fire, makes him burn hotter, makes him alive. If you so much as brush against him in passing, his arm is already wrapping around your waist, tugging you back into him. If you lean against him while watching TV, he is grinning, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in. He is insatiable—not because he needs it, but because he wants it. Wants you.

- And oh, he flaunts it. If someone so much as looks at him the wrong way, he is already pulling you onto his lap, already pressing his lips to your shoulder with a smirk. “Yeah, she’s mine. You jealous?” It is playful, teasing—but underneath it, there is something real, something desperate. Because Johnny Storm has always been adored, has always had fans, admirers, women who wanted the Human Torch. But you? You want Johnny, and that is something he will never take for granted.

- And if anyone thinks that love, that you, make him less? That your touch somehow dims his fire? He only laughs, shaking his head. “You kidding? Love doesn’t make me burn out. Love makes me burn brighter.” And with that, he kisses you—claims you—right there in front of the world, because there is nothing about you he will ever hide.

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed Richards is a man of science, of logic, of problems waiting to be solved. He is not one for frivolous things, for unnecessary distractions. And yet—you. You, with your hands that reach for him so easily. You, with your lips that press to his temple as he works, with your fingers that thread through his hair when he has been at his desk for too long. You, who has become something he cannot simply explain, cannot analyze, because love—true, deep love—is not something that fits within the confines of logic.

- At first, he does not know what to do with it. He stiffens when you wrap your arms around him from behind, hesitates when you take his hand in yours. But he is a quick learner. Soon, his fingers find yours before you even offer them. Soon, when you rest your head against his shoulder, he leans into you rather than away. And soon, he realizes that your touch is not a distraction—it is a necessity.

- You do not take offense when he loses himself in his work—you understand him, understand that his mind is constantly moving, constantly racing. And because of that, he makes an effort for you. He sets his tools aside when you tug at his sleeve, lets you press your forehead against his, lets you pull him into your world of warmth and touch and feeling. And over time, he begins to crave it, begins to seek it out rather than wait for you to give it.

- And if anyone assumes that the great Mr. Fantastic has no time for something as simple as love? He only adjusts his glasses, his fingers lacing with yours as he responds, "On the contrary, love is the greatest equation of all.” And then, without hesitation, he kisses you—not because it is logical, but because it is right.

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- Ben Grimm is a man made of stone, of rough edges, of a body that was never meant to be touched. He has spent years pulling away, avoiding the weight of hands that might recoil, of fingers that might fear what he has become. But you? You never hesitate. Your hands find his without hesitation, your fingers trace the lines of his knuckles, your lips press against his jaw as if he is not a man made of stone but of something softer.

- At first, he tells you not to. “You don’t gotta do that, doll.” His voice is gruff, edged with something bitter, something vulnerable. But you only smile, only brush your fingers along his arm like it is the easiest thing in the world. And suddenly, he does not feel like a thing anymore. Suddenly, he is Ben again, just Ben, a man who is still worthy of love, of touch, of you.

- Now? Now, he needs it. Needs the weight of your arms around his waist, needs your hand in his, needs your touch to remind him that he is still here, still whole. And when you kiss him, when you cradle his face in your hands as if he is precious, he swears he could crumble beneath you. Because you see him, not the rock, not the monster, just him.

- And if anyone dares to look at you with pity, to question why you love a man like him? He only chuckles, low and deep, before wrapping his arms around you with something possessive, something sure. “She ain’t with me ‘cause she has to be. She’s with me ‘cause she wants to be.” And as you press another kiss to his lips, he knows—without a doubt—that he is the luckiest man alive.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- Susan Storm is a woman of poise, of quiet strength, of hands that have shielded the ones she loves more times than she can count. She is used to being the protector, the one who stands between the world and those she cares for. But you—you do not let her bear it alone. You reach for her, fingers brushing over hers, and for the first time in too long, she lets herself be held instead of holding the weight of everything else.

- You are a woman of touch, and at first, it surprises her. Not because she does not crave it, but because she has learned to go without. To be soft is a risk, to be vulnerable is a danger—but when you press your lips to her temple, when you pull her into your arms without hesitation, she melts. She had forgotten what it was to be touched without expectation, without urgency. With you, she remembers.

- Your affection is not a distraction—it is an anchor. When she returns from battle, weary from holding up her force fields for too long, you are there, guiding her to rest with a hand at the small of her back. When she loses herself in thought, in planning, in the weight of responsibility, you remind her that she does not have to be invisible to herself. Your touch pulls her back, reminds her that she is not alone.

- And when you reach for her in public, when you lace your fingers through hers in the presence of others, she does not pull away. No, she holds on tighter. Because love is not something to be hidden—not anymore. And when someone asks her if she ever tires of your endless affection, she only smiles, pressing a kiss to your knuckles as she whispers, "Never."

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia Hardy is a woman of thrill, of quick escapes, of stolen jewels and stolen hearts. She has spent her life slipping through fingers, never staying in one place for too long. Love is a game to her, a dance she has always led. And yet—when it is you reaching for her, when it is you pressing kisses to her bare shoulder, when it is you curling against her at night—she does not run.

- You are soft in a way she has never trusted, yet she trusts you with something more valuable than any diamond—her time. Your hands are never idle when you are near her, always tracing patterns along her skin, always pulling her close, always grounding her. And though she will never admit it, she is addicted to it. Addicted to you. Addicted to the way you stay when she has spent her life learning how to leave.

- She teases you for it, of course. "You just can't get enough of me, can you?" she purrs, her voice all silk and mischief. But then you press your forehead to hers, then you kiss her like she is precious, and suddenly, she is the one gasping, the one holding onto you. Love has never been something she let herself have, but with you, she realizes she does not have to steal it—it is already hers.

- And if anyone dares to question why the infamous Black Cat allows herself to be caught in your arms so easily, she only laughs, wrapping herself around you like she has never belonged anywhere else. "Oh, sweetheart," she purrs, pressing a kiss to your jaw, "I'm exactly where I want to be."

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen Strange is a man of logic, of precision, of a mind that once thought itself above something as frivolous as love. He has wielded power beyond comprehension, seen realities beyond this one, and yet you—you and your endless touches, your unwavering affection—are the greatest mystery of all.

- You do not ask for permission to touch him; you simply do. You brush a hand over his shoulders as he studies ancient texts, you trace the lines of his scars when he is lost in thought. And at first, he stiffens beneath it, unaccustomed to being handled with such care. But you do not stop. You do not pull away. And so, little by little, he begins to lean into it.

- Now, when you curl against him in the quiet moments between battles, he is the one seeking you out, the one pulling you closer, the one pressing a silent kiss to your wrist as if to mark you as his. He will never admit how much he needs it, how much he needs you, but his actions speak louder than his pride. He has faced countless enemies, battled forces beyond mortal comprehension, but losing you? That is the one fate he refuses to allow.

- And when others look at him, the great Sorcerer Supreme, and wonder how someone so untouchable could belong so wholly to you, he only smirks, wrapping his cloak around your shoulders as he murmurs, "Even magic has its weaknesses. She just happens to be mine."

Namor

- Namor is a king, a warrior, a god among men. He has ruled beneath the waves, commanded armies, and stood against the greatest forces this world has ever known. He bows to no one. And yet, when you reach for him, when your fingers trace the sharp lines of his jaw, when your lips press against his skin like he is something sacred—he does not pull away.

- You are unlike anyone he has ever known. Where others fear his power, you cradle it in your hands, unafraid, unshaken. You touch him as if he is not a king, not a god, but a man. And though he will never say it outright, it unravels him. No battle, no war, no enemy has ever undone him the way your fingertips grazing his collarbone does.

- At first, he treats it as a privilege—something you are lucky to have. But then, you stop one day, pulling away just slightly, and it is only then that he realizes—it is he who has been privileged all along. He who needs you. Now, when you touch him, when you press yourself against him, his hands are already reaching, already holding you tighter, as if daring the world to take you from him.

- And if anyone so much as questions why the mighty Namor allows himself to be so utterly devoted to your touch, his response is simple. He lifts his chin, his grip on your waist tightening as he declares, "Because she is mine. And a king does not let go of what is his."

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- Johnny Blaze has spent a lifetime running—from the past, from the fire inside him, from the weight of every sin he has burned to ash. He does not get to have softness, does not get to have something good—or so he has always believed. But you—you and your hands that never hesitate to touch him, to hold him, to pull him back from the flames—you make him question that.

- Your fingers trace the scars along his arms, the burns that never truly fade, and instead of flinching, you press your lips to them. He is not used to being handled like this, like he is something worthy of tenderness. And yet, you do it so effortlessly, so naturally, that he forgets how to breathe every time you do.

- When the Ghost Rider takes hold, when his body is consumed by Hellfire, you do not step away—you reach through it. Your touch grounds him, pulls him from the abyss, reminds him that he is more than a cursed soul wrapped in leather and chains. And though he will never say it aloud, he knows—if there is any salvation left for him, it is you.

- And if anyone dares to question why the Spirit of Vengeance allows himself to be so weak beneath your touch, he only smirks, pulling you into his arms, his voice a low growl against your ear. "Weak? Nah, sweetheart. You’re just the only thing worth holding onto."

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie Brock is a man who has spent his life being unwanted—by his father, by society, by the world that cast him aside the moment he fell. Venom is a creature that has known nothing but hunger, a parasite by design, a monster in the eyes of humanity. But you—you reach for them both like they are something to be loved, and neither of them knows how to handle it.

- Your hands never hesitate. You stroke Eddie’s jaw when he grits his teeth, your fingers slipping into his hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Venom, in turn, coils around you, tendrils wrapping over your shoulders, tracing your cheek. "She is ours," the symbiote purrs, delighted, possessive. And Eddie, for once in his life, does not argue.

- Eddie is gruff about it, muttering things like "You’re clingy as hell, you know that?" but his actions betray him. He leans into your touch every damn time, closes his eyes when you kiss his temple, sighs when you pull him into your embrace. Venom is far less subtle, practically preening under your affection, slithering around you, murmuring about how perfect you are, how deliciously devoted you must be to them.

- And when people stare—when they whisper about how strange it is that someone so soft belongs to someone so monstrous—Eddie only smirks, wrapping an arm around you as Venom’s voice hums inside his head. "Let ‘em talk," he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "They don’t get it. But we do."

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a mind sharpened by strategy, a body honed for battle. He moves through life with precision, with grace, with an unwavering sense of duty. Love, affection—these are things he appreciates, but never allows to distract him. And yet you—you slip through the cracks in his armor with every touch, every embrace, every kiss pressed to the back of his hand when you think no one is watching.

- Your touch is not demanding, nor is it fleeting—it is a constant, an unspoken declaration. And though he does not say it aloud, he finds himself seeking it, needing it. A hand at his shoulder when he is lost in thought. A brush of fingers along his wrist when he is tense. A silent, grounding presence when the weight of Wakanda, of the world, threatens to press too heavily upon him.

- When you curl against him at night, when you lace your fingers through his as he works, when you press your lips to his in a moment of quiet devotion—he knows, without question, that you are not merely his lover. You are his home. And for a man who has spent his life fighting for his people, for his throne, for his legacy—you are the one thing he fights for himself.

- And when others bow in reverence to their king, when they wonder how a ruler so composed allows himself to be touched so freely, he only smiles, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw as he murmurs, "Because even a king is a man. And a man must cherish what is his."

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra Natchios is a weapon, a blade honed to perfection, a shadow in the night that moves without hesitation. She does not need touch, does not crave affection—at least, that is what she has always told herself. But you—you with your hands that never hesitate to reach for her, your lips that press against every scar she has earned—you make her question everything.

- At first, she resists. Your touch is a distraction, a weakness she cannot afford. But then, she notices the way her body relaxes under your fingertips, the way her breath slows when you hold her, the way her mind quiets when you run your fingers through her hair. And suddenly, it is not a weakness—it is a lifeline.

- You touch her like she is not just a weapon, not just a killer, but a woman. And though she does not say it, though she still carries herself like she is untouchable, her actions betray her. She leans into you when no one is looking, she lets you hold her after a fight, she lets you love her without condition. And that—more than any battle, more than any war—is the most terrifying thing she has ever faced.

- And if anyone dares to suggest that the infamous Elektra Natchios has softened under your touch, she only smiles—a sharp, knowing thing. Because she has not softened. No, she has simply found something she is willing to kill for. And that, she thinks as she curls her fingers around yours, is far more dangerous.

Muse

- Muse does not understand softness, not in the way others do. He sees the world in smears of red, in the curve of a scream, in the way the city bleeds its stories onto concrete. He is an artist first, a killer second, and something unnameable in between. Affection is not in his vocabulary—at least, not until you start tracing patterns into his skin, your fingers ghosting over his ribs, your lips pressing against his jaw like a whisper of devotion.

- He does not react at first. He merely watches, blank eyes reflecting nothing but the shapes of your hands as they roam over him. You touch him as if he is something real, something worthy of being held, and it confuses him. But confusion does not stop him from leaning into it. He lets you press against him, lets your warmth seep into the cold spaces inside him, and though he does not speak, he feels—feels the way your touch lingers, the way it changes him.

- Your touch is a contradiction to everything he is, a stark contrast to the violence that drips from his hands. And yet, he craves it. Craves you. He does not say it, does not know how to say it, but he shows it in the way he lets you near when no one else is allowed, in the way he allows your fingers to wipe the wet paint from his face, in the way he follows your warmth like a moth drawn to flame.

- And when people whisper, when they wonder why someone like you chooses someone like him, he only tilts his head, an eerie smile curling at his lips. Because they do not understand—they do not see the art in your touch, the poetry in your fingertips, the masterpiece you paint onto the canvas of his skin. But he does. He always does.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom does not yield. Doom does not bow. Doom does not allow weakness, nor does he tolerate sentimentality. And yet, when your hands rest against his armored chest, when your lips press against the cold steel of his mask, he hesitates. Not out of reluctance—but because you dare to touch him as though he is human, as though he is something beyond the monarch, beyond the mind, beyond the mask.

- At first, he dismisses it. You are simply fascinated, drawn to power as all are. But then, your fingers curl against his bare skin when the armor is removed, when his defenses are lowered, and he feels it. It is not awe, nor is it fear—it is something else, something dangerous. Affection. Devotion. Love. And he does not know what to do with it.

- You do not shrink from him, do not recoil from the scars, from the weight of his name, from the sheer gravity of his presence. Instead, you pull him closer, your warmth pressing into his bones, your touch unraveling the careful control he has spent years perfecting. And Doom, for all his brilliance, for all his power, finds himself undone by something as simple as your hands upon his skin.

- And if anyone dares to question your place at his side, dares to suggest that Doom has been tamed, they do not live long enough to repeat the mistake. Because Doom does not bend—but for you, for your touch, for the impossible gift of your warmth—he allows himself to be held.

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- Peter Quill has always been a man of touch. A hand on the shoulder, an arm around the waist, a flirtatious brush of fingers—it is second nature to him. But you—you take it to another level. You reach for him constantly, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging him into embraces, pressing kisses to his cheek just because you can. And at first, he thinks, Yeah, okay, this is nice.

- But then he realizes—this isn’t just casual affection. This isn’t just something fun. It’s you—you, who touch him like he is real, like he is worthy, like he is more than just a scrappy thief with a playlist and a knack for getting into trouble. You hold him with intent, with meaning, and it wrecks him.

- There are moments, quiet ones, where he doesn’t crack a joke, doesn’t fill the silence with music or sarcasm. He just lets you touch him—lets you brush your fingers over the stubble on his jaw, lets you trace the curve of his lips with your thumb, lets you pull him into your warmth until he forgets where his body ends and yours begins.

- And when the crew teases him, when Rocket smirks and Gamora raises an eyebrow, Peter only grins, pulling you closer with a laugh. "What can I say? I’m a lucky guy." But later, when it’s just the two of you, when your hands are pressed against his chest and your heartbeat matches his, he knows—it’s not luck. It’s you. And he’s not letting go.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard Rider has spent a lifetime holding the line—for the galaxy, for his people, for everyone who has ever needed a hero. He is used to the weight of duty, of responsibility, of battle. What he is not used to is someone holding him. But you? You are relentless. You pull him into hugs without warning, lace your fingers through his, press kisses to the scars he’s earned in wars too many to count.

- He resists at first—not because he doesn’t want it, but because he doesn’t know how to accept it. He’s always been the soldier, the protector, the last man standing. But you refuse to let him carry it alone. You reach for him when his shoulders are tense, press your forehead against his when the weight of the universe sits too heavy on his spine. And slowly, slowly, he learns to lean into it.

- Your touch is an anchor, a reminder that he is more than Nova Prime, more than a warrior bound to the stars. You bring him back—to the moment, to you. And when he finally, finally allows himself to wrap his arms around you in return, to pull you into his chest and just breathe, he realizes—he has been waiting for this his entire life.

- And when the stars call him away, when duty demands he leave once more, he does so with the feeling of your hands still lingering on his skin, with the memory of your warmth wrapped around his soul. And no matter how far he flies, no matter how deep into the void he goes—he knows. He will always come back. Because he is not just Richard Rider, not just Nova. He is yours.

[thunderbolt-ing]

"I Can't Do It Alone."

PART TWO PART THREE PART FOUR Pairing: Congressman Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader Summary: Who would've thought that you tearing panelists apart with merely your sharp words would land you a job? Or, better yet, here's how you became Congressman Barnes' legislative aide. Warnings: no warnings (or maybe use of Y/N?), just you being a political baddie and Bucky lowkey being down bad. A/N: lol this is my first fic on here and I'm so sorry in advance. this wasn't supposed to be an x reader fanfic because i had an original character in mind but idk if yall vibe with that. anyways, I'm in my bucky brainrot era I fear. no beta readers we die like taskmaster. Word count: 1703 words. She's short and sweet.

Brooklyn Veterans Policy Forum — Community Hall

“—Our proposal for enhanced persons is voluntary oversight programs, supplemented with community mental health partners, pending federal clearance…”

The panelist’s voice droned on, measured, thoroughly rehearsed, and bureaucratic.  Amongst the seated crowd, you stood abruptly, the screech of your chair cutting through the hushed murmurs of the audience. Your brows were furrowed, your expression tinged in irritation as your eyes flickered from your notes to the table of panelists onstage. 

“Which basically translates to a surveillance leash dressed up with a nicer PR team,” you said, voice steady but edged with frustration. “Is that about right?�� The room stilled. The moderator blinked at you, seemingly at a loss for words as they were thrown off-script and unsure of how to respond. You didn’t care, nor did you wait. “Tell me, how many of you up there have actually sat across someone who’s reliving battlefield trauma every time they close their eyes?” you asked, voice rising slightly. “Because I have. Dozens of times. And they’re not worried about policy language. They’re worried about making it through the night.” Silence filled the room, and you swore you could hear a pin drop. Finally, the moderator found their voice and cleared their throat. “Thank you for your input, Miss…?” “Y/N L/N,” you replied crisply as you offered a tight-lipped smile, then continued with a practiced calm that came from too many ignored voices. 

“I work in veteran reintegration,” you continued. “So unlike most people,” you cast a pointed glance at the panelist who had spoken, “I actually talk to the people your bills affect.” 

Murmurs rose from the audience, a few heads nodded while others looked away. 

From a seat near the back wall, Congressman James Buchanan Barnes leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. His eyes, sharp and steady, were fixed directly on you. There was no judgment in his expression, just deep, quiet intrigue. He watched as you, armed with nothing but a voice and unabashed conviction, dismantled a room full of sanitized policy with surgical precision. You didn’t know it yet, but you had just made an impression on a man who rarely let anyone in and seldom let anyone surprise him. Not until now.  Later That Evening Outside the Community Hall's brick steps. You tugged your coat tighter around yourself as you emerged into the cool evening air. The sky was painted in muted hues of blue and pink as the sun slowly sank into the horizon. The last remnants of adrenaline from the forum still buzzed in your blood like static, and though the subway beckoned you home, your feet had something different in mind. You needed air and time to let your thoughts breathe. You hadn't expected a familiar voice behind you. "You've got a sharp mouth, L/N." You turned instinctively, your guard up, but it dropped quickly when you recognized him. James Buchanan Barnes, or rather, Congressman Barnes. The former Winter Soldier turned unlikely lawmaker. What a pipeline, you thought with a sarcastic internal chuckle. He looked nothing like the suited representatives who spoke from podiums inside. He had no tie, sleeves rolled up beneath a plain navy coat, the two buttons of his white shirt undone like he hadn't bothered to play the part today. Still, there was no mistaking him. It was the way people moved around him without realizing it, the way silence followed him like a second shadow. "So I've been told," you replied, your brow arching as you gave him the same look you'd served to the panelists earlier. "Didn't think I'd get feedback from someone sitting in the cheap seats." He smirked at that, just barely, "I wasn't cheap. I just didn't want to be seen." A beat passed as you let the tension simmer in the air. It wasn't hostile, it was electric. Curious even. "You meant what you said back there?" He asked, his voice quiet and almost unreadable, "About talking to people the bills affect?"

A breeze rustled past, and you reached up to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. You studied him, your eyes sharp and unreadable. "I don't grandstand. I sit across from them every week." He nodded slowly as if each of your words carried weight, "I don't trust most policy people," he admitted. "They talk like they've never bled for anything." "And you're assuming I have?" You asked, not defensively but curious as to where he was going. "I think you've seen enough to stop pretending things are neat." You were quiet for a second, his words lingering like smoke. "You always vet people like this?" "Only the ones I'm considering hiring." You blinked at him for a few moments, unable to process his words as quickly as you wanted. "Excuse me?" He gestured toward the street with a tilt of his head. "Come walk with me. I want to talk about something." "Very subtle," you muttered, your tone dipped in sarcasm, yet your feet moved on their own accord, falling into step beside him. He let out a laugh, low and dry, more of a huff than anything. "Just trying a new thing called being direct." For the first time that day, you laughed. Not the polite kind that you often gave to people. The genuine one. It caught you off guard. "So... James Barnes—" "—Bucky." He interrupted gently. "Right, Bucky," You corrected yourself, testing the name on your tongue as you walked with him, your expression thoughtful. "What are you trying to hire me for exactly...?" "I want you to rewrite the rules with me," he said plainly, "From the inside." "You're serious." "Deadly." You fell into contemplative silence. You wanted to say yes immediately. Who wouldn't? But you had a life. A job. People who relied on you on a daily basis. Change wasn't something you embraced easily, and he could tell. He didn't try to push or pitch, instead, he simply reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small business card. It was plain, black text on white cardstock. No logo. No frills. Just his name and phone number. It looked like something someone made in a rush, probably on Microsoft Word. He handed you the card, his blue eyes piercing into yours, tired and almost pleading. "Why me?" You asked, unsure whether it was skepticism or hope in your voice. "Because this city, this country, needs someone who gives a damn." He paused, his gaze unflinching. "And because I can't do it alone." A Few Days Later Brooklyn — Your apartment.

After a long, tiring, yet undeniably fulfilling day at work, you trudged up the steps of your apartment building with the kind of exhaustion that settled deep within your bones. Your bag slipped down your shoulder, and your eyes blinked against the hallway's dim lighting as you shuffled toward your door. All you could think about was kicking off your shoes and collapsing onto your couch for five minutes of stillness.

But then you stopped.

There, lying at the foot of your door, was a bouquet.

You blinked again, slower this time, as if you weren't entirely sure that what you were seeing was real. The flowers sat neatly against the well-worn doormat, delicate, beautiful, and completely unexpected. You examined the bouquet further; it was a soft arrangement of baby's breath, pink tulips, pink roses, and subtle touches of eucalyptus leaves wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. It was elegant, but understated, like whoever sent them wanted to make a point without fussing too much.

You crouched down carefully, the weight of your day momentarily forgotten as you picked them up. As you shifted the bouquet in your hands, a small folded piece of paper slipped free and fluttered softly to the floor.

Frowning in confusion, you bent to retrieve it while carefully cradling the bouquet in the crook of one arm.

It was a simple note, no envelope, no dramatics. Just a few lines written in unfamiliar handwriting.

Policy means nothing without people who stand behind it unflinchingly. You speak the truth, even when it's uncomfortable, and I couldn't look away. I don't believe in perfect timing, only in showing up. So, this is me, showing up. Let me know if you'll meet me halfway. —Bucky Barnes

You stared at the words, your thumb brushing over the dried ink as if it might somehow help you make sense of them. The edges of your mouth curled up as if caught somewhere between disbelief and something that felt dangerously like hope and possibility. How he'd found your address, you weren't sure. You suppose you shouldn't be surprised, given his history. If Bucky Barnes wanted to find you, he would. Not in a threatening way, but in that quiet, purposeful way he did everything, like he wasn't going to wait for the world to make sense before acting. You leaned against your front door, flowers still in hand, as you reread the note several times.

He wasn't trying to charm you. He was offering a seat at the table. A voice in the room where things actually changed. Not just to be near the fire, but to help decide how and where it burned. You stuck the note carefully inside your pocket, the corners of your lips tugging into a soft, unguarded smile. The bouquet was still cradled in your arm, but your thoughts were already sprinting ahead of you. You stood there for a moment in the quiet hallway, his words still ringing in your head. Then, taking a small breath out, you shifted the flowers to one side and rummaged through your bag, fingers searching until they closed around your phone. With a steady hand, you tapped his number on the screen, the same one that was printed in that boring business card he'd given you. You brought the phone to your ear. It only rang twice. "Hello?" His voice was low, familiar, and uncharacteristically careful, like he didn't want to hope too much. "Hey," you said softly, "It's me." There was a moment suspended between you. "About time." He replied, and you could almost envision his smile through the phone.

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End Note: AAAA IM SORRY ITS SHORT BUT I CAN MAKE A PART TWO IF YOU GUYS LIKE IT ENOUGH!!!!!

Also, the flowers I chose were just random ones i thought in my head but then i remembered that language of flowers thing and so I looked it up and..... guys..... Baby's breath: everlasting love, new beginnings. Pink tulips: Affection, good wishes, and love. Pink roses: admiration, respect for someone close. Eucalyptus: strength and protection. brb I'm gonna sob <3

[fofi42]

Little Alex Horne thumb war close ups

Taskmaster s17e06 SPOILERS

[gallavichsreddie1128]

Change (John Walker)

Description: 2 years of John tried to kill Y/N with the shield she sees him again after being sent to kill Ghost and things don’t go as planned.

Word Count: 3,196

Seeing John Walker again wasn’t ideal after the events that took place years ago. Val hadn’t known about this, nor did anyone really besides Sam and Bucky. John was crazy in this moment and struggled a lot but that did not excuse his awful behavior and him almost killing her. She would give her life for Sam and Bucky, they were the only people that she will truly ever trust.

John to her was the worst person she’s ever met and she hoped that she would never have to see him again. But as she stood in the vault with him, Yelena, Ava and now a dead Taskmaster, her worst fear came true. She was sent to kill Ghost but now after finding out that Val all played them pretty much, her gun was aimed at John.

Yelena and Ava saw the look in her eyes the second she saw him, it was fear and anger, they definitely had a past. The gun went off a few times, bullets hitting his shield. John didn’t yell at her to stop, in fact he wanted to do that himself. Y/N stopped shooting at him and looked at the other two, “We should find a way out.” Her voice was soft.

She put the gun back and that’s when Bob appeared. John was a complete asshole to Bob and that made the entire group hate him a little. But unfortunately they had to work together to get out of this place after realizing that Val played them. Bob was nice and if they got out of here alive, Y/N would be thankful to have Bob in her life. “You said you’re Captain America?” Bob laughed, John nodded. “Why's that so funny?” If Y/N wasn’t the type of person she was, she would have answered for Bob but he seemed to have it all covered, “You’re an asshole.” Y/N gave a small smile as John faked a laugh at him.

He didn’t know the half of it, Y/N thought. John threw Bob against the wall, “John.” Yelena yelled and Y/N held up her gun. Yelena looked at her and shrugged, that was one way of doing it. John didn’t believe Bob at all and since he didn’t, John proved his point on being an asshole. Bob’s idea wasn’t bad, climbing the walls, it was interesting and a challenge but they made it work.

That was until they reached the pathway, “Now what?” Bob didn’t think this through but it got them somewhere at least. “Great plan, Bobby.” John said, annoyance laced in his voice. It was even funnier when nobody trusted John to get up there, “CUCUMBER.” “What the hell is happening?” Yelena exclaimed as Bob tried to hold in a sneeze. His sneeze wasn’t what made them nearly die, it was John who also saved them.

It was crazier because he grabbed onto Y/N to make sure she didn’t fall, which had her shaking in fear. John managed to help everyone up and when he looked into Bob’s eyes he saw what Y/N was scared of. It was the memory that neither of them wanted to relive. John held up the shield ready to kill Sam or hurt him badly. Y/N was there trying to stop him but she wasn’t as strong as him and ended up below him.

The look in his eyes, dangerous and deadly as he growled at her. His shield was above his head as he got ready to kill her, he could never forget the look in her eyes as she stared up at him. She was scared for her life, the fear in her eyes was all he could remember and in her head she accepted her fate. The shield was so close to her face before Sam and Bucky pushed him off her.

She was sobbing as Sam held her, John still had the look of rage in his eyes. She cried so hard that day that her eyes hurt. John watched the scene with tears in his eyes before Yelena pulled him out of it. John was near the edge about to step off and he looked into Bob’s eyes. What did he know? Y/N was curious as to what happened to John as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “I’m fine.” He lied and Y/N couldn’t ignore it. What did he see? 

“I’m not an expert in this stuff but you and John seem to have tension.” Bob tells her as they sit in the back of the car. She didn’t know what to say, what to make of what Bob said. They had a history but it wasn’t what Bob was thinking. Y/N shook her head, wanting to avoid the conversation all together. “How’d it end?” She looked up at him, confused.

“What?” She asked and he repeated himself, “The relationship.” Y/N wanted to laugh or cry, she couldn’t decide at that moment. “No relationship, nothing like that.” She trusted Bob, for some strange reason and wanted to tell him but before she could the car stopped and people surrounded it. Bob looked at the gun, “Now’s my time to help.” He mumbled and jumped out of the car, Y/N yelled his name as he began shooting, drawing the attention away from them.

“Yelena.” Y/N yelled as she got to them, “Bob’s out there.” “He’s the one helping.” Yelena said and turned to look, they surrounded Bob who had his hands up. They started shooting and Y/N covered her mouth, “Stop shooting!” Val yelled at them. Y/N looked at Yelena who definitely didn’t look happy, she tried her best to protect him. “We need to go.” Her voice filled with devastation but John drove off. 

When they realized that Bob was alive and part of a sick plan Val had created, Y/N felt the need to go back but it wasn’t possible. John offered her some cactus and if it was anyone else she would have laughed, “Thanks.” It was the first word she spoke to him since before he tried to kill her. It was small and soft, no eye contact but her face didn’t give away anything. Alexei was something else and apparently Yelena’s dad.

Y/N wanted to curse sitting near John but she had no choice, “Y/S/N it’s a pleasure.” Alexei started, “You have badass techniques to kill people.” She smiled and thanked him, unlike the others who were still being assholes. It wasn’t a terrible car ride up until the point that 3 cars were chasing and shooting at them. Y/N rolled down the window and sat on it to shoot with Yelena. Both of them took out a car. The other one was hard to get but it seemed someone else had it. Y/N got back in the car and gasped, “Bucky.” John was a little excited but it turned south and he made the car flip.

“Bucky, when do I lie to you?” She asked as the others were tied up. “I haven’t seen or heard from you in over a year!” He exclaimed as they tried telling him about sentry and Bob. “Come on Bucky you know me.” John said and Bucky nodded, calling out his problems and the one thing nobody else knew, “You tried to kill her or does everyone already know that?” Bucky could be an asshole but Y/N didn’t want that being brought to life again.

Everyone glanced at John, none really shocked but John’s eyes held a look that Y/N had never seen before, sadness and regret? She had to be imagining it. “Bucky please.” She whispered and looked at her friend. “They had to be curious.” He told her and it was true. “We have bigger issues.” She told him and that’s when his phone rang, Mel confirming everything they said. “Can we keep him tied up?” She asked Bucky and he shook his head, “you’re safe with me here.” He promised. 

Y/N sat as far away from John as she could, the others talking about their weapons. “So what weapon did you try to kill her with?” Yelena asked him, noticing how Y/N was trying to be as far away from him. Y/N wanted to get as far away as possible from this conversation. John hesitated but looked down, “The Shield.” Ava looked over at Y/N who wasn’t even looking at them. “Hey, let's not talk about it.” She suggested and John looked at her, she was shaking her legs a little.

She nearly fell over as Bucky drove into the tower, “What the?” She opened the door and they all got out and started fighting. They nearly had everyone until Val’s voice came over the speaking letting them come up. Bucky made sure that John wasn’t near her in the elevator. Val was getting a drink as they entered and she greeted everyone, “Y/N, you look like your depression really hit the ball.” Bucky had to hold her back.

Her eyes widened when she saw Bob, who had blonde hair now and was in a suit. “I don’t wanna hurt you guys.” He tells them. “We don’t want to hurt you either.” Y/N said and that made him chuckle. He used his powers and pulled her closer to him, “It’s funny cuz I don’t think you can.” He said and flung her back, Bucky catching her. John ran up to him and tried to hit him with the shield, but that didn’t work. Nobody could really hurt him.

Y/N took her gun and tried to shoot at him but he turned to bullets on her. John saved her with his shield as they slammed against the wall, her body shaking as they looked up at him, “You’re okay.” He said softly and they all kept trying to fight Sentry. Y/N gasped when he turned John’s shield into a Taco and ripped Bucky’s arm off. She stumbled back into John who placed his hand on her shoulder as they all made it to the elevator.

John had to help carry Bucky and Y/N had his arm. The elevator ride was awkward as everyone tried to recover. Y/N didn’t even realize how close she was to John as they stumbled out of the elevator. Yelena was annoyed and done with everyone, she was convinced that they would lose against him if they tried again.

She started getting on everyone and John had to be the defender, “Oh so you’re nice now?” Yelena asked, “I’m next?” He asked and she shook her head, “No you know you’re a piece of trash Walker and so does your family. You also tried to kill her with the shield, you’ll never be worth it.” Y/N bit her lip as Yelena said that. Y/N hated him, sure but she wouldn’t stoop that low. Yelena walked away from them and they all split up, John wanted to follow Y/N but Bucky was with her. 

The Void was in the sky and making things disappear and made a helicopter hit a building. Bucky and Y/N ran to save people alongside the others. It was their hero movement, to prove themselves. It felt right when they were all pushing that piece of concrete so it wouldn’t land on anyone. The blackness was taking over the city, the void was coming and Yelena was going to be the first to see what it was.

“Yelena.” Alexei yelled her name as she stepped closer to the void. Y/N looked at John before running up to her. They looked at each other before walking into the void, John yelling her name. Everyone had to hold Alexei back from going after them. “I think we should go there as well.” Ava said as they all talked. Alexei was sad and he tried not to cry, “And get ourselves killed?” John asked but truthfully he wanted to go in after Y/N.

“What if they aren’t dead?” John shook his head, “She’s not gonna want to be in there with me after everything.” Ava huffed out a laugh, “You know what the crazy thing is? She doesn’t hate you, I can see it in her eyes. Sure maybe before you saved her but she has no issue with you now it seems. She should still hate your guts but she doesn’t so if you wanna cry and whine about something you did then go ahead. I’m going in there to save them.” She told him and walked towards the void. Alexei and Bucky followed, John sighed but also followed them. 

“Yelena.” Y/N yelled, she wasn’t sure where she was but there was no sign of her. She was in a house, someone’s house but she wasn’t sure or she didn’t remember. She heard voices and stopped, “what the hell?” She breathed out as she walked into the kitchen. She was at the dinner table with her mom, her dad and her brother. Y/N was stunned by this, coming to forget all about this.

Her dad was abusive and always yelled at her mom for something and her little brother always stuck up for their mom. “Bobby.” That name, a nickname that she remembered her brother hated. It was used against him all the time, “Y/N!” The scene had switched and it was her leaving, leaving her poor brother and mom because she couldn’t take the abuse anymore and she had a way out.

She promised that she would find a way and come back for him but she never did. She sniffled as she held tears in her eyes, she hated herself for that. “Y/N, I’ve been waiting for you.” She turned towards the voice and saw Bob on the floor, the room had changed. “Bob?” She asked walking over to him. The same scene she just watched o was playing on the IPad he had. “Oh that? It just keeps going.” He says to her.

She looks at him and it’s like she was hit with a train, “Y-You-“ “Yes I uh I was waiting for you to notice.” He tells her and she nearly crushes him with a hug. “Bob.” She whispered and he giggles, “I’ve missed you.” She got sad again at what she did and he could tell. “You did your best.” He tells her and she only wished that was enough. Yelena showed up not long after that along with the others.

They went through many different rooms until they arrived at one that was a lab. “Was this where you were tested on?” Y/N asked him and he nodded, “I’ve been here before.” Yelena said. It looked like Bob was sitting on the table but it turned out to be Void. Things started flying and everyone got trapped, John grabbed Y/N and pulled her to him so she didn’t get hurt, Y/N was basically hugging him.

John had gotten stabbed in the shoulder and Y/N got stabbed in the side causing her to cry out. John looked down at her, “Are you okay?” He asked and she shook her head, “I got stabbed.” She grunted out. Meanwhile, Bob was beating the void up. Y/N opened her eyes to see her brother trying to kill the void as darkness overtook her body, “Bob No.” she groaned. She couldn’t lose her brother again.

“Bob, that’s what he wants!” Yelena yelled at him and tried to get free. Once Yelena got free she ran to Bob and held him back, Y/N grunted pushing herself off John running to them, everyone following. When they all fell back they were back in the city. Everyone got up except Y/N who was groaning in pain.

Everyone gathered around her as John held her, “Hey you’re gonna be okay.” He tells her. “We need a doctor!” He yelled and she grabbed his hand, “John, I forgive you.” She managed out. He stared at her and her eyes no longer held the fear they once did when he was near. She was even letting him hold her, “And I lo-“ her eyes closed as she trailed off. John had tears in his eyes as Bob had to pull him off her. The medics came and took her. 

Y/N groaned as she opened her eyes, the light making her squint. Her eyes widened as she realized where she was, a hospital. She looked over and John was asleep in the chair next to her. “He hasn’t left since you arrived.” She looked over and saw Bob with a small smile. “Water.” She croaked out and he nodded, giving her a cup. She chugged it down, “How long was I out?” She asked.

“1 week. You had to have surgery.” Her eyes widened at that, “jeez I thought I would be dead.” She joked and looked at John. He looked so peaceful asleep but his eyebrows were furrowed like he was worried about something. “I’ll let you talk to him.” Bob said as he went to walk out the room but before he did he turned to her, “Glad you’re okay!” She smiled at him and looked back at John.

She threw the empty cup at him and he sat up, “Hey what the-“ he turned and saw Y/N awake. “Oh my god!” He got up and went to her side, trying to be gentle. “Bob says that you’ve been in here since my surgery.” Before that, he thought. “W-what No I-“ “It’s sweet. Thank you.” She interrupts him. She grabs his hand, “What were you gonna say to me before you passed out?” He asked and she looked confused. She remembered but thought it was too soon.

“You don’t remember?” She shook her head and he looked down. “You told me you forgave me.” He whispered and she nodded. She squeezed his hand, “I do. I no longer see the guy I saw that day.” He gave her a sad smile, “I’m not much better.” She shook her head, “But you are and I’m glad that I got to see you again.” He was surprised by her words. He looked up at her and she pulled on his hand, he leaned down and she kissed him. His eyes widened as her lips touched his, he kissed back until they needed air. She pulled away with a love sick smile on her face, “Will you make me dinner after I’m out of here?” She asked and he chuckled, “Yeah.” “ Just us.” His face softened and he nodded.

“Glad to see you’re up!” Bucky exclaimed, scaring the two. He laughed as they jumped, “You missed out.” Bucky told her. So did I, he thought as he saw just how close they were. He never would have thought that Y/N would ever forgive John for that but he was glad. “What did I miss?” She asked him and John chuckled. It was the type of chuckle that was given before you reveal something crazy, “We are the new avengers!” Bucky reveals and Y/N’s jaw drops. She looks at John who confirms what he said. “Shit.” She said, not sure if she was happy or not. “This could be a good thing?” John questioned, unsure himself and she shrugged, “Possibly.” But only time will tell.

[wormonthesidewalk]

Of Crochet and Book Nooks

summary: after discovering he can, in fact, touch you, Bob is happy. That's it. Happy Bob. Mostly fluff, but the tiniest bit of angst if you squint.

notes: dudes, this little scene was just ruminating in my head for 3 days, so I decided to share. And reader calls Bob "Bobby", because HE LOOKS LIKE A BOBBY, OK, SEE THE VISION

this entirely went longer than I expected, but I kept thinking of new cute things!

Val had sent you on a mission to track, find, and assassinate John Walker. Finding him was no problem. Attacking him was no problem. It was the aftermath that shocked your life for the better, beginning from the moment Ghost put a bullet through Taskmaster's skull.

Throughout seven months of your status as an Avenger and living in the Watchtower, your life had taken irreversible turns. In between missions, home cooking with Yelena, card drinking games with Alexei, training with Bucky, and movie nights that nine out of ten times ended up in a sarcasm match between Walker and Ava, you could find very little to complain about.

If someone had told You From One Year Prior that you would be living in a multi-billion dollar establishment with six people who could only be described as your family, supported entirely out of the pocket of the woman who tried to incinerate you...

Inarguably, though, the most enjoyable factor of your new life was your closest companion, Bob.

Bob wasn't a conventional member of the Avengers, but no one allowed him to feel left out or unwanted. He had a special bond with every member of the team, but you were different. He took longer to warm up to you, for reasons you never figured out, but that left Ava wiggling her eyebrows at every chance she got to see you and Bob sitting together at dinner.

Your connection sparked three months in, when Bob found you crocheting against one of the wall-height windows overlooking the city. Your orange and yellow yarn was strung out along your legs, having been disassembled from its carefully constructed bundle by someone's (Yelena) dog long ago. Bob asked if he could join you. You welcomed him with a tiny smile. Several minutes passed, and he asked what you were making. You showed him the pattern for a mug holder that was to be a birthday gift for your mother.

One compliment led to a conversation, and one conversation led to another. Before either of you knew it, you had abandoned the yarn and needles to just talk with him.

This became a routine for the two of you. One of you would be working on something, the other would approach, and the task at hand would be unintentionally shoved to the sidelines. You two found a steady balance.

Bob didn't say anything when he found the small crocheted coaster resting on his bookshelf, with a note attached: So your glasses don't wake up the entire lower West side. It was a reference to an off-hand comment he made a few days prior about how he hated solid coasters. He loved using coasters, but ceramic or cork ones were either too loud or had a horrid texture. He told you how he hated setting his glasses down on ceramic coasters because he felt like everyone in a ten-mile radius could hear.

He didn't say anything, but you knew he knew. He carried that coaster everywhere he might use a glass. You suggested you could make him another, to which he responded with a firm, "No. I like this one. Thank you, though."

What led to your deepest connection, though, was when he shared his book nook for the first time. You complimented a book you caught him reading, saying that you had read it before. He asked how you liked it. Your mouth opened enthusiastically to rant before slowly closing. You were getting ahead of yourself.

"You have to finish it. I won't be able to talk about it without spoiling something major," you instructed, your eyes still alite with joy.

Bob's eyes widened, and he hurriedly flipped through the last fifty pages of his book. "Where?"

"I'm not saying! Just finish it!"

"Okay- well... you can wait for me? Can you, I mean? Wait?" Bob looked up at you like a toddler begging to be picked up. "I'm a fast reader, I swear. And I just mean- you know- if the ending is so good, I want to talk about it immediately. Yeah. Yeah?"

You plopped yourself down right next to him without hesitation. "Can I read one of these in the meantime?" You asked, gesturing to his collection of novellas on the small bookshelf behind you. Bob nodded, a little too quickly to be anything less than excited.

You two began a similar routine with every book either of you read. Bob had a lot of time on his hands, so if he noticed your concentrated or enthusiastic reading habits - a specific way you held the book in both hands, legs still as stone, periodic breaks to put the book and and do a lap around the entire floor before returning with a clear mind - he made sure to pick up his own copy and read it. Quickly. He read it, if only so you could have someone to discuss it with at the end.

But through all of your reading, all of your crocheted gifts, and all of your late nights spent up ranting to each other about the latest novel, Bob never touched you skin-to-skin. Never. You understood perfectly why and never dared to push him. Still, it was hard not to wish for more... for whatever motivations that may be.

That's what led to you sitting with him on the couch in a serene silence, punctuated only by your pounding thoughts as you debated how to broach the topic.

"Hey, Bobby?" You murmured.

He picked his head up from where he had been working on a small metal puzzle, humming softly in acknowledgement.

"Can I try something?" You held his eyes steady, shifting in your seat to face him more fully.

"...Okay."

Your fingers itched in your lap, and you made the beginning movements to reach out with your left hand. Bob caught onto the micromovement in a flurry, and like lightning, he scooted several inches away.

"What are you doing?" He demanded in a voice so soft you were sure he could hear your heart crack.

"I just... I want to see-"

"Y/N, there's nothing to see!" He insisted, adamant blue eyes flickering between your face and hands. "You... you know what happens. You've seen what happens."

Your mouth faltered as you sucked in a deep breath. "I know what happened before," you murmured cautiously. "I absolutely won't if you don't want me to, but I want to try. I trust you, Bobby."

"You shouldn't," he snapped with more force than intended. Your jaw shut with enough force to click your teeth. Bob sighed and shook his head. His brown curls flopped loosely, and you had to resist every impulse in your bones to run your fingers through them.

"Why do you... want to?" He whispered after a minute, eyes now locked on the floor.

"I have a theory," you stated, letting every syllable pass your tongue with measurement. "I think that your memory... flashing... whatever ability may only spark when you're stressed. Anxious, mad, upset... you know? Or during a low, as you call it."

"Okay?"

You observed his fingers, which twitched and fidgeted amongst themselves just slightly more than normal in your presence. "Are you upset right now?" You asked calmly, gently.

"No," he answered without hesitation, his eyes flickering up to yours.

You nodded slowly. "I have absolutely no evidence, but... it's a gut feeling. So - with your permission, of course! - I want to test it out."

Bob didn't respond for several minutes. You stared back to him in that time, using every observation and instinct to try to gauge what was going on in the head of his, to no avail.

"I don't want to hurt you," was all he murmured for several seconds. "I don't want to cause you pain."

You shook your head adamantly. "Because it's my idea, whatever happens... if I'm wrong... will be entirely my fault," you stated, pressing your lips together anxiously. "Seriously, Bobby. I won't blame you. This is my idea."

This reassured him none. "But I'll still be the one who... will make you see something horrible. And I'll know it before you do... and it'll be... bad. I can't..."

He shook the bad thoughts away vigorously.

You sucked in a deep breath before sighing slowly. "I won't force you to do it. Not at all. I just think it could be worth a shot. Just... in case, you know? But only if you're absolutely sure."

Bob stared at the couch between you for several beats before hesitantly placing one hand on the mattress. The space between us was only several inches wide, and he had to curl his hand to fit it in without touching your knee.

"Are you sure?" You whispered, eying him cautiously. You hovered your left hand over his. If you didn't know any better, you could've sworn electricity prickled in the solitary inch separating your fingers.

Bob nodded quickly. "Yeah," he exhaled slowly, as if forcing out any remaining inhibitions. "I trust you."

"I trust you," you whispered. This did more to physically relax him than anything else.

Tentatively, your hand lowered in the morsel of space, and you let the pads of your fingertips graze over his. As you let your palm settle into his, and his fingers slowly stretched to accommodate for yours, you couldn't help but notice the clamminess. Was that from running hot, or sheer panic?

"You okay?" You whispered, but if he did or didn't answer evaded you as you counted the milliseconds.

You waited to see yourself transported to another room - perhaps the hospital waiting room you saw the first time his hand grazed your bare arm in the OXE facility. But nothing happened. You remained in the living room, on the couch, with Bob only inches away from you.

And your hand in his.

Your head shot up with excitement. In an instant, your eyes met his, which had widened into impossibly large blue saucers.

"You can touch me," he whispered with a sort of reverence that made a small zoo erupt in your stomach. "You can touch me... I can touch you."

"I can touch you," you nodded slowly, a small smile tugging its way onto your cheeks.

"You can touch me!" Bob exclaimed. His grip on your hand tightened. He shifted on the couch to face you fully, and for the first time since you'd met him, held minimal regard for his other hand landing on your leg.

He looked like a child who had just been gifted the most elaborate gift of their dreams on Christmas. You had never seen anything so beautiful.

You laughed happily, grabbing his other hand in yours. Months had been spent imagining what his skin would feel like - and there was not one ounce of disappointment to be found in your body. His hands were warm, but soothing. Calloused, but tender. As if he were afraid to squeeze your fingers too hard and cause you to disintegrate.

On impulse, you let one hand graze the side of his face, brushing your thumb and knuckles against his cheekbone. You could fathom no sweeter feeling, and your grin turned shit-eating.

"Holy shit!" Bob shouted, which was a rarity to hear him swear. He jumped to his feet, taking you up with him.

"Holy shit!" You agreed, nodding quick and hard enough to snap your head off of your spine.

With that, he dropped both of your hands, grabbed the sides of your jaw as if your skull were made of antique fine china, and his lips were on yours. It was eager, hungry, and impatient - but so heartfelt. Like a parent embracing their child after months spent apart.

Your entire body froze. Your eyes didn't close, because every nerve and neuron in your body was firing simultaneously. Your hands remained locked in place where he dropped them, lips parted permanently in the silent gape that formed the instant his fingers found their way just behind your ears.

It took Bob not milliseconds to sense the shift in your demeanor. His eyes widened, and his face snapped away from yours. He took several steps back, bumping his calves into the coffee table, and wincing. This did nothing to stop him from backing further away.

"I- I'm so sorry!" He held up both hands. Those formerly light-filled eyes were plagued by something much more painful. "I'm sorry, Y/N! I didn't- I didn't mean that- oh shit-" he pushed his bangs back as his breath quickened.

You took several steps forward to reclaim the greatened space between you. "Bobby- it's okay-" you tried to interject through his stammers.

His complexion was similar to that of Alexei's suit, all down every inch of his face, neck, and ears. "No! It's not- it's not, Y/N. I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to... I just got- I mean- that's not- I didn't get excited! That's... shit-"

"Bobby!"

"God, I fucked up..." he exhaled, resting his hands against his knees. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what... I didn't mean to..."

"Bob Reynolds!" You demanded, voice raised only in an effort to grab his attention. Bob's head snapped up to you, like a silent command in the base of his brain had ordered him to abandon all pretenses of panic.

You forced a slow breath through yourself. "It's okay, Bobby," you repeated, gentler this time. "You did nothing wrong."

Bob eyed you suspiciously. It was like someone watching a bomb timer. "You're not... mad?" He murmured. His fingers resumed their fidgeting.

"No! No. No no no." You smiled, shaking your head quickly. "Not one bit. You just caught me off guard. That's all."

He nodded slowly, straightening his entire posture. "I am sorry, though. That is.... not how I wanted to do that."

The zoo reopened in your stomach. "Do what?"

"That." He gestured vaguely to where you two stood in front of the couch. "I was just so... happy. Excited. I don't know..." his head dropped again in shame. You closed the distance between you two more, leaving a foot of space for him to decline your advances still.

"I've wanted to do that for weeks," he whispered. His eyes flickered everywhere on your face but yours.

Your heart dropped into your stomach, which felt ready to lurch out of your mouth - in all conceivable best ways. "Weeks?" You repeated. Bob offered the tiniest flick of his chin to confirm. Several short breaths escaped you as you watched him.

Slowly, undoubtably, your featured shifted into the brightest smile. Brighter than the sun, brighter than Yelena's face when Fanny peed on Walker's shoes for the first time.

The wind was viscerally knocked out of Bob, but he seamlessly recovered to mirror your smile with one of his own.

"So you're not... you're..." he stammered loosely. The crimson tint was, slowly but surely, returning to his skin. "You're really not mad? Or... uncomfortable? Freaked out?"

Cautiously, allowing him to reject your advances, you lazily draped both of your arms over his shoulders. His hands instantly went to your waist, just under your ribcage.

"Absolutely not," you murmured, your tone laced with adoration. "I'm pretty damn happy."

His smile and eyes softened with a tangible relief. You could feel the muscles in his arms and shoulders steadily relaxing under your touch and words.

Bob pressed a quick kiss to your cheek before pulling you the rest of the way in for a hug. This hug was new; tender through the lingering anxieties, calming through the shuddering breaths that still racked through his torso. This hug was close. Unwavering. Unafraid.

Bob had hugged you before - he was a hugger. But there were always reservations. His head was always held just an inch away from contact with your neck or face, at such an odd angle that you couldn't imagine sustaining the embrace for longer than several seconds, for his own sake. His hands were always fidgeting with your blouse or jacket, as if ensuring there was a true layer between your abdomen skin and his. Hugs with Bob were like watching a tightrope walker 40 feet in the air. You weren't the one in danger, but every shake of the rope left you flinching for the acrobat's sake.

But not this. His hands did not falter, his arms did not waver in their strength to hold you dear. His face buried in the crook of your neck without shame. One of your hands came up to dig into the base of his skull, and a low groan escaped him, as if he were in physical pain and your hand through his brown locks was a shot of Novocaine.

This was security. Reverence. Hope. Calm. Peace.

"Thank you for trusting me," he whispered against your neck.

Your arms tightened over his shoulders. You pressed a loving kiss to what you could access of his jawline before whispering back, "Thank you for trusting me."

"-excuse me, I'm gonna go vomit-" a female voice interjected from the other side of the living room.

Both you and Bob picked up your heads to find Yelena, Fanny's leash in hand. The blonde stared at you with a snickering expression before miming a gag. "Jesus, I leave you two alone for twenty minutes and I come back to you two steps away from making babies..."

Bob almost choked and dropped his hands from your sides. "That's- that's not what we were doing-" he muttered, his entire gaze flickering from you, to Yelena, to the floor.

"Mhm," Yelena hummed, narrowing her eyes in humor. "I told you to get a room, Bob. Did you listen to me?"

"What?" Your head snapped up to him with an incredulously entertained smile.

"No- no! No. That's not-" Bob held up a finger to Yelena in warning. His head snapped back and forth between you and her. "She didn't- no. No."

Yelena cackled as she retreated into the kitchen.

chat I thought this was so cute

please like, reblog, comment, all the things :)

[jamiedc-they-them]

Thunderbolts x reader, maybe continuation of the black widow fic you did where the reader is taskmaster, but basically the plot of the movie stays the same (minus Ava killing taskmaster) but actually become close with Ava and John and Yelena and reader having mental breakdowns together

Forgive me, little sister Part II (platonic)

Forgive me, little sister Part I

Marvel Masterlist I

Marvel Masterlist II

Anything in () aside from (Your name)is Russian :)

Summary: Years after being freed from being Taskmaster, you haven’t heard from your family. That all changes on one very special, apparently final, mission…

Warnings: Mental health, depression, suicidal thoughts, self-hatred, violence, trauma.

You didn’t know why Yelena and Alexei never called after Natasha’s death. They didn’t even try.

You were promised a family, but instead got nothing. You were left alone, with barely any memories or even identity.

Natasha may have apologised, but then she died, and Yelena never came back for you.

Valentina, a woman you hadn’t heard of before, approached you one day.

“Mask is a little needless,” she said, “but we can make it work. Makes you harder to track.”

So, that’s how you fell into a spiral: once again killing and tracking like you did with Dreykov, but people who were, as you were told, bad and deserved it.

You didn’t talk much, but when you did, you had a voice coder in your helmet.

“Edgy,” Valentina quipped one time when contacting you, “you know, I don’t care if you don’t let anyone else in. But you have to let me in. I can’t fully help you otherwise.”

��Help me?” You parroted.

“With your scars from the Black Widow programme,” she didn’t even look at you, knowing your eyes at widened, “oh, I know all about you. Tragic story, but skills that make you useful in a world where so many people are useless.

“Don’t worry, though,” she said as she condescendingly tapped your shoulder, “your secret is safe with me.”

For how long, though, you asked yourself.

You didn’t talk to anyone, just kept to yourself.

The idea that Natasha gave to you when Yelena, her, Alexei and Melinda saved you brought hope to you. Safety. Life.

That was just a lie, just like how you told yourself, in that moment, that you deserved it, to be cherished, loved, worth fighting for. 

It was a lie, all of it. 

So, you slaved. You worked yourself to the bone, only really patching yourself up when Valentina scolded you for it.

The Widows you hunted and killed, the innocent people you killed.

Why were you still here?

“I have another job for you,” Valentina said, “then you’re free to…do, whatever it is that you do in your spare time.”

She had found a sort of language with you. So, no response meant for her to just send it over.

O.X.E were being broken into, you needed to trail the person who was entering the premises and kill them.

Valentina had used you for experiments, so you were both Taskmaster and…something else.

When you entered, you saw someone who made your rage boil: Yelena.

So, she seemed to be the intruder? But, from what Valentina had told you, she did not match the description at all.

No, what matched it was the man she was fighting: The failed Captain America.

So, you got right into action. 

You were quick, but so was he. 

You were even, well, in terms of speed. You had guns and a blade, he had a shield. He launched it, and you ducked. 

You heard Yelena call out to you, but it was too late. You were sent flying by a new contender. She phased in and out, using it to dodge and then get one over on you.

It was brutal, painful, but nothing you weren't used to.

You got up, disoriented. As you went to the new person — a woman, Yelena got in front, hands up:

“(Your name), stop!” she cried, “Stop…we were all sent here to kill each other. Valentina set us up.” 

“Stop, (sister),” her voice was soft. It hadn't changed. She hadn't changed, aside from the blue eyeliner. 

“Wait, this twerp is your sister?” Walker asked. 

Yelena pointed at him: Careful. 

“I still have a job to do,” the Ghost said, gun aimed at you, “nothing personal.

To her surprise, one that made her pause, you put your weapons away and gently pushed Yelena aside. 

“Do it,” you said, voice clear for the first time in…god knew how long.

“What?!” Yelena said in disgust and horror.

She then turned to the woman, “Please…” 

Despite your helmet, the woman met your eyes before looking at you, actually looking at you.

“God, you're barely an adult,” she whispered. 

“Jesus,” Walker said, “they're sending kids to do an adult's job.” 

“Still kicked your arse,” the woman sneered, eyes still on you.

You hadn't moved. You hadn't spoken. You just waited. 

She lowered her pistol.

A new person entered. A man: Bob.

He was kind. Also kind of confused. 

A timer appeared: Two minutes. 

You were a solo act, not something you would exactly say with a proud smirk like some people in movies that you watched to attempt to claw back some semblance of a life, but more of a sad acknowledgement. 

So, for now, the four of you (and Bob) worked together. Walker used his shield to break a machine that blocked the woman's powers (that Yelena found). The woman was phasing out of the room, opening it, just before the incinerator killed you all. 

You came to, a hand reaching down to you, the woman who was meant to take your life and had now just saved it. 

You took it. She helped you up. 

“You alright?” she asked, sounding genuinely interested in your well-being. 

You nodded, so did she. 

Yelena was talking to Bob, a softness in her eyes. Sisterly concern, she had coined it. 

She'd found a new member of her family then, a brother. Another person who lost their memory.

Maybe she wouldn't abandon him. You hoped she didn't. 

“Hey,” the woman said, “look, you and your sister’s thing is your thing. But, right now, we need to focus on getting out of here alive, ok?”

You nodded, grabbing your pistol, unloading a magazine, and holding it to her. 

“Gun is nearly empty,” you said, English broken.

She took it. “Thank you.”

Walker broke the wall, announcing it to all of you. 

You found yourself at the bottom of a seemingly infinite climb.

So, you all hooked arms, starting to climb together.

“How old are you, kid?” 

“I don't know.”

“You don't know?” Walker said, not believing you.

“She had her memories corrupted,” Yelena explained, “file destroyed. She doesn't know, and neither does anyone else.” 

“Yeah, well, I was meant to be the next Captain —”

“We know!” the two women shouted.

You continued to make your way up. 

Then, the cucumber incident occurred. 

Even you joined in with the shouting of that. 

You didn't want all these people to fall and die.

Walker, being Walker, decided that he would be the one to do the heroics. Before anyone could stop him, he went up. 

You barely had time to reach your sword and slam it into the wall. Yelena grabbed onto you, leaning back and using her grappling hook to grab Bob.

“Ok, uh, we will climb up (Your name) and —” Yelena couldn't finish, as you slammed another blade into the wall, effortlessly moving while supporting the other two.

“She’s strong!” Bob cheered for his new friend. 

“This isn't right,” Yelena said. You paused, tilting your head to her, “What did Valentina do to you?” 

You didn't answer, only continuing to climb.

Yelena went up, then Bob. 

When he made contact with you, you weren't holding onto the ledge…you were somewhere else. 

Dreykov was there. You were younger. You could make out your features, but this was just when you were moved. 

He looked at your younger self before hitting you.

“Get up, pathetic one.” 

“Is she ok?!” a distorted voice asked. 

“I don't…(Your name), Wake up!” It was Yelena who answered. 

You took off your helmet, crouching near your younger self. 

You grabbed your arms, helping yourself up.

A gun cock. You turned. Dreykov had it on your head. 

“I should have killed you as soon as I met you, child.” 

“WAKE UP!”

You gasped, looking down into that pit of darkness. You were upside down. You felt a rope around your foot. Whoever had spoken before was now quiet. But how —

“(Your name)!” Yelena’s voice cracked. 

You looked up, Yelena was looking over that edge you were grabbing onto just moments ago, her grapple was out of its holder. Her eyes twinkled with tears. 

The other two stood, looking down at you with something foreign to you: concern. 

“Jesus, kid,” Walker said, “I mean…i don't know why I was facing the damn thing…but —” 

“You let go!” the woman shouted, eyes wide. 

You grabbed the rope, using a knife to cut the bit at your foot, using the but in your had to swing yourself to the wall. The other two helped Yelena in pulling you up. 

You reached it. Three sets of hands grabbing you and helping you up.

You felt two cup your face. Yelena knelt next to you. She put her head against your helmet, “Don't you ever do that to me again.” 

You would be honest, say that you'd try not to. Instead, you pushed her away, standing up and going to the door. 

“That was rude,” Walker said. 

You didn't answer, only looking out the door. 

O.X.E were here for you…and Bob.

Yelena’s plan was smart. But it required something you guys didn't really have: trust. 

The woman looked to you, before she went outside, “I'll be waiting. I promise.” 

Why was she being kind to you? Sure, she almost saw you die, but you had to guess that she had seen people die before. 

You went with Yelena and Bob, “can I have a gun?” he asked. 

“(Your name) and I will handle it. You just stay behind us.”

“We will get you out of this (odd one),” you assured. 

Yelena, internally, was relieved. You were together on this.

“Why did you push me away?” she asked, voice quiet. You continued flicking the switches that you needed.

“You don't get to play sister-dearest now. You left me.” 

You could feel the hurt coming off of her in waves. 

“I didn't mean to —”

“Valentina found me!” you snapped, “she found me trying to break into a building to just get found and die. She – she called them off, hired me instead. And now she just – she's like everyone else, they all find out in the end…even after I let her experiment on me —”

“You did —”

“Everyone leaves me, Yelena!” Was this the place? No. But, it was coming out now, “because I am not worth any of it. You promised family, then left! I let myself believe it, for a second!” You shoved her back, “but I'll get you out. I'll let you and your new brother Bob get out. I'm done after this. I tried, I really did…”

The lights went out, but not back on. 

Shit.

It was odd, how Yelena and you fell back into fighting together. You would lower your back, she would roll. She'd throw you something, you'd catch it. 

It was like old times. 

But that was all they were…old. The past. 

You made it to Walker, after almost killing him, before using the armour from the people that you had hurt or killed as a disguise. 

It was working. You had made them all turn around when you took your helmet off. To your relief, and wonder as to why, they did. 

You made it…well, almost made it. You had to get a vehicle.

You wouldn't lie if you said you hadn't jumped when the woman appeared, appearing in the driver's seat. 

You sat with Bob in the back.

“I like your eyes,” he said.

“What?”

“Your eyes,” he elaborated, “they're a nice colour.” 

You weren't entirely sure how to take the compliment.

“Sorry,” he said, seemingly understanding, “I'm not great at giving or receiving them either. Have a little voice in the back of my head…some days it's louder. But, it's always there, saying —”

“You aren't worthy of it.”

Bob took off his helmet, smiling a sad but soft one, “Exactly.” 

You heard Walker talking to someone, an actual O.X.E employee. The employee was getting irritated. 

Looked like a fight was —

“Hey,” Bob said, “I um…I don't know how to use this thing, I'm sure my demonstration back there was pretty much the best example,” he said, scratching his neck as he took his armour off.

You nodded.

“But, you do. And, I'm sorry to ask — it's dumb — but, maybe.” 

You grabbed a rifle, checking the magazine before putting it back in. 

“If this is it,” you looked at him, eyes soft, “at least I won't be alone for a few minutes.” 

He smiled, “Thank you. I mean it.” 

You nodded, “Let’s go be dumb and lose our minds together.”

He smiled. He was scared, you were relieved. An ending. A use. 

You fired the gun, Taskmaster armour back on. Bob was behind you, shouting and grabbing attention

Guns were trained on you, the lights blinding.

You moved yourself in front of Bob, but he then moved himself next to you, hand going into yours. 

“Together?” you nodded.

“No, Bob helped,” Yelena said from the car. 

“Bob’s not alone,” Walker said, a small bit of fear slipping into his voice.

“Oh no…” Ghost said.

“What do you —” Yelena’s heart stopped.

Her ears rang when the bullets went. Watching your bodies jerk with each hit. Watching you fall. 

The ringing continued. She didn't even know if she cried out for you. She didn’t know if she screamed. She couldn't feel a tear run down her face. 

They had made it out, but it felt worthless without you.

Bob took off, literally. They all looked up. Meaning they didn't see you. They didn't see you crawl to a box for cover. They didn't see you crawl your way to a hill and roll your way down it. 

They ignored you, completely. 

A massive boom occurred, the shockwave waking you up as you felt your body heal itself. 

You slowly got up, legs shaky. 

You were alive again. 

Not even Valentina could kill you. 

You started walking through the night, with no sense of direction. You just walked. 

You didn't know if your body would break down without food or water. Would it eat itself, only to then repair?

You found a road and followed it.

Hours went by. Where had Bob gone? He was an experiment, too, it seemed. Why else would he have been there? 

Your legs gave way. Maybe you weren't invincible after all. 

You felt arms grab you, then turn you around. 

“Oh, (little one)!” a familiar voice yelled out. 

You felt hands grab your helmet. You couldn't stop Alexei. 

Your helmet came off, and then a bottle came to your lips, “Drink, (daughter). Drink,” he was soft, kind. Elated.

You opened your eyes and saw him. He still looked the same, a bit Balder than you remembered, but the same other than that.

“(Dad)?” you asked. 

He nodded, wiping a tear away.

He helped you up. “Are you alright?”

You shook your head.

“It's alright, I'm here. Pappa is here,” he said, comfortingly, “I'm here. Pappa is here.” 

He looked around, “Now, come. We must save your sister —”

The clap of the slap and the power took him by surprise. 

“Why do you have to be so nasty?”

He was shoved against the car the next moment, “it's always Yelena, Yelena, Yelena with you! What about me?! Your other daughter, the other one who is alive? Did you even think about me?!”

“Of course I did!”

“Then where were you?”

He faltered. So did you. 

“I let myself be pumped full of drugs and shit —”

“Language —”

“—Stuff,” you corrected, hands up, “to just try… I don't know, feel wanted?” 

Alexei felt his heart break. 

“I bet Yelena visited…”

“She did.”

You looked at the floor, fingers playing with each other, “of course she did,” you were too tired to be angry.

“Did you have cellphone?”

You shook your head.

“Thus I could not call —”

He held up his hand as you went to talk, “—but that is not an excuse. You are my daughter. I should have tried harder. Especially with your mind telling horrible lies.” 

You looked up at him, eyes glassy. 

He smiled, “I am glad you have kept yourself alive, even if not well. That is foundation that we can build from.”

You sniffled.

Alexei picked up your helmet, holding it to you, “wear it if you want,” he pulled it away when you reached for it, “but I do not think you have to. You are (your name), my daughter. And you look beautiful regardless.” 

You took it, but didn't have it on your head for once.

You rode in companionable silence. You felt a bit lighter, but still the darkness clawed at you. 

“There,” you said, pointing. 

Alexis started on the horn, laughing, “Ah, see? This is why I couldn't find you! You know how to hide tracks!” 

Despite yourself, you chuckled.

“YELENA!l Alexei bellowed, “YOUR SISTER AND I ARE HERE TO TELL YOU: DO NOT GO TO THE VAULT!”

Yelena looked up at the mention of you. Ava and Walker looked at each other: You were alive?

They made their way down to Alexei. Yelena got in the front, her eyes sparkling as she saw you eating snacks in the back seat, your helmet off. 

Alexei got in before she could speak. But he nodded, knowing what she was thinking. 

Ava got in, pausing as she looked at you. 

“Don't have too much,” she teased, “still need to run away, remember?”

You nodded, putting a thumb up. 

Walker got in, “You like, never get to eat any of this stuff before?” 

You paused, looking to him, before shaking your head. 

“Stuck in a lab?” Ava asked in understanding. 

“Sometimes,” you said, the pair noticing the Russian accent. 

“I'm sorry,” it was Walker who said that, in the softest voice you had heard him use. 

“Thank you,” you answered. He nodded. 

The conversation moved on to Bob. 

“He’s a bit weird, if you ask me,” Walker was back to his old self,”

“Ah,” Alexei groaned, “we all have quirks, failed Captain America.” Despite Alexei’s words being said with a happy tone, they stung Walker: “That's why we make friends, to find people who accept them.” 

Before it could continue, O.X.E forces showed up. John used his shield, you used your pistol. Ava tried to use her phase ability, only for the speaker that was used before to shriek and block her ability, forcing her to hold her ears. 

You pulled her in, feeling bullets tear into you. You fell to the floor. 

Yelena looked back, seeing you like that. It drove a rage in her. She leant out of the window, firing her pistol. 

The truck…exploded. 

Ava grabbed you, hoisting you back up, “I’ve got you,” she said. 

John was back at the window, blocking all the bullets that he could. 

Yelena knew there was a rage in her, but did it channel into her bullets —?

No, it was Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier. 

John celebrated too early. 

“Ah, shit —” he couldn't finish his celebration, as the bomb Bucky put on your car went off. 

You woke up groggily. 

“Morning,” Bucky said. 

No one else was awake yet. 

You looked to him, “you know, before everything went down with our split and Thanos, Nat spoke about you. She wanted to try find you.”

You just watched him as he continued, “And…after everything, I tried to look for you for a bit. Thought maybe I could help. You remind me of me.”

He walked to you, then paused when you flinched. He put his hands up, moving slower, “You know I spent years hating myself for what I did as the Winter Soldier…”

As you watched him, you felt the tears build, “…and I don’t think it ever goes away. But, maybe I can help you find ways to cope.” 

“Why?” You asked, voice cracking.” 

“Because you deserve to be ok,” Yelena said, still trying to wake up herself. She blinked, “You…you deserve a good life.” 

Before you could answer, the others woke up. Bucky nodded at you before getting up. 

“They tracked you through this,” Bucky held up your helmet, “she put a tracker in there.”

You looked down. You almost got them all killed.

Of course, you almost did, you piece of —

“But, Bucky said, breaking you out of your thoughts, “they also did because that slow limousine Alexei was driving.”

“Hey!” The man roared, “Do not insult my car! It was getting faster —”

“We reached top speed before the chase even began,” Yelena argued. 

Alexei sulked. 

Bucky was shit at remembering Bob’s name, but he got the gist: Valentina wanted him for her gain, another victim to abuse and having agency ripped from them. 

“If I take that,” you nodded at your helmet, “she’ll know we’re coming.”

“Oh, don’t worry, she’ll know,” Bucky said.

You all looked at him. “I have a plan.”

So, the plan changed: Stop Valentina and save Bob.

Thus, the Thunderbolts were born. 

You sat in the back of the truck with Yelena, Ava and John. 

The fatigue of the past two days was catching up with you. 

As you playfully teased John for his helmet, you felt yourself drift off. Your head went on Yelena’s shoulder as your breathing evened out. 

No one moved. No one spoke. 

“Glad she’s able to get some rest,” John said.

“Just glad she’s alive,” Ava admitted.

“Going soft?” John teased.

“Shove off,” she said, but a smile was there. 

Yelena ran her hand through your hair before planting a kiss on your head. 

You were woken up by a crash as Bucky’s “plan” started. 

Yelena and you moved in sync once again. 

However, John called your name. You hopped on his shield, and he sent you up, before you slammed back into the ground. It caused enough of a quake to knock people over. 

Ava then appeared, grabbing you and moving you from danger. Alexei then took care of the ones who fired at you. 

Then:

“Jesus, you guys. I had them unlock the front door for you,” Valentina said, “Just come up.”

You did. This was going well. You all even kept each other in check with Valentina.

It all went wrong when Bob came down. He was in a suit, going by the name of Sentry.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

But he did. He really did hurt you. 

Bucky lost his arm. You lost your helmet. 

The rest of you got the hell kicked out of you. 

You all limped back to the lift, Bob kicking you your helmet before the doors shut. 

You all went outside the tower.

Yelena was furious, sad, and vulnerable. She lashed out. As she turned to you, though, she paused. 

You were vomiting. 

Ava was by your side, hand on your back. 

“Are you —”

You shoved past her before letting out a guttural scream. They all watched, and even civilians looked at you. 

You fell to your knees. 

Yelena wiped at her eyes. 

John looked down.

Ava gulped.

Alexei looked heartbroken.

A knee went in front of you. You looked up.

It was Bucky.

“Sometimes screaming is a good start to healing —”

“Bucky —”

“No, I’m serious, John,” Bucky said.

“She was watching me,” you said, “through this fucking thing.”

You slammed it on the ground. Letting out another scream as you hit it again, and again, and again. 

John pushed you back gently before using his taco shield to slam into the helmet. Ava then appeared, kicking it. Bucky then caught it, bending it.

He threw it to Alexei. He threw it.

Yelena looked at you. You just looked at the helmet.

She fired at it, emptying a clip, without even looking. 

“No more, Valentina,” she vowed, walking over to you and crouching next to you. 

“Go away, Yelena.”

“No.”

Go. Away.”

She shook her head, “Not this time.” 

She grabbed your arms gently, helping you up. 

“I should have stayed with you,” she said, “I'm sorry (little sister).” 

Then, she took your hand and led the way. 

You followed, numb.

“(Daughters) wait,” Alexei called out.

“No. Go away.”

“No.”

“Then keep following us.”

“I will. Because that is what family does.” 

“Stop!” Yelena yelled. She was angry, angry about the lack of content she had in her life, the emptiness she felt, the loneliness.

Her hand squeezed yours more and more. It was a release, to let it all out. 

“When I see you both, I don't see your mistakes.”

The three of you, for the first time, hugged. As a family. 

It didn't last long. Bob had been pushed beyond a point. 

The void was what they called him, what he was. 

“We are all alone,” he said, as people disappeared. 

Yelena and you, after you all had helped lift a wall, looked at each other. 

You couldn't run anymore, it wouldn't get you anywhere. 

You reached out first. Yelena’s hand then went into yours. 

You both looked at Bob, your friend. Your pseudo-brother in arms in all this, saying one thing:

“No, you're not.”

Your hands left each other when you went into the void. 

You were back there, with Dreykov. 

You tried to shield your former self. You tried and tried and tried. 

Your nose dripped with blood from the number of hits you took.

“You can end this, little one,” Dreykov said, kneeling, holding the pistol. He put it in your hand and aimed it at your head, “all those voices. All that noise. All that pain. It can all stop.” 

You heard banging on a wall. It was desperate. You heard a muffled voice. There was a window. Blinds started to close. 

You heard banging on the window. 

It stopped. 

Then, a figure appeared, Bob.

“Hey,” was what he said. 

You looked at Dreykov. You hit him, grabbed the gun and fired at the window, before jumping through. 

You landed on the cold floor. 

“(Your name)?!” Yelena said, helping you up. 

You were in a cold blue room. A training room. 

Yelena had finished loading the gun first. 

She walked over to her younger self, making sure she didn't see it. She reached a hand out to you.

You took it, tightening the grip as the whip fell against yours and the other girls’ hands. 

A mirror held Bob. Yelena fired at it, before, hand in hand, you jumped through. 

There was another Yelena, this one passed out against a bathtub.

Your Yelena looked to you, both to see that you were still there and to see your reaction. 

You put a hand on her shoulder. 

A fight occurred, the vodka being shoved down her. 

You went to help, but real Yelena put a hand up: don't.

The next time around, you let Memory Yelena be. 

Bob showed himself again. 

Once again, thank you, you held hands and went through the mirror. 

You sat with Bob. You spoke to him, reminded him that you were there, and that you wouldn’t leave him. You opened up about your own traumas. It was healthy.

“Before, when we were escaping,” he looked at you, “you said that I was Yelena’s brother. Why?” 

“I saw the look she gave you,” you admitted, “she only gives that to family. That level of concern.”

“Sisterly concern,” the two of you finished, “I said that when we were young. Before everything.” 

“This isn't about me,” you said, looking back at Bob.

“I can't — I can't get…the void hasn't just trapped me. Yes, you entered willingly, but…”

“I think what Bob is trying to say,” Yelena said, putting a hand on his lap and another on yours, “is that we may save Bob, but you will be stuck here in the process.”

“I —” your eyes shimmered, but both just sat, watching you with patient and understanding eyes, “it hurt me when you left to find the other widows. I didn’t know where you were or how to find you.

“Memories came and went. But…I had no purpose anymore. I felt…empty. I just…” You looked at Yelena, “I just wanted it to stop.”

She gulped, but nodded. She was listening.

You heard a door below you slam. Bob’s past. An abusive dad. The room shook, chairs and objects flying at you. 

You tried to do what you could to protect yourself, the three of you linking together. 

The others then appeared, helping stem the tide.

“We all ok?” You all gave affirmatives. 

“You said that this wasn’t the worst, right?” Yelena said, looking to Bob, “Show us the worst.”

She held his arms. A promise: you were here. 

You were helping him through the kitchen. Punching his high self. 

You made it to a facility that Yelena recognised. 

There, Bob sat, with similar shapes of the void on the wall. 

You all stood together. 

But the void had other ideas. 

You were pinned, and you felt a bit of shrapnel go through your arm. 

You all called out to Bob as he started to fight back…

But fighting wasn’t working. His fists hit the void, but it started to consume him.

The shadows overtaking him. 

Yelena looked at you and Alexei. 

You both nodded, using your strength to push the metal. Yelena went under. 

The ground cracked.

Objects flew at her.

She dodged them all.

The shadows almost reached him —

Her arms went around him. 

John was next.

Alexei looked at you, “Go, (little one), Pappa will be right behind you.”

You believed him. 

You went under next, dodging what you could before you joined John and Yelena in the hug. 

Ava then joined.

Finally, Alexei and Bucky.

Bob let out a cry. A scream. He let it out. 

He cried, but you still held on.

You all fell back, still holding him. 

You were back in New York. 

Sunlight was returning. 

Aleixi had said about you brining light back. 

You saw a hand, Ava’s, being offered to you. You took it, standing up. 

She dusted you off. 

“Shall we?”

You nodded. 

You joined John and her, him giving you a tap on the back. 

Yelena saw you, holding out a hand. 

You took it. 

You confronted Valentina. She had one more trick up her sleeve, however. 

“I’d like to announce the New Avengers!” 

What the fuck?

Months went by, and you were cleaning your teeth in the bathroom. You looked at yourself, the marks on your face. 

You were still getting used to it, being nice to yourself. But a kind word every so often from the others helped you keep going.

You were a support system for each other.

A unit.

Some might even dare say, a fa—

“Bathroom free?” John asked from outside.

You spat out your toothpaste, “yeah!” 

You opened the door, smiling at John, “how are we doing today?” He asked.

You nodded, “I, um, I’m sorry about your family,” you said.

He nodded, solemnly, “Maybe I can get back to them someday, but…” he looked to you, “you guys ain’t so bad.”

You chuckled, moving past him.

You moved to the kitchen. Ava was finishing with some food.

“I don’t think you ever ate properly in your whole life,” she said, “so, to the best of my ability, I made you these.”

Omelettes. She had made you omelettes. 

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. 

After you had eaten them, you continued on your way.

“There you are,” Yelena said. She hugged you, a now-common greeting between you. To ground you. A reminder to you that she still had you, still loved you, and wasn’t leaving. 

“Do you want to go on a walk?” 

“With all the cameras?” 

“Ah, let them take their silly photos,” Yelena said, waving off the threat, “I want us to have sister time, together.” 

“In a bit, I wish to see Bob first.”

She softened, “Alright, see you in a bit.” 

She ruffled your hair as she left. 

“Hey,” you called out, “where’s Bucky?”

“Tin arm man has gone to see, Sam. Something about a ‘copyright’ issue.” 

You nodded before continuing on your way. 

Bob was in bed, watching TV.

You knocked. 

Hearing a muffled “come in,” you did so.

“Thought you may want some company,” you said softly.

He patted the bed.

You go next to him. 

“I’m sorry if it gets annoying,” he started, “but I am grateful for you guys getting me out.”

“We always will, (brother). We have…we each other.”

He smiled, “I’m grateful to have met you guys. To have you in my corner.” 

You put your head on his shoulder, “(Me too).” 

You were. You were all a work in progress, and you would fall. But you could catch each other.

No one would get lost in the void, as long as you all had each other.

[sirinoya]

secret life has got so much going on and i need to keep track

there’s a lot of stuff. like there’s already so much what

this fucking symbol ‼️‼️

i can’t be the only one who thinks that this is like the watcher symbol, right?

and why does it glow when you fail a red task??

JIMMY RECOGNIZING THE SYMBOL

bigb’s task? WHY IS IT RED??

this is bigb's

and this is what everyone else's looked like

and the task bigb got is so weird??

it’s multiple lines, the sentences are split up weirdly, it’s super vague, and what’s up with the last sentence???

for comparison, this is grian’s; it’s simple, one line, and not vague at all

and from what i’ve seen, that’s the case with everyone else’s as well

grian said that “he asked for this seed to have end availability”. three guesses as to what bigb’s task is for?

it would also make that last sentence make more sense. who wouldn’t want to base on top of the end portal?

plus, the bordered area is within the first circle of end strongholds; if you’re in front of and facing the statue, you’re looking north and are at roughly (-530 68 1580), give or take some because i was too lazy to properly measure the coords

adding on, did you know that 3 end strongholds spawn 1408–2688 blocks away from (0, 0)?

this means that most likely there is, in fact, an end stronghold here!

the whispering from the taskmaster

the darkening of the sky whenever you get close

and didn’t martyn once say that “the watchers wanted to snuff out all the light” or something along those lines?

the taskmaster looking like a hooded figure

grian editing his face onto said hooded figure lookalike

the suspicious similarities to the official watcher account skin

the taskmaster in general, actually, what the fuck is up with that

grian saying that they “needed to let evolution take its course”

grian saying that quote “there are more surprises in store” in the intro

in conclusion this smp is going to drive us all to insanity and i’m loving it, this is so fun

[slushycoookie]

A Welcome Distraction 18+

Miguel’s had an eventful day at HQ. He's had to deal with report mix-ups, two anomaly containment breaks, and half of the cafeteria being destroyed. All while not having his daily cup of coffee. Because the machine was broken when he arrived.

Everything had calmed down near the end of the day, enough to where he shut himself in his lab to destress. He ranted to you via phone call, arms folded and shoulders hunched.

“I already knew my day was going to be bad when I found out the coffee machine wasn't working.” He started, “As soon as I come in, I'm bombarded with messages saying the reports got mixed up. I thought I could at least get a cup of coffee in first. But no, turns out a lot of my spiders were pulling all-nighters for reasons they have yet to tell me.” He pinched his nose while recalling the memory, “Plus, I couldn't order coffee since there was heavy traffic due to a bank robbery I stopped before I got here.”

“Oh no…” You said, your empathetic tone already easing him.

“I let the coffee thing slide and tried to fix the reports right away. Margo was a big help so we managed to get them done in a few hours, but then we got an alert of a breakout. Not just one, but two anomalies escaping.”

“That was probably annoying.”

“It was. Which surprised me because I noticed Kaine was nearby while I was dealing with the report issue. I thought, as capable as he is, he'd handle it-”

A message interrupted him. Miguel quickly opened it, wondering if it was from one of his colleagues. Instead, he was hit with a picture of you in your black, lacy bra. The shirt raised above your breasts, cups holding you together perfectly.

Miguel blinked, wondering if this was an old message that came through. He'd usually get something like this from you in the middle of the day. Occasionally, the messages arrive late but no, you just sent it.

“You good?”

“Yeah, yes.” He cleared his throat. Your tone was normal as if you didn’t send the picture at all, “Where was I?”

“Two anomalies broke out.”

“Right.” Miguel went back to recalling his story, not closing the message containing your suggestive picture. “I had to deal with that. Worse part was it was a Green Goblin and a Taskmaster. We were able to take care of the latter quickly but Goblin was relentless. He injured three of my spiders and threw some of his bombs around. One of them ended up blowing up part of the cafeteria!”

“What? I can't believe it.”

“Believe it, baby. So now I-”

Another picture arrived causing him to shift. You were only in the bra and matching underwear. He was able to see your body, your soft stomach, hugged by the laces of the lingerie. Your plush thighs pressed together while your lips slightly parted. “Is-is that the set I brought you last week?”

You hum, “It's nice, right?”

“Very nice.” Miguel wasn’t folding his arms anymore. His body pressed against the desk and his eyes couldn't tear away from the picture.

“So, the cafeteria blew up?”

“Y-Yeah. I couldn't really assess the damage until I…took care of goblin.” He tried to look at anything else besides you but was failing. “And I made sure to have a few more of our people close by the containment area so that incident doesn't happen again.”

“Taking care of the situation, good job!”

Miguel bit his lip at your praise. He was having trouble keeping himself together, between the pictures and you actively listening. “Thanks.”

He stopped breathing when you sent him another picture. This time you were laid flat on the comforter, your bra removed, your breasts out in their full glory. It was a reward for how quickly he handled the catastrophe earlier. Now, he was staring like he’d never seen you before. His hands twitched to grope them, use them to help release the stress he experienced.

“Miguel? You still there?”

He rapidly blinked, darting away from the picture. “Yeah, yeah I'm here.”

“Did you hear me?”

“No, sorry. What did you say?”

Your voice raised an octave, amused at how he was falling into your trap. “I asked how bad was the cafeteria damaged.”

“Oh.” Miguel felt his suit get tight. His eyes kept landing on your chest and now all he wanted to do was ask for another picture. He had no interest in continuing his story now. “Can I tell you later?”

“Why? What's wrong?”

A groan escaped him, “You know what's wrong.”

“No, I don’t.” You scoffed, “I'm not a mind reader.”

“Nena,” Miguel let out a shaky breath, “are you in bed right now?”

“Yes.” Your teasing tone rumbles across his ears. “Is that a problem?”

He shakes his head as if you can see him. “No.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Because-” Miguel licked his dry lips, running his hand over his hair to figure out what to say. He was losing the battle but was ready to accept defeat. “Nothing. Take off your underwear.”

“Wait, what? What about the cafeteria? You know I like eating there sometimes.”

“I will tell you later.” He starts palming himself through his suit. “Let me see.”

You didn't argue back. Silence took over as he waited to see the picture he requested. His mouth dropped at the final photo. You reflected in the long mirror in the corner of your room. A hand amongst your breast while your legs spread for him. Showing you his prize. His reward for the terrible day he’s had. Mouth agape, almost drooling at the sight of you. Miguel couldn’t hold on any longer.

“I'm coming over.”

[layla4567]

Fierce and Warm

Summary: Valentina had called you to the tower, why? You didn't know, you just wanted to rescue Bob, but oh surprise, it seems someone had gone ahead. And now someone won't let you go so easily. Warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, smut and suggestive, p in v, Sentry being possessive and a little rude, maybe ooc, thunderbolts spoilers, curse words, fights, hickeys, arguing, sexual tension, oral sex (fem recieving), beta read Word count: 4k

The elevator doors glided open, and you all filed out, your faces sour. The woman with white locks was already waiting for you with a glass of bubbly champagne and a confidential, white-toothed smile, an almost cat-like smile, as if her favorite prey had fallen into the trap.

"Ah! Just the people I wanted to see, it's good to know everyone is here. Oh but wait" She paused and pretended to count the members of the group on one finger, then faked a sad face "Taskmaster is missing! It's a shame.."

They all rolled their eyes, as if they didn't know that was exactly what she was expecting.

"Anyway those things happen, don't they? Now, I never thought you'd form a group and against me!" Valentina put a hand to her chest theatrically. "So, who's the leader? Little Belova, perhaps?" she said, pointing at her.

"Eat shit, Valentina"

The woman shook her head disapprovingly. "That's not manners, Yelena."

"Alright, enough. Why did you bring us here?" John said impatiently.

"Oh, I see Captain America Second Class is anxious," she laughed mockingly.

John was about to pull out his pistol when Bucky's authoritative voice calling his name made him stop. The man with the metal arm approached Valentina and slowly took the glass from her. She didn't resist; she seemed to have everything under control, as if she knew something they didn't. An ace up her sleeve, the final card to play.

"You'll tell us where Bob is. Now."

Bucky's fist tried to get close to the woman's face, but no matter how hard he tried to reach her, the blow never landed. His arm hung in the air as if a magnet were pulling it back. She smiled with satisfaction.

"Just in time, thanks Bob" Valentina looked up the stairs as a man's footsteps approached coming down.

The man they'd previously known as Bob was now some sort of muscular, blond superhero in a honey-gold suit with an S on his belt. We all walked over to them, confused.

"You wanted to see Bob, well here he is. Or rather, Sentry."

This "Sentry" looked at everyone as if apologizing, especially at you.

"What the fuck is this, Valentina?" you said, half annoyed and half confused.

"Isn't it obvious? The new superhero the city needs, of course. And the people like classic superheroes," she said, pointing at Bob's blond hair.

"It was her idea," the man said, touching his hair shyly.

Before Bucky could say anything Valentina stepped forward, looked at Sentry and exclaimed "Sentry, I want you to get rid of these criminals"

Criminals. The word tasted like bitter acid in your mouth, and you wrinkled your nose in disgust. You were as respectable as any other heroes. Yelena looked at Bob, trying to persuade him.

"Don't listen to her, she's using you. Come with us."

He looked hesitantly at his boss and then at Yelena. He found himself at a crossroads, between a rock and a hard place. "I'm really sorry. I don't want to hurt you guys. Why don't you give up without a fight?" he proposed conciliatorily.

"Come on Bobby, you don't have to do this," said John.

Hearing that nickname made Bob shift, his face twisted slightly in a sneer, and his gaze hardened. Then he looked at John with his head held high, menacingly. "Call me Sentry."

Only you noticed this subtle change. Now Bob was gone and Sentry had taken his place, all because of John's asshole. You angrily elbowed him in the ribs, and he looked at you, furious and confused. When you turned your gaze to Sentry, he had already fixed his gaze on you. He was studying you with his head slightly tilted, and you could swear his eyes were burning your retinas from how deeply he was observing you, as if he wanted to penetrate your soul.

Alexei had lost his patience and shouted in a guttural, stale growl, "I'M TIRED OF THIS!"

Then he jumped to reach Sentry and with a simple movement of his outstretched arm he sent him flying through the window where it crashed into a thousand pieces. It was done, war had been declared. There was no other option but to fight. Ava teleported near him but Sentry was faster and moved with the same speed behind her and with a kick he slammed her into the wall. Sentry seemed to copy the skills of the others. When it was John Walker's turn, he began to shoot to kill but the blond man stopped each and every bullet with his hand, he was indestructible and impossible to stop. However, US agent did not give up and when he tried to stop a blow from Sentry with his shield, he folded it as if it were origami, leaving it in the shape of a taco.

"No!" Yelena exclaimed and jumped to Sentry's neck, straddling him and electrocuting him with her bracelets. But the man didn't flinch and grabbed her by the back of her suit and threw her to the side like a rag bag. You were the only one left to attack. You looked at him trying to think what to do, how to defeat him? He defended himself with the skill of a martial artist and had the strength of a thousand lions. Sentry looked at you curiously, waiting for your best blow, simply waiting calmly.

You mentally reviewed all your best moves and acrobatics, but you knew you needed to distract him to give yourself time to attack him, but how? You approached him slowly and cautiously. The blond man, attentive to your movements, tensed slightly.

"Sentry... or Bob whoever's listening, I just want to talk." You raised your hands in a sign of redemption.

You kept moving forward slowly while he looked at you, tilting his head. "Just talking? Are you sure?" he asked suspiciously.

You nodded, now standing half a meter away from him. Sentry narrowed his eyes. "I don't care what you have to say, you won't be able to convince me to let you live."

"I wouldn't be so sure.. remember what we talked about in the vault?"

Sentry's expression didn't flinch, and he answered no. "Really? You've told me things about yourself, like your favorite color or your fear of heights." You desperately tried to get that sweet man out, who you knew was hiding, struggling to get out.

He clenched his jaw. "That was Bob, not me," he said in disgust.

You moved much closer to him, placing a hand on his abs. Sentry followed your hand and watched as it rested on his abdomen. “But I know he’s still there, he’s always there. Don’t you want to let him out? So we can talk? I know he wants to, and maybe you do too.” You dared to place a fearful hand under his jaw while giving him your best flirtatious look, blinking intensely.

For a moment, Sentry seemed to hesitate, his sapphire eyes fixed on yours. He took your hand, which you placed on his face, caressing it lightly. When you thought the battle was already won, you tried to raise a leg, aiming it at his neck, but he was faster and stopped it by grabbing your ankle tightly.

"Really, how stupid do you think I am?" His words were mocking but his tone was cold and his face serious.

With a quick movement he bent your foot, causing you to cry out in pain, and threw you against a column, causing some rubble and cement to fall.

Now Sentry directed his attention toward you. There was something dark in his gaze. He had seemed so docile before, but now beneath that skin and blue eyes, something more dominant and hungry loomed. He watched you crawl, your back arched like a cat on the floor, in pain. Sentry followed your every movement, studying it with attention like a map. With effort and between gasps, you stood up, limping slightly. You were preparing to attack when he came flying toward you quickly. With his hand, he grabbed your neck and slammed you against the wall, cornering you with his body, with no way out.

You gasped, but his grip wasn't suffocating yet, his fingers wrapping around your throat as you struggled and you held onto your wrist, trying to escape. He smirked.

"Look at you, poor Y/N thought she could surpass a god like me." His eyes stared at you and then studied your face. Sentry clicked his tongue, shaking his head slightly. "So innocent, so pretty." His blue orbs slid towards your chapped lips as his body pressed more against yours predatorily.

He brought his face dangerously close to yours, his nose brushing your cheek as his hot breath hit your ear. “Did you think I’d submit to you?” His eyes were fixed on your mouth. “Make no mistake, I’m the one in control here,” he growled huskily, his fingers lightly squeezing your throat, testing the waters. You let out a whimper, and he smiled darkly, enjoying it.

The others seemed to watch the scene helplessly. Sentry's mouth rested on your cheek, sliding it against your jaw. "Now I understand why Bob likes you. Look what you do to him, with your angel face and goddess body," he purred. Suddenly, you felt his crotch harden against your pelvis, making you gasp. It seemed that all of Bob's most lustful desires were manifesting in Sentry, his more confident and self-assured other self. You felt dirty and self-conscious before this very public scene where you were supposed to be there to attack Sentry (or for him to kill you), however, you couldn't help but feel heat on your skin.

You tried to reason with him, "Bob, please. I know you're there. You don't want to do this."

Something seemed to change in his expression, but it was only for a moment. Sentry ran his tongue over his lips as he laughed. He then became serious and slammed you against the wall once more. You moaned in pain. The blond man whispered in your ear, "Bob isn't here to save you, honey."

His hand on your throat was already hurting and before he could knock you out Bucky took off his jacket and prepared to hit him, this made Sentry let go of you as you fell like a dead weight catching your breath. When Bucky punched with his metal arm Sentry easily stopped him by taking it out and throwing him to the ground.

Bucky's arm was slightly molten at the knuckles. Did Sentry have heat vision now too? Great. The scene was a mess. We were all a mess, bleeding and in pain. Sentry looked at each of us, pausing for a few seconds to study our faces. Valentina came out of hiding like the cowardly wuss she was and started clapping happily. We all got up and crawled toward the elevator with what little strength we had left. Sentry looked only at you before the doors closed.

"That was quite a show," Valentina said, laughing in amazement. "But you haven't finished your job. You should have killed them."

Sentry slowly turned to her with a sneer. "Why? Why should a god take orders from a mere mortal?"

He approached Valentina menacingly as she walked backwards. "Well, the word God is a bit ambitious, don't you think?"

Sentry laughed bitterly. "You won't be ordering me around anymore."

He then grabbed Valentina by the neck and threw her against the minibar. Her head hit the edge with a loud thud, and she fell unconscious to the floor. The blond man then began to float and flew through the broken video window. Below, the group discussed the situation in exasperation.

"We suck" said Yelena

"Yes, especially you, who got a harder beating than me." Ava spat

"Yes, Ava, I already know and I'm sorry! I know I'm terrible at what I do, okay? I don't need you to remind me!" Yelena cried, on the verge of tears.

"Ok stop, please. There's no point in arguing now" you begged hating to see them fight

"And what about you? What the hell was that plan? Seducing him to hit you more gently?" John mockingly commented, addressing you.

"At least I DID have a plan. I wanted to distract him. And it worked better for me than it did for you. Tell that to your taco-shield"

Before John could retort angrily, Alexei stopped them, arguing that now was the time when we needed to stick together the most. Bucky, for the first time, agreed with him and suggested that we go home and think things over; there was nothing we could do now anyway. Everyone nodded, and each of them went their separate ways.

Back in your apartment, your suit was sloppily draped over the back of a chair, and your boots were lazily resting on the floor next to the bed. You stood on your balcony, watching the sun set over the horizon, holding a cup of tea. The warm steam rose to your nasal passages, tickling and comforting you. You sighed, leaning against the railing, thinking about everything that had gone wrong. What kind of group were you all? One that only knew how to lose. You weren't even sure you were heroes anymore.

But most of all, you couldn't stop thinking about Sentry or Bob. Bob or Sentry? Ugh. You shook your head in confusion, trying to sort through your thoughts. You didn't know who was who anymore. With one free hand, you ran your fingers through the front of your hair, exposing your forehead for a moment. Sentry's carnal desires had caused a strange, burning, and itching sensation under your skin. Were those desires really his or Bob's, wanting to loosen up? But weren't they basically the same person? Tired of dwelling on the matter, you turned around, leaving the cup on the small table and heading for the bed.

Suddenly, something alerted you: a presence behind you. You spun around quickly and let out a shriek. Sentry was levitating on the balcony. He had approached silently, searching for you. Why? You stayed put, but he floated forward and entered the apartment, landing on the ground. His presence was more imposing than Bob's; his muscles seemed to tense with every movement he made, his posture erect, and his steps slow but steady. And his gaze was predatory. He wanted something, something from you. You tried to swallow nervously, trying to look away.

"What are you doing here? Didn't you have enough of making us suffer?"

Hearing that, Sentry turned his eyes to your ankle and noticed it was bandaged and slightly swollen, your foot barely touching the ground. The blond man tilted his head from side to side like a slow, precise pendulum, searching for the right words to come out of his mouth.

"You know, you've got nerve. You seem like the only useful one in your group of mediocre people."

You laughed with irony and bitterness "Well, thank you. Was that a compliment?"

Sentry didn't answer, just kept moving until he was standing right in front of you. His eyes scanned your face, resting on your hair or your eyes, scanning you shamelessly.

"If I came here it's for a reason. Not many people manage to surprise me. But you... you're different."

You didn't realize how tall he was until he was standing very close to you, looking down at you like a shadow looming over you, a carrion bird watching its prey. You felt like a mouse staring at a cat with no hope of escape. His eyes held so much power over you, with that slightly yellow halo over that navy blue, that you had to duck your head and close your eyes.

Sentry raised his hand and held your jaw, forcing you to look at him, lightly pressing his fingers on your cheeks, making you pout. "Look at me when I talk to you." he replied in an almost guttural tone.

"I admit your attempts to trick me were almost... cute." he smirked.

You listened to him attentively, wanting to understand where he was going, and in this position, you had no other option. "Ever since that fight, you've awakened something in me, little thing. I don't know what it is, but it feels as hot as lava." he growled lasciviously.

His hand moved down from your jaw to the base of your neck near your collarbones, caressing them with his thumb, a little hard for your liking.

"Do you know what that feels like? Something bubbling up in your stomach and burning?" he growled through gritted teeth. "And not being able to do anything to control it... oh wait, I think I can do something."

Without warning, his hand gripped the back of your neck and he pulled you in for a kiss, making you gasp in surprise. You placed your hands on his chest, trying to push him away and steady yourself, but his grip was strong. The kiss was fierce and hungry, making your teeth crash against his. He exploded at your tongue with his mouth open, asserting and imposing dominance over you. You didn't know why, but it excited you slightly, and you brought your hands to his hair, pulling on it, making him moan into your mouth. His humming vibrated inside your lips. Suddenly, he pulled away, leaving a string of saliva hanging down until it broke; he was panting.

"Now do you understand what you're doing to me?"

Without waiting for an answer, he held your waist, digging his fingers in, causing you to moan. He lifted you up to sit you on your pine dresser. He easily opened your legs and positioned himself between them, still holding your hips. Sentry began kissing your neck, pressing down hard like a leech. Your hands moved on his shoulders on their own; you didn't even think about what you were doing; it was all pure inertia.

"I could kill you right now, but somehow I can't" He said between growls against your skin. His hot saliva combined with his breath tickled where he spoke and kissed. Your eyes rolled back involuntarily as you moaned softly. His body so close to yours and his hands kneading the flesh of your waist caused palpitations in your center that already felt damp against the fabric of your panties. Suddenly you felt a sharp pain in your shoulder. Sentry had bitten you, leaving a hickey that soon turned red-purple.

The blond man continued kissing your collarbones, occasionally running his hot tongue over your bones as if you were a popsicle, making you shudder. And when he no longer had room because of your clothes, he ripped them off, leaving your chest and bra exposed. Taking advantage of this release, he kissed the exposed part of your breasts and their curvature in front, leaving another mischievous mark with his white teeth. You threw your head back, letting out a pained moan mixed with a moan of pleasure. Your hands were now on his broad back, caressing it and wanting to scratch it, but the fabric prevented you.

"You-your suit.." you moaned

"What? You want to take it out of me?" He smiled mischievously.

You nodded vigorously with drunken eyes, thirsty for him, for the feel of him. Sentry guided your fingers to the zipper at the back of his neck, helping you open it. With his help, you exposed his entire chest and torso, pulling the suit down to his hips, also exposing his V-line. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of his sculpted body, while your cheeks turned a light pink.

He kept smiling and you bit your lip, reaching out to touch his six-pack, but he stopped you. "I didn't tell you you could touch." You let out a frustrated, pleading whimper, but he ignored it and moved down to your stomach, leaving wet kisses. His fingers hooked into your pants and pulled them down, exposing your sticky underwear.

"Already so wet just from a few kisses? Pathetic human."

You blushed but couldn't say anything because with his fingers he burned and melted your panties, freeing your pussy, which he quickly began to massage with his tongue. You squeezed your eyes shut as you felt his saliva on your clit and his tongue lapping and swirling over your folds. He was possessed, tasting and devouring you, but he knew what he was doing, oh boy did he. You couldn't remember the last time someone made you feel like this. Sentry murmured unintelligible things against your wet, dripping center. Your breathing quickened, and you tugged at his hair and shoulders, unable to stay still. With each swirl of his tongue, your back arched, and a torrent of moans fell from your lips.

Your thighs trembled with fatigue. You were about to cum. You felt it, and so did Sentry. Because he began to suck on your clitoris while his thumb opened your folds and massaged them. It was the straw that broke the camel's back. Your hips contracted like ocean waves toward his mouth, begging for more until a liquid shot out, staining his lips, leaving you exhausted.

Sentry stood up, looking at you, satisfied that he'd left you a trembling mess as he wiped his lips and lightly licked his fingers, still tasting you. Your hair now stuck to the back of your sweaty neck, while some clung to your forehead, your face and chest slightly flushed, perfect for him.

"That was... unbelievable.." you said panting and tired

"Was? who said i'm done?"

You opened your eyes wide, not believing what he was saying. For his part, he had completely pulled down his suit, sliding it down his toned legs along with his boxers, freeing his erection. You couldn't do anything but sigh at the sight of his length. The man didn't waste a second and lined himself up inside you. First, just the tip to see your expression; you closed your eyes, opening your mouth with a muffled moan. Then he entered completely, adjusting his hands on your hips. Your walls embraced his member perfectly, as if they were always waiting for him. It couldn't be said that Sentry was someone gentle or delicate; his thrusts were bestial, and he fucked you as if you were going to faint at any moment. Your nails dug mercilessly into his now exposed back, which contracted as you felt your claws scratch his skin. You clung to his shoulders like a lifeline, and your mouth filled his ear with moans, which only encouraged Sentry to thrust harder inside you.

Pelvis against pelvis, you tried to keep up with his rhythm, rocking your hips back and forth in a controlled motion, but his hips just wanted to fill you. They were erratic and fast, with no sense of rhythm. His pelvis seemed to want to establish dominance over yours, wanting to be in control. You bit his shoulder to resist his thrust, eliciting a grunt and a moan from him. The room filled with gasps and moans as Sentry's force shook the dresser, which hit the wall with loud thuds, knocking over everything on it and around it. The walls seemed to shake like an earthquake, with the force of the animal in front of you and inside you, called The Sentry.

"P-please.. I can't!" you begged on the verge of exhaustion

"No. I know you can, just a little more." He growled

Sweat was beginning to take its toll on you, and your vision was blurring like a nebula. You felt his member growing stiffer between your walls as you pressed harder and harder, an almost painful tug. His thrusts, if erratic before, were now more clumsy, varying in pace; he was about to cum. You don't know when it happened, but when you closed your eyes, you felt a warm liquid inside you mixing with your own, running down your thighs, burning with fatigue. When Sentry pulled away, you were both panting, but only you, on the verge of collapse. Your whole body was trembling, unable to support yourself. You tried to get off the counter, and when you were almost about to fall, he quickly held you in his arms.

"Easy now" he said incredibly softly

He placed you on your bed, and you managed to cover your bare area with the sheet while he pulled up his suit and zipped it up. You could see something change in his expression. Was it... Bob wanting to get out? Looking at you?

"I... should go" he said as he began to float towards the balcony

But before leaving, with his authoritative voice he exclaimed again, "Not a word of this to your group. Do you understand?"

He didn't need to wait for your answer or even look at you; he knew you will obey. Despite that, you nodded behind him, and he flew off, leaving you satisfied but with that confusion that wouldn't go away, waiting to see the real Bob again to find out if he'd remember or find out about this whole sinful encounter.