#Blocks Completion Handler

[endofthelinegang]

the things we don't say

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  john walker x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  based on the prompts "don't go on that date." "why?" "you know why." "say it." 

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  cursing

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The zipper trembles slightly between your fingers as you pull it up. Not because your hands are shaking—at least not much—but because you’re second-guessing the decision you made twenty minutes ago. The jacket is soft, tan suede, something you haven’t worn since before the Thunderbolts—back when “casual” didn’t feel like an act of rebellion. Underneath is a black camisole that clings just enough to make you feel alive again. Real. 

You told yourself it wasn’t for him.

But in the mirror, you can’t ignore the way you check your profile��your hair tucked just right, your collarbones exposed, the gloss on your lips just a touch shinier than usual. Your fingers linger at your throat for a second too long, brushing against the delicate chain necklace you threw on without thinking. A gift to yourself. A piece of the old you.

The door creaks behind you. The energy shifts instantly. You don’t need to look. You already know who it is. That same low, smoldering pressure that always coils at the base of your spine when he’s near.

John Walker.

You can see him in the mirror before he speaks. He’s leaning in the doorway like he owns it—broad shoulders tense, one hand gripping the frame just tight enough for the knuckles to go white. He’s in black tactical gear, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms like he was either coming from training or looking for an excuse to fight. His hair is a mess, you knew he had been messing with it. His eyes are already on you. Not just watching—reading.

“You going somewhere?” he asks, voice casual—but the kind of casual that cuts, his shoulder was pressed into the doorframe, his body completely blocked up the space. 

You smooth your hands down the front of your jacket, mostly to keep yourself busy or at least to look busy. If you didn’t there was just the smallest chance you wouldn’t go anywhere. “Yeah. Civvies. Off base. Crazy, I know.”

He moves closer landing his feet on the ground from where one leg had been crossed over the other, a slow step that echoes across the floor. “With who?”

You shrug, not turning yet. You want to make him wait and you do not wanna give him the idea that his presence would affect anything. “Someone who asked.”

In the mirror, you catch the flicker in his jaw. That’s where it always starts with him—just a little tension that spreads like cracks through ice. He blinked and looked to the window before looking back at you. He knew you were making a dig, and man was he happy you did because it was giving him a reason to dig back. 

“Right,” he mutters, his tone shifting. “Let me guess—one of the new handlers? The guy who can't even clear a sidearm properly?” 

You turn now, slowly, facing him with your arms folded. A casual stance, but defensive. You catch the way his eyes drop—not to be disrespectful, but because he’s scanning. Reading your body, your outfit, the way the light hits your collarbone. His gaze lingers at your neckline a second too long before he tears it away. All that did was anger him more, not even he deserved to have you dress up to go do something with him let alone some other idiot. 

“You been spying on me now, Walker?” you ask, your voice cool, laced with something sharper. You knew he was, he had been for a while. At first it was to figure out what you liked and what he could be doing for you that would be considered little gestures. The biggest issue was that John had a hard time making up his mind on what to do about you. So he would go back and forth between bringing you lunch and organizing your laundry in its basket to not talking to you at all. Which is one of the biggest things that led you to this situation. 

He shrugs. That signature Walker arrogance, but there’s no real heat in it. Only frustration. “Just observant.”

You tilt your head, the corners of your mouth twitching. What hurt you was that you knew that he knew how you felt about him in some way. If he didn’t he would’ve never done any of the nice things he had been doing.  “No, you’re being a dick.”

He stiffens. The smirk disappears like you flipped a switch.  “I’m just wondering when you started going for guys who talk big and fall apart the second they’re in the field.”

You step closer, boots scuffing against the tile. “You don’t know him.”

“And you do?” he bites back. “What—he bought you a drink and suddenly he’s worth your time?”

You flare at that. Your fingers tighten around your arms, gripping your own skin like it’ll keep you from lunging. “What’s your problem, John?”

He’s silent, but his eyes are screaming. That unreadable expression cracks at the edges—his jaw clenched, shoulders rising and falling like he’s trying to keep himself from exploding. He takes a step forward, then another. The air between you grows thick, electric. You can smell the faint scent of cedar from his cologne, cucumber from shampoo, and mint from where he must have brushed he teeth , something grounded. 

“My problem is you’re going out with some paper-pusher while we’re still knee-deep in this Thunderbolts circus and pretending like it’s normal.” He was sounding meaner and meaner the more he talked, his tone was rough and his volume was rising. 

You hold your ground, you knew that he could be mean it was no shocker. “You’re right. It’s not normal. None of this is. But that doesn’t mean I have to sit around waiting for someone who doesn’t say what he means.”

That hits harder than you mean it to. You see it in his eyes. The wounded flash behind the blue. His hands flex at his sides—twitching, like he’s resisting the urge to reach out and grab you or punch the wall behind you. His chest is heaving and he is tapping his left foot slowly on and off like he can’t stand to be in his own skin.  He steps closer quickly, if you didn’t know any better you would think you were about to be attacked. He was now close enough that the fabric of your sleeves brushes with every breath. Close enough that if either of you moved an inch forward, you’d be touching.

And at that moment, he hated himself a little.

Not for wanting you—but for waiting this long. For letting mission after mission bury whatever this thing between you was. He told himself it was about professionalism, about keeping a clear head. But really, it was fear. Because the second he let himself want you, he wouldn’t be able to stop. And guys like him? They don’t get the girl. They get grief, and consequences, and orders they don’t question. But watching you walk out that door tonight—for someone else—feels worse than any battlefield he's crawled off of.

The amount of control he was using was insane, his skin was turning red from being so angry and he was using his left hand to fidget just a bit. He doesn’t let himself touch you. So he speaks instead.

And then—

“Don’t go on that date.”

The words are barely above a whisper, but they punch the air out of your lungs. You are completely still, you are the deer in front of the car. You saw the sadness in his eyes, the desperation that sat there. This was not his forte, it never really was. The only girls he had dated before his ex-wife were just with him because of his physique or just to brag that they were with someone clean cut. At first he minded and really wished he could find something, anyone to be real. But eventually he fell into the game of who gives a fuck lets just have some fun. But when he looked at you he felt like that teenager again, the one who really did want something, anything real. 

You just blink. “What?”

His eyes don’t leave yours. His voice doesn't shake, but there's a quiet desperation laced through every word. He was above crying, at least he told himself that but he was not above begging at this moment. “Don’t go.”

You should walk past him. You should be the one who doesn’t break. He had done this to himself, you did nothing but show him kindness back when he graced you with his. In fact you had been the one who was constantly trying to figure out what was going on between the two of you. But the crack is already spreading. That part of you that had been trying to put the pieces together was still very curious. 

“Why?”

His lips part. His brows pull together just slightly. He looks at you like a man who’s spent weeks on the edge of a cliff, finally realizing the fall might be worth it. He moves his hands from his sides to put them on your waist but before he can he puts them right back. 

“You know why.”

That’s not enough. Not anymore. You need to hear him say it. He was not going to get away with just leaving things so broad that it could be taken as anything, this was all or nothing. 

“Say it,” you whisper.

The tension breaks like a snapped wire. His shoulders sag an inch, just enough to betray the weight he’s been carrying. The eye contact was unbearable. He hoped you could not see what he was feeling, but if you could he was hoping that nervousness was not one of those things. 

“Because he’s not me.” John was looking down at you, his eyes practically begging you to say something. But you had to see that he was being honest, that what he said was not some mean joke. 

Your throat tightens. Your hands curl, unsure whether to reach for him or shove him away. The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s heavy. Charged. Like the moment before a lightning strike. The corner of your kip was now underneath the weight of your teeth. All of a sudden your clothes felt like they weighed hundreds of pounds and were hot as hell. And still, neither of you moves because the ball is in your court. Normally he would not care nor would he respect that but this was different. This was not the same shit he could usually pull. 

“John—”

It comes out quieter than you meant. Like the sound got stuck in your throat on the way out. Barely a breath, just enough to reach him. He flinches. You would’ve missed it if you weren’t watching him so closely—the way his shoulders twitch, the way the line of his jaw tightens under the weight of that one syllable. Your voice, soft and uncertain, wrapped around his name like it means something. Like it still means something.

His eyes close for half a heartbeat. You catch the flash of restraint in his face like a wave crashing through him and barely receding. He exhales through his nose, slow and rough, and when he opens his eyes again, they’re burning. Not angry. Not wild. Wounded.

He’s standing there like a man carved out of stone—but you see the cracks. In his silence. In his knuckles, where his fingers twitch against the fabric of his pants like he’s desperate for something to hold onto. In the way he’s biting down on the inside of his cheek, hard, like he’s punishing himself for letting the words out at all.

You know what this is costing him.

You know what it takes for John Walker to admit that he feels anything.

And maybe that’s why your chest aches as you stand there, heat crawling up your neck like shame and hope are fighting for space beneath your skin. You shift your weight, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your boots scuff on the tile, the way your jacket feels too tight across your chest now, the way your lip is still caught between your teeth.

You want to ask him why now. Why not two weeks ago, when you sat next to him on that rooftop and the air between you had been just as electric, just as close, and he said nothing. Why not that night in the common area, when your knees brushed and he looked at you like he might say something real, then didn’t?

But you don’t ask.

Because you’re afraid of the answer.

And because right now, the way he’s looking at you—like you’re a decision he’s been avoiding for too long—it feels like he’s trying to make up for all of it in this one impossible moment.

He shifts his stance again, but he still doesn’t reach for you. His hands twitch at his sides—useless, hesitant, undone. He’s never looked more dangerous. And he’s never looked more unsure.

The silence after is louder than the words.He waits. Not breathing. Not blinking. Like he’s on a wire, waiting to be pushed. And you don’t know what you’re going to do next. You don’t know if you’re going to take a step forward or tear the door open and leave. Because there’s something in your chest clawing its way out. A scream. A sob. A kiss.

And then—

There’s a knock.

Sharp. Urgent.

Your head snaps toward the door.

His eyes follow.

Neither of you moves.

A voice calls your name from the other side.

John’s jaw sets. You see the walls go back up behind his eyes—fast, brutal, practiced. His fists clench, and for the first time in the whole damn conversation, he looks away.

You take a breath, ready to say something—

But the door handle starts to turn.

And you’re both still standing there.

Too close.

Too quiet. Too late.

[octaneink]

Smooth

Will Lenney x Female!Reader

Summary: Will and the reader enjoy their vacation time while Will sends death glances to flirty divers. (He trusts you. He just doesn’t trust them.) Warnings: None! Notes: Part two of Super trouper, based on this ask! Sorry this took so long! Work's been busy, and I wasn't sure if this made sense or was cute.

Salt-stiffened linen flaps against a terracotta wall, stirred by a breeze that smells of iodine and dried thyme. The Tyrrhenian Sea sprawls beyond the balcony, sun still low enough to cast long shadows across the glinting water. A lizard skitters over the railing, pauses, flicks its tongue at the soft clatter of wheels on cobblestones below.

Clack-clack-clack.

The sound grates, rhythmic, familiar. Will’s suitcase rolls behind him, obedient as a hound, while yours lists sideways, its left wheel sheared clean off by Heathrow’s baggage handlers. You’d watched him at the carousel earlier—back rigid, eyes tracking the conveyor belt like a hawk—as he hefted his own suitcase first, then plucked yours from the belt with a grunt, fingers snagging the handle seconds before it lurched past. The broken wheel clattered out moments later, rolling three feeble rotations before collapsing. Will had gone very still, your luggage dangling from his grip. 

He put down the luggage and kelt down to inspect the luggage.

A quiet slump of his shoulders, fingers tracing the cracked plastic. “They’ve butchered it,” he’d murmured, more to himself than you. An attendant had flitted over, already rehearsing the ‘not liable for cosmetic damage’ spiel, but Will cut her off with a weary sigh. “It’s not cosmetic. The wheel’s structural. Look.”

From his crouched position, he tilted the suitcase to show the mangled axle, then pulled up a pre-departure photo on his phone—your luggage pristine on the bedroom floor, wheels intact. “We’ve got a two-week trip. How’s this meant to hold up?” His voice stayed calm, but his thumb tapped the screen edge, restless. “I’d like to file a report. Properly.”

You’d hovered, torn between embarrassment and a flicker of guilt as he filled out the form in meticulous block letters, the attendant’s resolve wilting under his quiet persistence. “Like I said sir, the best we can do is a partial refund,” she’d conceded finally, avoiding his gaze. “And we can try this?” She produced a roll of duct tape, neon green and already peeling at the edge.

Will stared at it.

Blinked.

“That’s not—”

But she was already crouching, wrapping the tape around the fractured wheel hub in haphazard loops, her name tag jangling with the effort. The tape buckled instantly, adhesive gumming the broken plastic into a lopsided clump. Will’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing, watching as the wheel tilted sideways.

“There!” She stood, dusting her hands with the flourish of a magician completing a trick. “Good as new, yes?”

You bit your tongue, staring at the duct-tape monstrosity. “It’s creative,” you offered, voice thin.

Will’s smile was a rictus grin, knuckles whitening on the suitcase handle. “A masterpiece. Tate Modern should put it behind glass.”

The attendant beamed at you, mistaking politeness for praise. “The refund will process in five business days,” she chirped, tapping her tablet. “We appreciate your patience as a valued customer.”

“Thanks,” you said, too quickly, already tugging Will’s sleeve. “Let’s just—”

“A flamethrower could have done a better job,” Will muttered under his breath, low enough for only you to hear.

You stepped in front of him, blocking his glare. “Thank you.”

She nodded, oblivious, already turning to the next passenger. “Prego! Please enjoy our wonderful country!”

The duct tape emitted a gummy whine as Will dragged the suitcase away, the wheel lurching like a spavined horse. You fell into step beside him, cheeks hot. “That was subtle.”

“Subtlety’s overrated.” he grumbled, tight-lipped, and wheeled the crippled bag away and his own without another word. 

Fingers worried the frayed cuff of your hoodie, cheeks burning. “Sorry,” you mumbled, “This is. it’s my mess.”

Will halted mid-stride. When you dared glance up, his stern mask had slipped—just a boy with flushed ears and a too-stiff spine. “Your mess? You silly goose.” His thumb brushed your wrist, calloused and warm. “Love, the only crime here is that abomination they call a baggage system.” A beat. “And your taste in luggage. Christ, it’s neon pink.”

“It’s coral.”

“Same difference.”

Now the suitcase lurches sideways, its duct-taped wheel catching on a cobblestone seam. You curse, wrestling it back into line, but it drifts again. Will halts ahead, shoulders tensing as the screech of plastic-on-stone grates through the heat.

Without a word, he turns, swaps your mangled luggage for his own, and resumes walking. The good wheels glide smoothly over the path, his stride unbroken. When you arch a brow, he shrugs, adjusting his grip on the broken handle. “You’re terrible at steering.”

The hotel courtyard swallows you whole—whitewashed walls, lemon trees sagging with fruit, a plunge pool glowing turquoise in the shade. Will holds the gate open, fingertips brushing the small of your back as you pass. His touch lingers, warm even through the hoodie.

“Honeysuckle,” he mutters, inhaling. “And chlorine. They over-sanitised the pool.”

You bite back a laugh. “How can you tell that?” 

Will narrows his eyes, a mock-offended glance cast sideways as he lets the gate swing shut behind you. “Because my nose works,” he replies flatly, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

You hum thoughtfully, stepping aside as a bellboy zips past with a rickety luggage cart. “No, I’m serious. Do you have, like, a secret certification for pool chemicals?” You pantomime swirling a glass, sniffing dramatically. “Mm. Chlorine. With notes of crushed penny tile.”

That gets a sound out of him, not quite a laugh, but close. A low huff through his nose, fond and exasperated. “You’re impossible.”

You flash a grin over your shoulder. “You knew that when you booked, non-refundable.”

Will only shakes his head, but there’s a softness there now, something settling in the lines around his eyes. He reaches for your bag again without comment, knuckles brushing yours as you walk through the arched entryway into the cool hush of the hotel lobby.

The clerk at the front desk greets you with a too-bright smile, but Will handles the check-in, passport ready, reservation number memorised, a pen already uncapped before she slides the form across the counter. She’d barely had time to finish her practiced welcome before Will is sliding the paperwork back across the counter, already signed. 

She flips through the documents with a nod of approval, tapping something into her screen with the precision of a seasoned concierge. “You’re in room 304,” she says warm. “Top floor, corner unit. Sea view and balcony, as requested.”

Will gives a small, satisfied nod. Of course, he requested it.

She slides two sleek, sand-colored key cards toward you. “Breakfast is served from seven to ten each morning in the veranda lounge—just past the lemon grove. You also have two complimentary spa treatments to use during your stay, and access to our private beach club, a short walk down the cliff path. You’ll find towels and umbrellas already set up by the lifeguard.”

You glance at Will. “Did you book the massages already?”

He raises a brow. “I figured I’d let you pick the day. Thoughtful, right?”

You stifle a grin, pocketing your key. “Look at you. Relaxed and democratic.”

Giulia smiles politely, clearly used to couples like you, mild bickering worn soft with familiarity. “If you’d like to schedule anything—dinners, boat tours, vineyard visits—just let me know. Or we can arrange it through the room phone.”

Will nod again, already tucking the map she offers into his folder of printouts. “Thank you,” he says, that clipped politeness that almost sounds like a compliment. “We’ll get settled.”

She beams. “Buona vacanza.”

You follow Will across the terracotta tiles and into the lift, the old metal grate clanking shut behind you. It groans to life, the glass back offering a slow, rising glimpse of the courtyard below. The scent of citrus and salt intensifies the higher you go, riding the shaft of warm air that sneaks through the cracks.

On the third floor, the hallway is hushed and cool, with thick stone walls and arching ceilings that echo faintly underfoot. Will leads the way, key card already in hand, stopping in front of a carved wooden door with a brass number plate.

The room greets you with a rush of light and quiet. Vaulted ceilings curve overhead, white and seamless like the inside of a shell. Muslin curtains framing the tall French doors, stirred by a breeze that smells of rosemary, sand, and sun-warmed salt. The tiled floor is cool underfoot, handmade and uneven, the colour of dried clay. Two chairs, wicker-framed and sun-bleached, are set beside a low table bearing a ceramic bowl of fresh figs. A ceiling fan spins lazily above the bed, which is wide and dressed in crisp white linen.

But it’s the view that stops you. You step out onto the balcony, elbows resting on the warm stone balustrade. Below, the Tyrrhenian Sea stretches vast and glittering, fractured into sapphire and teal by the light. A rocky cove curves away to the right, ringed with pale sand and lapped by small waves. Farther down the hill, narrow switchback roads wind through bursts of oleander and cypress trees, their shadows sharp against the earth.

Inside, you hear the faint click of zips, the rustle of folded cotton. When you turn, Will is methodically unpacking your bags with the same care he applies to boarding passes and security bins. He’s already tucked your shoes under the bench by the door, rolled your shirts into neat cylinders, and zipped your toiletries into the bathroom caddy without a word.

He crosses the room to the wardrobe, sliding open a painted door to reveal a built-in safe. Without prompting, he gathers your passports, wallet, spare cash, and the extra travel card—each one stacked precisely in his palm—and locks them away. He glances back at you, not for approval, but in quiet confirmation. Of course, he’d remember. You didn’t even ask.

Then, from the depths of his own case, a toothbrush, a razor placed beside a contact lens case, a bottle of hand sanitiser fitted snugly against his cologne. He smooths a wrinkle from the bedspread with the side of his hand, then pauses—almost sheepishly—and pulls out a battered box of Yorkshire Gold.

He sets it on the night stand beside a single Toblerone. “For emergencies,” he mutters, not quite meeting your eye.

You smile, fingers brushing the box. “You packed the good stuff.”

“I always do.” He says it too casually, but his ears flush faintly pink.

You don’t hover. He’s in his rhythm now, methodical and focused, and you know better than to disrupt the quiet ritual of his unpacking. Instead, you drift to the balcony, the muslin curtain brushing against your legs as you slip outside.

The sun is higher now, gilding the sea in bright ribbons that shimmer as far as you can see. You rest your forearms on the warm stone balustrade, your shirt tugs up your back in the breeze. Below, the cove curves gently into the shoreline, its sand pale and untouched, waves folding in soft and deliberate.

You let your thoughts slow. The only sound is the hush of the surf and the occasional chirp of birds darting through the trees.

Then, quiet footsteps behind you, and the subtle shift of weight as Will steps in close. His arms wrap around your waist without a word, slow and certain, palms splayed over your stomach. He leans into you, resting some of his weight against your back like he needs the contact just as much as you do.

You feel his breath first, warm against your skin, and then the press of his mouth at the crook of your neck, a kiss. Only then does he let his chin settle on your shoulder, his stubble brushing lightly against your collarbone.

“Low tide at six,” he murmurs, voice low near your ear. He nods toward the cove below. “We could look for sea glass.”

A pause. Then, softer, “If you want.”

You smile, the words sinking in—if you want. Coming from Will, it feels like a small surrender. He doesn’t do unstructured. He plans everything down to the minute, has probably had this whole trip mapped out since before your passports were renewed. And still, he offered.

Your fingers slide over his at your waist, giving a small squeeze. “Hmm,” you murmur, leaning back into him. “Yeah, I want to. But we can do it later. I know you’ve got every second of this trip scheduled, down to our bathroom breaks.”

Will snorts, lips brushing your shoulder. “Not every second,” he grumbles, mock-offended. “It’s a perfectly reasonable balance of cultural immersion and rest.”

You laugh. “So, overbooked with a nap squeezed in.”

He hums noncommittally. “Wednesday morning,” he says. “The museum doesn’t open till ten, and the tide’s low around seven. We’ll go then. Beat the sun.”

You glance over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You already worked it in?”

He tries to play it off with a shrug, but the corners of his mouth betray him. “I might’ve pencilled in a sea glass window. Just in case you said yes.”

You grin. “God, you’re such a nerd.”

He presses another kiss just below your ear. “And yet, here you are.” Giving you one last kiss, he walked into the room, rummaged around and called your name. Turning around, he hands you a bottle of sunscreen without a word.

You look at the label. It’s your brand, the kind with the matte finish that doesn’t make you feel like a buttered croissant. You nod in approval and utter a thank you and then squeeze some into your palm.

“I’m not letting you get sunburnt on day one,” he mutters, watching you apply it like you might cut corners. “And don’t even think about wearing that black top.”

“It’s linen,” you protest.

“It’s black linen. You’ll bake like a pastry. Wear the one with the buttons. The white one.”

You squint at him. “Did you plan my clothes too?”

Will doesn’t answer, but when you glance over, the white top is already laid out, neatly smoothed and folded. You sigh, smile despite yourself, and duck into the bathroom to change. When you come out, dressed and lotioned to his standards, he gives you a quick once-over and nods. “Perfect. Hat’s in your tote. Water bottle’s full. Let’s go.”

Nuraghe stones bake under a merciless sun, their ancient honeycombs casting knife-edge shadows across the dry grass. The heat clings to everything rocks, sandals, the nape of your neck, rising in ripples from the gravel path. Will’s voice hums beside you, reading the faded information plaque out loud.

“Bronze Age. Dry-stone masonry. Strategic sight lines for tribal warfare.” He squints at the last line, nose wrinkling. “Bit reductive, isn’t it? Reducing three millennia of culture to ‘they were good at spotting enemies’.”

You drift away from his voice, lured by the woeful maaah of a goat picking its way down the scrub-choked slope. It’s a shaggy, sun-bleached thing, all knobby knees nibbling at a thorn bush without a thought behind its eyes. You raise your camera, framing its ragged silhouette against the impossible blue of the sea. The shutter clicks—

“Oi.”

Gravel crunches in front of you. Will’s hand closes around your elbow, thumb skating over the sensitive skin of your inner arm. “Stay close,” he murmurs, pulling you back from the crumbling edge. His palm is warm and slightly tacky with sunscreen. “The path’s unstable.”

You glance at the fissured stones, then up at him. “What, no helmet? Safety harness?”

“No helmet.” His mouth twitches, fighting a smile. “But only because you’d refuse to wear it.” He tugs you toward shade. “And before you gloat—I do have a first-aid kit. And—”

“—industrial-strength bandages?” You interrupt, bumping his shoulder.

“Obviously.” He pulls out the sunscreen. “Arms. Now.”

You groan. “Will, I just—”

“You’re meant to re-apply the sunscreen every two hours. Plus, I’m pretty sure that the lotion sweats off on the hike up.” He squirts cool lotion onto his palm.

His touch is methodical. Up your forearm, over your shoulder, down the exposed strip of your spine. You shiver.

“See?” he murmurs, breath warm at your ear. “Quick and easy.”

“Hmm. Debatable.” You lean into his hands.

He huffs, thumb brushing your shoulder blade. “You’re welcome.” His gaze flicks past you to the goat, now perched on a boulder. “Your accomplice is eyeing the ‘unstable path’ sign.”

“He’ll be fine. Braver than you with your bandages.”

“He’s got four legs and a death wish.” Will’s sunscreen-slick hand slides down to lace with yours. “Like someone else I know.”

You squeeze. “Admit it. You’re jealous he’s off the itinerary.”

“Devastated.” He kisses your temple, a quick peck. “Now move. Lemon granita in about an hour. And he’s” a nod at the goat, now nibbling a discarded map, “not on the guest list.”

Two days later, after another morning of ruins, espresso, and Will arguing with the GPS, you both return to the hotel sun-drenched and dust-covered. The lemon trees in the courtyard sag heavier than before, their scent headier in the late afternoon warmth. A breeze stirs the muslin curtains as you enter the room, and Will immediately begins his ritual—shoes lined up, water bottles refilled, receipts sorted.

You peel off your sandals and stretch. “I vote for collapsing.”

Will arches a brow. “You’ll thank me later when we don’t have to guess which bag has what.”

You toss him a grin and wander toward the bathroom. “Fine. But collapsing is still on the agenda.”

By the time you’ve showered, the light outside has turned syrupy gold. The air is thick with the scent of salt and thyme drifting up from the coast. Will’s already changed linen shirt, open over his swim trunks, wristwatch still on, because, of course it is.

“We going somewhere?” you ask, towel-drying your hair.

“Beach. Just below the hotel.” He nods toward the balcony. “It’ll be quiet. Low tide.”

You pause, glancing past the fluttering curtain to the glittering curve of pale sand below. “Was this in the itinerary?”

He shrugs, casual. “Call it unscheduled decompression.”

You dress in your favourite old swimsuit—the black triangle one with fraying ties that’s probably more nostalgia than structurally safe. When you step out, Will’s eyes catch on you, then dart quickly away.

“I thought you packed the white one,” he says without looking.

“I did.” You tug on one of his loose linen shirt. “But this one’s got personality.”

“Mmm. So does a cracked buoy.” But there’s no heat in it. Just the barest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Minutes later, you’re descending the narrow, pine-lined path from the back of the hotel, beach bag slung between you. The sea glows a soft, blinding gold, and the beach is nearly empty—just a couple reading under an umbrella and a dog nosing at driftwood.

Will sets up camp, umbrella at a wind-smart angle, towels laid edge-to-edge with no sand trapped beneath, Kindle powered on to a biography you’ve already teased him about. He settles beneath the tree, long limbs stretching out in the shade.

You drop your bag and tug the shirt over your head. His eyes flick up—pause—then very clearly drop lower, lingering just a beat too long on your chest. You catch the flicker of heat before he yanks his gaze away, suddenly deeply absorbed in the paper bag of grapes you picked up together at the morning market. Crunchy, plump, and green. Your favourite.

“Twice now,” you tease, stepping out of your sandals. “You stared in the hotel room, too.”

Will doesn’t look up. “I did not stare.”

“You did,” you hum, sliding the neoprene shoes onto your feet. “And I didn’t mind then, either.”

"I was being subtle." he huffs, cheeks flushing pink as he pops a grape into his mouth. 

You lean down, brush a kiss to his cheek—then, impulsively, to his lips. "You’re cute when you lie."

His hand catches your wrist as you start to pull back, fingers tightening gently, anchoring you in place. For a beat, neither of you moves—the world narrowing to the press of his palm against your thigh, the salt-sting of breeze on your cheeks. Then he shifts, still seated in the sand, and his free hand slides up to cradle the curve of your hip.

The kiss starts slow. 

A deliberate tilt of his chin, the soft drag of his lower lip against yours—then deepens with a quiet urgency. His mouth coaxes yours open, not with demand, but with a patient, searching heat that melts your spine. Salt and the faint sweetness of grapes linger on his tongue. Your balance wavers, one hand flying to his shoulder, fingers digging into the sun-warmed cotton of his shirt. He smiles against your mouth, a low amused hum vibrating in his throat as he feels you sway.

This is the surrender you teased him about in the past. The way his thumb strokes the hollow behind your knee, the hitch in his breath when you bite his lip. The sea wind whips around you, tangling your hair with his, but beneath it all is the steady thrum of his pulse where your palm rests against his neck. He kisses like he plans—thoroughly, with deadly focus—mapping the seam of your lips, the ridge of your teeth, and the soft gasp you can’t swallow.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. His eyelashes brush your skin as he blinks, thumb drifts across your pulse point once, then falls away.

"Sunscreen first," he says, voice lower now, rougher. He tosses you the tube without looking. "Shoulders. Neck. Don’t skip the back of your knees."

You raise an eyebrow. “Very romantic.”

“I contain multitudes,” he says, smiling, but it’s softer now. Less of a tease, the kiss still clinging between you.

You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest lingers as you apply the sunscreen quickly, then grab your mask and flippers. “Alright, I’m going in.”

“You’ve got about forty-five minutes,” he calls after you, plucking a grape from the bunch. “Before I start filing a missing person’s report with the coast guard.”

“I’ll try to survive,” you say, grabbing your snorkel gear and heading to the waterline.

You don’t look back. The warm grit gives way to damp, packed sand as you reach the water’s edge. Squatting, you yank the neoprene flippers over your heels—awkward, stiff, sealing your feet like a second skin. Next, the goggles: you spit into the lenses, rub the film clear with your thumb (an old diver’s trick your dad taught you), then strap the elastic band over your hair. The snorkel clicks into the mask’s bracket, its mouthpiece faintly tasting of silicone.

“Try not to drown!” Will calls, louder now over the surf’s hiss.

You turn just enough to see him—a silhouette against the towel, knees drawn up, watching. You raise a middle finger, grinning when he barks a laugh.

Beneath the surface, the world softens and blurs into a dreamlike palette of blues and greens. Sunlight filters through the water in flickering shafts, illuminating swaying forests of seagrass. Tiny bubbles rise in lazy trails as you glide over craggy rocks and scattered shells.

Colourful fish dart between the waving fronds — vivid damselfish shimmering like liquid sapphire, silver mullets flickering by in schools, and a curious wrasse that pauses to inspect you before darting away. 

As you explore, your eyes catch delicate shapes resting on the sand—beautiful shells, smooth and unoccupied, their spiral curves and pearly interiors gleaming in the filtered light. Carefully, you scoop a few up, mindful they hold no creatures. You pause over one in particular—ridged pink, iridescent inside, like something out of a dream. With no pouch on hand, you tuck it into the cup of your bikini top, nestled securely against your skin. A little treasure to bring back.

Above, the surface ripples gently, catching the golden afternoon sun. The distant sound of gulls and waves mingles with your own steady breathing, a private escape in the beautiful waters.

Then—a flicker in your peripheral vision. Someone is beside you.

You turn, kicking gently, and a hand waves into your line of sight, fingers splayed in the water. You surface slowly, spitting the mouthpiece free as you push the goggles to your forehead, blinking salt from your lashes that drip down from the goggles.

“Scusa,” a voice calls, not too loud.

A man treads water a few feet away—sun-browned, salt curls plastered to his forehead, grin quick and bright. He nods toward your foot, where your flipper strap has come loose, the heel slipping with each kick.

“Permesso?” he asks, gesturing.

You nod, a little surprised, and float still while he dips briefly beneath the surface. His fingers brush your calf as he secures the buckle, tightening it with practiced ease. The touch is light but assured, the briefest pause before he lets go.

He surfaces again, shaking water from his face. “Va meglio adesso,” he says, then studies you a second longer before switching languages. “You speak English?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Thanks.”

“Thought so,” he replies easily. “Strap was slipping. Dangerous. You’d lose a fin.” His eyes linger just a beat longer, his smile edging into something playful. “Would be a shame to lose you to the current. Beautiful girls make very poor flotation devices.”

You open your mouth to respond—something dry, maybe—but then his gaze lifts over your shoulder. His smile flickers. “Ah.”

You turn slightly, following his line of sight.

Will. Standing ankle-deep at the shoreline, towel slung over one shoulder, hand shading his eyes as he watches. He’s too far to hear anything, but the set of his jaw is familiar. Calm. Not angry—just locked in.

The man clears his throat, his smile easing into something friendlier, more platonic. “Boyfriend?” he asks, with a quick nod toward the beach.

You nod.

“Right,” he says, backing up a stroke. “Lucky guy.” His grin softens. “Be careful, okay? The current tugs harder the farther out you go.”

“Got it. Thanks again.”

He salutes you lazily, then kicks off into the open water without another word.

You float a moment longer, then lift your hand above the surface and flash Will a thumbs-up.

He nods once, slow and satisfied, then turns and walks back toward the pine-shaded patch where your towels wait.

You sink below again, letting the quiet take you. The sea folds around you like silk. You drift over pale sand and swaying grass, the occasional dart of a fish slipping past your fingers. Your eyes scan the seabed, finally catching the curved gleam of something nestled between stones.

A flat, fan-shaped scallop shell, sun-bleached on one side and warm orange on the other, like it’s been kissed by fire. You turn it over in your palm, admiring the delicate ridges and faint lines like fingerprint whorls. It’s beautiful, untouched.

Carefully, you lift it to your chest with a quick glance around, the new shell slips easily into the other cup, the curve of it cool against your skin. No pouch, no problem. You adjust the top slightly and smile to yourself. Will’s going to roll his eyes so hard when you pull these out later.

You turn toward the shore, legs already moving in an easy, practised kick. The water resists gently, like it doesn’t want to let you go. Pale sand slopes upward beneath you, sunlight warping across the seabed in soft golden ripples.

As the water shallows, you slow your strokes and rise to the surface. With both hands, you pull the goggles up from your eyes, pushing them onto your forehead, and then work the snorkel free from your mouth. The quiet hush of the underwater world slips away, replaced by the rhythmic rush of waves and the distant caw of gulls overhead. You hold the gear loosely in one hand, letting seawater drip from your fingertips.

With a small hop, you plant your feet on the sandy bottom. Waves lap gently at your thighs, then knees. You bend to unstrap your flippers one by one, lifting your feet carefully before stepping forward, flippers in hand, making your way to the shore.

Will’s already waiting. He stands just at the water’s edge, towel in hand, bare feet half-buried in warm sand. His curls are messier now, salt-stiff and wind-tossed, and he squints slightly in the sun as he watches you approach.

“Towel?” he offers, already unfolding it.

“Perfect,” you say, letting him drape it over your shoulders. It’s sun-warmed and smells faintly of his sunscreen.

As you adjust the towel around you, a small shiver runs through you. The breeze hits your damp skin, raising goosebumps across your arms.

Will notices. “Cold?” he asks, already reaching for the snorkel gear in your hands.

You nod, and he gently takes the flippers, goggles, and snorkel from you. “I’ll carry these. You focus on not freezing. I can always provide emergency cuddles on the beach.”

You huff a laugh, tugging the towel tighter. “That might actually be necessary.”

He tugs the corners snug again, then leans back a little to study you. “How was it?”

You smile, heart still thudding softly in your chest. “Peaceful. Gorgeous. There’s this whole underwater meadow out there. Grass swaying like it’s dancing.”

He arches a brow. “Any wild sea creatures I need to go interrogate?”

“Just one.” You nudge him lightly with your shoulder. “Fixed my flipper and tried flirting while you were giving your best death glare from the shore.”

His mouth twitches. “Wasn’t glaring.”

“Hmm. You scared him off just fine.”

“Good.” He bends to kiss your temple, a hand resting low on your back. “Don’t want to share you with charmers and rogue currents.”

You glance down at your chest and pat it lightly. “Well, I did find a few treasures.”

Will’s brows lift. “Oh?”

You smirk. “You’ll see later. Not beach-appropriate to reveal them now.”

He groans, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You are a menace.”

“A charming one,” you say, bumping him again as you both begin the short walk back toward your spot beneath the pines, his arm steady around you, towel and gear in tow.

[buckyalpine]

Request 👉🏼👈🏼 ? Black widow!reader and winter soldier!Bucky! He was her teacher in the red room, where they eventually fell in love and started a secret relationship, until Hydra and Dreykov found out and separated them. Fast forward several years, Bucky’s out of recovery, reunited with Steve, and living a better life when Tony brings in a new team member. And everyone’s excited but Bucky’s on edge and kinda wary until he learns who it is.

It’s his lil widow, the love of his life, his soulmate. the one Hydra and the red room stole from him, the girl he kept dreaming about no matter how many times his handlers tried to wipe his memories. Just complete fluffy, smutty, love sick shit with him being a massive simp for his deadly girl. maybe building a family, getting married, drabbles of him drooling over her skills or her in the widow suit, like oh yea, I taught her that. I can imagine him being so overly protective, constantly holding her close to his chest because she was stolen away from him once, he won’t survive if that happens again.

YESSSSS God this is so cute and smutty and angsty and FLUFFY it makes my chest itch in the best way. Pls ignore what google translate may have botched. Bucky is the cutest, horny, most deadly simp here, so proud of his girl, absolutely yes.

"ne proyavlyay miloserdiya, soldat" [Show no mercy, soldier], Dreykov hissed, letting the soldier enter the red room with a single widow standing before him, not an ounce of fear in her eyes. The soldier grunted, hitting the button that locked the door that kept her from escaping before lunging forward, testing her agility after personally training her himself.

She leapt over him with ease, bracing her hands on his wide shoulders and landing swiftly behind him and swiping her leg under him to knock him to the floor, straddling him immediately after. He grasped her hands in his, rolling over till she was pinned under his large mass with her wrists held together above her head in his metal hand.

"You've learned well kotenok" His voice was husky behind the mask, blue eyes sparkling while she huffed, rolling her eyes.

"Nespravedlivo, kogda ty takoy bol'shoy, soldat" [Not fair when you're so large, soldier]. She gasped feeling him harden on top of her, his rough uniform doing nothing to hide what he was feeling for her, slotted between her thighs.

"Nespravedlivo, kogda ty takoy krasivyy, kotonok" [Not fair when you're so pretty, kitten]. He climbed off her, allowing her to get into position before attacking again, relentlessly throwing punches and blocking them till she nearly collapsed. They retreated to stand at attention at the sound of the doors hissing open, indicating training was over. The soldier grunted a nod as Dreykov walked in, assessing the widow, a sinister smile plastered on his face seeing both of his assets worn but still at their strongest.

He sent them off to their cells, confident that the fear he'd instilled in his captives would be enough to ensure they stayed in line, not realizing his punishments would only go so far.

It wasn't enough to stop the charming young man from Brooklyn who still lived in his most feared asset.

"Did I hurt you baby" The soldier whispered, kissing her bruised knuckles softly after sneaking into her cell, pulling her into his arms.

"You could never" She smiled, melting into his embrace. She never intended on falling in love with the soldier but here she was, feeling his gentle hands wander, leaning up to kiss his soft, pink lips. They were playing a dangerous game but it was to stop now.

He loved her.

She loved him.

-

"Wipe him" The hydra agent ordered while the soldier gripped onto the chair, gritting his teeth while sharp burning spread through his body, frying his brain. The widow dug her nails into her palms, resolve slowly crumbling seeing the love of her life tortured, unable to hold back anymore.

"Stop!" She finally broke, unable to watch any longer, gasping at the sinister smile Dreykov gave her, ordering his men to grab her before increasing the voltage.

"My, my, does it hurt you when we hurt him" Dreykov sneered, turning up the dial, Bucky's screams tearing her apart on the inside.

"Don't-AH-JAMES" A hydra soldier gripped her hair, yanking her back before she could go to him, shackles binding her hands together, dragging her away.

"kotenok" [kitten] The soldier sadly whispered, unheard by her, her kicking and screaming form blurry from his unshed tears. He screamed in pain as another shock ripped through his veins before the world went black.

He never saw her again.

-

Bucky gasped, sucking in a deep breath of air, his chest heaving from the dream he'd just had, sweat covering his chest, dripping from his forehead.

It was the same thing almost every night.

His mind replaying the same thing over and over again; training with her in the red room, the way she felt under him, the way he'd cuddle and make love to her afterwards without a soul knowing. He didn't plan on falling for the woman he had to train to be a killer but he didn't stand a chance the day she'd knocked him down with a knife pressed to his neck seconds later. He could have married her then and there.

He slumped back against his pillow, running a hand over his face, groaning in frustration.

In the several years, he'd slowly managed to get his life back together. He was apart of the team and living at the compound with Steve and the others. He was no longer controlled by trigger words, he had been forgiven by the government, he was starting to recover from all the trauma he'd endured. His nightmares were less frequent, slowly learning to forgive himself for the things he'd been forced to do under Hydras control.

The only thing he never got over was her.

She still lived in his dreams. Still owned his heart. That was his girl and she was torn away by the very people that had taken everything else from him too. No amount of wiping or torture took her away. His handler tried his hardest, shocking him till his nose bled and his veins nearly burnt to bits but her name would fall from his lips as he lay nearly unconscious.

His sweet widow.

Bucky glanced at the faint light starting to stream through the curtains, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed to get up instead of attempting to sleep for 5 more minutes. He threw on a hoodie and some joggers, making his way to the gym to punch his feelings away as usual. He didn't stop till his knuckles split, ignoring the sting, instead thinking about how he'd kiss her soft hands after he'd train her, bandaging them up when no one was looking.

The hot water from the shower did little to ease the tension in his muscles as he made his way to the kitchen next, plopping onto a stool with a cup of coffee. He was just about to try and relax with his coffee until Steve popped his head in with a grin.

"There you are! Tony was looking for you, we're all heading up now!" Bucky frowned in confusion while Steve grabbed his own mug, filling his cup.

"Why are we having a meeting" Bucky questioned, not willing to get up from his seat, his mind still preoccupied.

"He told you he scouted someone to join the team"

"I remember Tony going on about some new member" Bucky mumbled, not in the mood to meet new people, his anxiety only growing further. "That's today?"

Steve nodded, finishing up the last of his coffee while the brunette stayed glued to the stool.

"Buck, you coming?" Steve turned back to see a frowning Bucky, reluctantly trudging behind the captain while the others excitedly also made their way upstairs to the conference area.

"I heard Tony saying the new agent is scary as shit. Apparently he got his ass handed to him when he tried to test her and he was wearing his suit" Sam snorted while Nat smiled with excitement.

"Finally someone worth sparring with" The redhead nudged him while he shook his head.

"I'm serious! She's deadly deadly. I looked over her file, she's killed more people than you and Clint combined and half of those were hand to hand combat"

"What was the other half"

"Sniper. Like Barnes" Sam nodded to Bucky who was still disconnected from the others, his knee bouncing impatiently.

"We're lucky she's on our side" Steve mused, taking a glance of the file that sat on the table. There was no name or picture to go with it but it had a skillset record nearly put his to shame. "Jesus"

"You good?" Sam whispered to Bucky, noticing he was more closed off than usual, getting a tightlipped grimace like smile in return. Steve sat near the front, straightening himself up while the rest quietened down, hearing the sound of Tony speaking to someone as they approached the room. The billionaire opened the door, letting in the new team member first before entering himself with a large smile on his face.

"Everyone, this is-

"Y/n?" Bucky gasped, shoot up from his seat before Tony could finish, the other sharing confused glances between each other, watching the new team member and Bucky freeze.

"Wait, Barnes, you know-

"Malyshka, eto pravda ty?" [Babygirl, is it really you?] Bucky gasped, his heart hammering against his chest, tears already threatening to spill out. "kotenok, skazhi mne, pozhaluysta, chto eto ty" [kitten, please tell me its you]

"Hold up, he can still speak Russian?" Sam hissed to Steve who hadn't moved, mouth gaping, eyes wide.

"James!" You darted across the room to meet Bucky half way, his strong arms catching and lifting you up with ease as your legs wrapped tightly around his waist. "moy soldat. YA zdes', moy malysh" [my soldier. I'm here my babyboy]

"It's really you" He whispered against your hair, breathing in your soft scent, eyes squeezed shut with tears streaming down his face, "My baby" He cradled you tightly, refusing to set you down while you buried your face into the crook of his neck, drowning out the rest of the world. After you were torn apart from him, you had been locked up in an isolated cell, only let out for select missions Dreykov send you on. You wanted to find your soldier, your James, but you never did with Hydra keeping him under their control.

Now you finally had him again.

"Ahem, as I was saying- This is y/n" Tony addressed the rest of the team, just as surprised as the rest of them with all eyes on Bucky especially. "She'll be joining us once Barnes puts her down"

"Never" Bucky finally pulled away, still holding onto you, his nose nudging against yours, "M'never putting her down, never, you hear me babygirl?" He pressed his lips onto yours, shamelessly kissing you hard, ignoring the whistles that filled the room, only pulling away for air. You let out a shy giggle as he set you back on your feet, his hand wrapped around your waist.

"I'd continue to introduce her but I think tinman knows her better" Tony snorted, throwing his hands up before taking a seat, all eyes now watching two of you while Bucky blushed, unable to wipe the smile of his face, cupping your face to press another kiss to your lips.

"This is y/n" Bucky finally let you go, taking you to the front of the conference room, now proudly showing you off to the other, "She was a widow with Hyrda, handpicked by Dreykov" Bucky sucked in a breath before continuing, giving your hand a squeeze "I trained her in the red room myself when I was still the winter soldier. That's when I fell in love with her" The last part was a whisper, not missed by the team with how lovesick Bucky looked.

"I'm sorry, you trained her? Jesus, no wonder she's deadly" Sam shook his head, now understanding why your file was so impressive. You were already gifted when you were picked, coupled with the fact that you were trained and conditioned by the soldier himself.

"She's fuckin' deadly, alright" Bucky's voice was nearly breathless, his baby blues intently gazing into your eyes. "You should see her with a knife"

That's when I fell in love with you.

"So what happened with you two" Nat prodded, looking at you two with heart eyes which was a rare sight but her heart melted at how soft Bucky was, struggling to keep his hands to himself. He constantly nuzzled into your neck, his large form practically swallowing you whole as he clung onto you like a child.

"They found out we were together so they took me from him" You gave her a sad smile, feeling Bucky hug you tighter; you could have sworn you heard him whimper. "I tried to find him for years but I couldn't"

"Hydra tried to wipe my memories but it never worked. Couldn't forget her" Bucky kissed the top of your head, not realizing his bestfriend was trying to subtly wipe his eyes.

"I was going to have everyone introduce themselves but I think these two have some catching up to do so let's move this meeting over" Tony clapped his hands while everyone else nodded in agreement, leaving you and Bucky alone for some privacy.

"I missed you so much, you have no idea, I-I tried to find you but I just- I could barely function, I'm sorry doll-" Your lips cut off Bucky's rambling, cupping his scruffy face firmly in your hands.

"You have nothing to be sorry about baby, it's not your fault"

"I-I know you just got here and-sweets I don't want to rush anything but-" Bucky's hand gripped your waist while he tried to compose himself, he didn't want to pressure you into anything. "I need you closer baby"

"Take me, soldat" You whispered, not giving him any room to second guess as he hauled you up in his arms, taking you straight to his room. Clothes were off in an instant between frantic and desperate kisses. Bucky didn't rush a thing as soon as he had you naked in his bed, pulling the sheets over you both, rolling over to cuddle instead.

"This is all I wanted" He whispered against your shoulder, kissing your skin, "To have my girl with me again"

"I love you Jamie" You kissed his bare chest, hitching your leg over his waist, his hard length pressing against your soaked cunt. He could feel his tip weeping feeling your soft body pressed against his, still looking just as beautiful, if not more now, from when he'd first met you.

"Prettiest widow" He growled, his wandering hands becoming less wholesome as they moved to your hips, pulling you to press against his erection harder. You moaned feeling him starting to hump your pussy while innocently kisses down your neck, smirking at how he was both sweet and sinful at the same time, just as before. "kotenok, ty mne nuzhen" [Kitten, I need you]

You remembered all the times he'd snuck into your cell for a few cuddles, which always ended up with his hand slammed over your mouth while he railed you with his cock.

"You feel how hard I am for you baby? Mmph, this is all for you, doll" He bit his lip, eyes locked with yours, rolling on top of you, slotting his wide body between your legs, still rutting his hips. "Can I make love to you baby, please" He sounded desperate, dropping his forehead to press against yours, hands coming to pin you against the bed.

"M'yours Jamie" You nodded, spreading your legs wider, not bothering with having prep you, needing him inside you more than anything else. You gasped feeling his thick cockhead rub through your folds before he breeched your hole, stretching you.

"Soldat!" You moaned, your back arching off the bed, the name rolling of your tongue as it had so many times before, your nails digging into his shoulders as he buried himself to the hilt.

"Take your soldat's cock, kotenok" Bucky growled, only giving you a second to adjust before he started to move with slow, deep strokes. "Lemme make love to my babygirl, ya tak sil'no tebya lyublyu" [I love you so much]

After Bucky had been rescued, he had no reason to speak Russian, letting the others think it'd been wiped away just like the words that controlled him. Around you, it rolled off his tongue with ease, your pussy dripping each time he whispered in your ear. Your eyes rolled back feeling him hit that spongy spot deep in your pussy, crying out with the powerful, deliberate snaps of his hips.

"M'I making you feel good baby?" He asked, kissing you sweetly, alternating between the sweetheart and heartbreaker he was, looking at you with soft puppy eyes while his cock grew harder watching your face twist with pleasure. His jaw was slack, thrusting with purpose, moving his hips to roll and let you feel every inch of him filling you up, "You look gorgeous with my cock in you angel, wish you could see how pretty you are, so beautiful like this"

"Oh god James! P-please-m'so close-dont-don-t stop" Your moans grew more salacious, unable to say much else, eyes shutting out of pleasure feeling his hand coming down to rub your swollen clit.

"I know baby, I know, you need me to rub this pretty button, Remember the first time I touched you there pretty girl? How badly you wanted to scream, how much you squirted all over me? Remember when we first made love? First time I tasted you? Remember how shy you were when I spread your legs open and nursed off that little button. How you turned into a slutty kitten, riding and humping my face after? Know your needy little clit loves it, m'gonna rub you till you're screaming"

"Buckyyy" You whined, your face feeling hot at the memory, remembering his growls from under you, turning around to find him jerking his cock faster while he licked and sucked your pussy, cum already painting his abs from cumming once, working to a second orgasm. He'd sealed his lips around your clit, stuffing his mask in your mouth to keep you from alerting the guards.

"Baby, c'mon open your eyes, look at me" Bucky nipped your jaw, his cold hand coming to grasp your cheeks, blue eyes staring into your soul as you opened your eyes, "Don't you dare close them baby, keep em' open when I'm fuckin' you, shit, m'gonna cum for you doll"

"B-Bucky!" You cried, struggling to hold off any longer, your juices soaked him as you started to clench and squeeze his cock, tears nearly streaming down your face.

"Scream all you want baby, don't have to hide those pretty moans ever again" He fucked you through your orgasm, his own balls getting tighter with each thrust, precum mixing with your arousal, dripping onto the sheets, "Thats-that-s it baby, m'gonna cum so hard for you, fill you up, you're mine doll, you're fuckin' MINE"

Bucky's hand flew to the headboard, pounding you into the mattress, moaning loudly, letting the wood splinter under his grip as he came, pumping you full of his seed.

"FUCK y/n" He gasped, collapsing on you, panting, burying his face into your breasts as he always did, turning into a needy baby as if he didn't rail your soul. You giggled, tracing your hand down his spine making his shiver, whining when you clenched around his sensitive, soft cock.

"My soldat" You whispered, carding your fingers through his hair, letting him latch onto your nipple, needily sucking for comfort. No matter how big, bad and scary he was, he always melted into a puddle for you, closing his eyes at the feeling of your sweet peaked nipple against his tongue.

"Never letting you go again" He whispered before falling asleep on your chest, arms wrapped tightly around you. "ty moya rodstvennaya dusha, malyshka" [you're my soul mate, babygirl]

"YA by proshel cherez vse eto snova tol'ko radi tebya, malysh" [I'd go through it all again just for you baby boy] you whispered, closing your eyes in the safety of his hold, meaning each of your words. You'd go through everything a thousand times over if it meant you'd have your Bucky back in your arms. Bucky sniffled, curling up with you, spending the rest of the day alternating between speaking sweet words and making you moan and cry over his cock until you couldn't move any longer. For the first time, he slept peacefully, not stirring once.

-

Ever since you'd come back, Bucky had turned into the biggest simp, alternating between acting like a menace and a complete lovesick puppy with no in between. It was worse when you were on the field, almost leading to Tony refusing to let you both go on missions at the same time.

"Oh god" Bucky groaned, seeing you step out in your sleek suit, the dark material clinging to your body, weapons strapped along your hips. You threw him a wink before running off to kick ass, his focus solely on you.

"Jesus Christ" He nearly moaned seeing you land a kick to an attacker before throwing you knife across the room, the blade landing perfectly between your targets eyebrows. "Baby, you're sexy"

"For fucks Sake Barnes, did you forget we can all hear you" Tony's exasperated voice crackled through, this not being the first time the soldier was distracted watching you fight. Sam and Steve snickered through the coms while Bucky shameless shrugged, still biting his lip, watching you move with ease.

"Have you seen my girl, Stark" Bucky sassed back, walking over bodies to grab you by your ass, squeezing it and smashing his lips against yours.

"Are you two fucking kissing?!" Tony sighed, hearing the sound of soft moans and smacking, "I'm putting you on a fucking leash, I'm getting you fixed Barnes"

"My naughty soldat" You giggled, pulling away, nipping your boyfriends pouty lip while he shook his head.

"Gonna be the death of me, pretty girl"

"You're both gonna be the death of all of us" Tony deadpanned, unable to understand how there was a man out there that was more horny and flirty than him. "I'm having Barnes neutered, for fucks sake I can see you drooling from over here"

-

Bucky was even worse watching you display your skills, his workout long forgotten while you sparred with Steve.

"Where the fuck did you learn that" Steve groaned while you giggled, holding your hand out to help him up while Bucky watched from the side with a cocky smirk.

"I taught her that" He threw you a wink, not so subtly adjusting his sweats.

"Of course you did" Steve huffed, surprised to find bruises on his body from where you'd hit him. "Jesus punk" He blushed heavily seeing his bestfriends raging hard on, scrambling away from the gym, knowing exactly what would come next.

The loud moans he heard moments later made him shake his head, happy he got out of there unlike the last time he saw the warning signs of a feral Bucky.

Aside from being more in love with you than ever, Bucky was also equally protective over you. He'd hug you with such care, always holding your head to his chest, his large arms covering you from the rest of the world, constantly fearing that even if he had you now, someone would come and take you away.

When he finally asked you to marry him, he paused several times, blinking through tears while down on one knee, your hand wiping his cheek, saying yes before he could even finish. The compound was transformed with flowers, candles with a small intimate wedding in the garden.

Steve and Sam stood by Bucky's side while Nat walked with you, your sweet soon to be husband biting back tears seeing his dream girl in her dress, the life he'd always imagine finally becoming a reality. When Tony pronounced you husband and wife, Bucky didn't stop kissing you till he nearly passed out, not a single dry eye surrounding you as he whisked you up in his arms.

-

Bucky felt a strong wave of emotion watching you flit around the kitchen, making his way over and wrapping his arms from behind, tucking his face into your neck. You blinked, feeling tears wet your skin, pulling away to find your husband sniffling.

"Baby, what's gotten into you" You cooed with concern, wiping away the tears that collected along his lashes, kissing his reddened nose. "Is everything okay?"

"Just-m'scared to lose you again" Bucky whispered, his hand coming to protectively wrap around your growing belly; you weren't showing much yet but he could still feel the little baby bump. "I can't loose you again angel, I can't go through that again"

"It won't happen Jamie" You wrapped your arms around his shoulders while he picked you up, setting you onto the counter before hiding against your neck again, hugging you tightly. "What's wrong baby, what's gotten you so scared"

"Can't believe I got you back. I got to marry my dream girl. We're starting a family, you're giving me a baby, I-it feels unreal. M'scared I'm gonna wake up and you'll-" He bit his lip, shuddering at the very thought, "You'll be gone"

"Baby boy look at me" You held his face again, making him look at you, "Would you ever let anyone take me from you again?"

Bucky looked horrifying, francially shaking his head, he'd burn the world to ashes before he let that happen.

"Never. Never angel, no one is taking you or our baby from me" He stated firmly while you hummed.

"See? I'll be just fine. I have my soldat" You whispered, melting against his chest. "No one can hurt me when I have my soldat"

Bucky finally relaxed, carrying you off to bed, his metal arm protecting your belly as he pulled the covers over you both. No one would ever take his little widow away again.

[starsofang]

CALL OF THE SEA / PART TWELVE

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, heavy topics such as death, blood, and past trauma mentioned masterlist a/n: thank you for all your support while i grow through a difficult time!! i appreciate all of you for being so patient and loving. long chapter for u!! <3

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

Ghost didn’t remember much about his childhood. His mind blocked it out for him. But he did remember the pain and suffering he went through at such a young age.

He didn’t deserve that. Seeing his family, massacred in front of him. The blood mixed with the metallic scent that even now seemed to tinge his nose with a nostalgia that made him sick.

He was only a child, yet that was the day Ghost was born within him.

It was like an awakening. He saw how cruel the world could be through a pure lens and it tainted his vision red. Nothing was ever the same that day, and gradually, Simon was forgotten and Ghost was his new muse.

He could recall the nights he spent alone, digging through waste bins and slumping out on the streets like a dead dog. Stealing bread from shop merchants and having to run, barefooted to avoid getting beaten. Freezing to death on the street corner when winter came around and the pure snow covered the ground in a blanket.

It was scary for a boy his age. Dehumanizing. He didn’t deserve that.

He thought he was lucky when a ship crew came along, parading the streets to offer security. A job, a place to sleep, and meals — it seemed perfect for somebody who had absolutely nothing.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Ghost never saw Simon again after that day. He was lost somewhere at sea, hidden under the roar of waves. Ghost didn’t know where to look for him until soon enough, Simon had disappeared and Ghost replaced him. Graves made sure of that.

A captain, like hell he was. Ghost knew something wasn’t quite right about Graves the moment he met him, yet as a child, he was desperate. Once he was in, it was too late, and the broken pieces of him became completely irreparable.

Graves held a devilish aura about him, one Ghost could practically see radiating around him. Every step he took was one closer to chaos.

No matter the destination, Ghost was held on by a leash with Graves being the handler. The sights Ghost saw, some being from his doing, was something he’d never get back. It was as if reliving that very day where he lost everything.

Living amongst Graves’ crew was worse than living in hell. He would’ve preferred it. To be banished for his sins, to taste the sweet nectar of death, and live his eternity punished. Anything to stray from Graves and his ship.

When he saw the way you looked—the darkness looming over you, the distress in your eyes—he saw himself. And when he saw Graves, he saw the life that was stolen from him.

That red that clouded his lens when he was a child was all he could see. Pure, angry red.

Now, standing in Price’s quarters, that red only grew angrier. This time, for you—for putting you in the same position he’d been stuck in for years.

You didn’t deserve that.

Your mind was a whirlwind of chaos. It was struggling to digest the information given to you. So much at once and you could barely manage to keep yourself together.

Everybody looked sorry for you. Ghost looked enraged. Price was lost. Soap and Gaz were remorseful. It was too much.

You hated that they looked at you like that. You hated when they didn’t look at you like that more. Having them worry, when for the duration of your stay it was like walking on burning rocks, it felt strange.

Their own worry caused yours as well.

“What is that?” you asked. “The mark of death. I— I don’t know what that is. What does that mean?”

You were becoming more frantic. The panic that ensued was growing, and you could tell it bothered Price. He was quick to grasp your shoulders, settling you.

“It’s complicated,” he explained quietly, hushing you. “That man you saw? His name is Phillip Graves. Some call him the Devil of the Seas. He’s a wicked pirate who feeds off of the innocent, their fear. None of us know what he truly is, not even Ghost, but we believe he’s apart of something sinister.”

“What, like he’s sold his soul? Made amends with the Devil? You are talking madness!” you exclaimed, exasperated.

“We are talkin’ truth,” Price corrected. He was as patient as ever, yet still held the firmness of a leader. “He’s that of a reaper. Souls is what he wants. The mark of death is his contract, you may say.”

“But you are not telling me what the mark does,” you cried.

Your head hurt. The world was spinning. You didn’t understand.

“I think it’s quite obvious what the markin’ is, dove,” the Captain said solemnly. “It is only by miracle it hasn’t happened to Ghost yet.”

“So I am to die? Is that it?” You flickered your gaze between each man. Your eyes told a million stories, and each of them were ones of fear and anguish. “I am going to die?”

“No,” Ghost snapped. You looked at him. He seemed as pain as you were, but the anger was taking over logic. “You ain’t dyin’. Not today, not tomorrow. M’not lettin’ it happen.”

“Ghost,” Soap tried, but he was quickly shut down.

“I said no,” he repeated resentfully. “Price, show her the map.”

Price turned to him, stiffening. It seemed he still didn’t quite want to let you know the full truth. Now, you felt it was to protect you rather than leave you out. It was too late for protection.

The Captain silently walked to his desk, pulling open the old drawer with a slam, shaking the table. He pulled out the map you’d seen so long ago, unrolling it and slapping it on the table.

“Come, dove,” he called, and you listened.

The men surrounded the desk with you, staring down at the map. The ink was still the same as it was before—islands crossed out with an X, while one remained circled.

“Suppose it’s time you knew, hm?” he asked, offering the smallest of smiles. You found that you missed his real one. The one he tried to hide when he found a joke of yours humorous.

Your nerves shot up. Your emotions were at an all-time high. You were scared, scared to find out the truth.

“These islands,” he began, tracing his finger along the map to point at the ones with an X, “are all land marked by Graves. Every single one, we went to in search of a medic. The one in the poem, remember?”

The one who heals the ill and poor

shall be the cure to all demise.

You weren’t sure how it linked to you. You’d never met Graves, nor had you met your pirate crew until they took you away. The connection wasn’t there. It didn’t make sense.

“Yes, I remember,” you confirmed quietly. “What does it have to do with me?”

“We searched for a medic from every village, yet when we arrived, they were famished with death, or on the brink of,” he explained. “All of the villages were all succumbin’ to Graves’ mark of death. We think he was attemptin’ to get rid of all villages as much as he could so we wouldn’t be able to find their medics. We don’t know how, but he knows we have the prophecy, and he doesn’t like it.”

“And how do you know the prophecy is related to Graves?” you questioned. “How do you know it relates to me?”

“Ghost got the prophecy a long time ago when he was still on Graves’ ship,” Soap piped in. His hands rested on the table and he leaned over the map, but his eyes bore into yours. “He was searchin’ for answers even then. This is all he got.”

You couldn’t imagine the desperation Ghost must have felt, knowing Graves had him under his despicable spell. Not knowing whether he was going to live or die.

Your heart ached.

“And me?”

The room went silent, as if your words burned a wound in them.

“Your village had the mark, yet nobody had suffered from it,” Gaz said quietly. His eyes were soft when he looked at you with the unmistakable glimmer of pity in them. “We knew you were the one we were lookin’ for.”

“My village was not cursed,” you denied, shaking your head. “There is simply no possibility. We rarely got outsiders unless they were coming to browse the merchants.”

It clicked in your head how quickly it must’ve happened. Graves, visiting your village under the guise of an innocent shopper, gearing his interest towards the various merchants that littered your small streets.

It would’ve been so easy for him. So terribly easy.

Your people died to Price’s crew, but the true evil was the man who gave the pirates reason to ensure a massacre.

“That’s why you did what you did,” you muttered to yourself in disbelief. “You killed them because of him. You killed Mary because of him.”

“The curse would’ve taken over the moment you left,” Gaz explained. “You were the shield protectin’ them without even knowin’. You’re meant to fulfill the prophecy, grantin’ you immunity until we found you.”

All this talk about a prophecy made you want to scream, cry, yell, anything. Why you? Why were you the one chosen, and why did it have to be you?

You wanted your life back. You didn’t want to be apart of this.

Before you knew it, tears welled up in your eyes. They stung, causing you to blink rapidly. You didn’t want to seem weak, but in this moment, you were.

“Dove?” Gaz called out, concerned.

“I don’t want this,” you cried, shaky hands balling into fists. “You—you knew I was apart of this and never told me. You kept me in the dark for this long, you hid me from the truth, and for why?”

“We don’t have all of the information yet, dove, please—” Price began, but you shut him down.

“Bullshit!” you shouted, and he reeled back in surprise. You had been outspoken before, plenty with the Captain especially, but he had never seen you lash out so fiercely. “You took my life away because you assumed I was the one in your ridiculous prophecy on a whim. You took a guess and went with it. I am hardly a proper medic, let alone worthy enough to be that person for you, so why have you chosen me?”

“You must understand, you were the only medic left alive,” Price defended. “We had no choice. We did what we had to do.”

“At my expense,” you argued.

“At all of our expense,” he retorted. “I did not care for your life when we stole it. I did not care for it when you were locked in the brig. I cared for Simon’s.”

You fell silent, whipping your head to look at Ghost. You’d heard Price call him Simon before, by a slip-up, but now he had said it purposely. Ghost simply looked away, arms crossed over his chest.

All that talk before and now, at your aid, he was as quiet as a street mouse.

“Without you, he will die. We do not know when. Graves hasn’t killed him due to the thrill of holdin’ his life in his hands. It’s a toy to him. He can take his life away at any moment, and I would not allow that, even if it meant ruinin’ yours.”

Price’s cheeks were reddened from the frustration and helplessness he was feeling. He was a Captain trying to save his crew’s life, uncaring of yours—in the beginning, at least.

Now, the mere thought of losing both had him kneeling like a pitiful dog to the Devil of the Seas.

“I do not wish to be here,” you murmured, taking a step back. Soap opened his mouth to retort, but you silenced him. “I need to be alone.”

The Captain gave you a sad smile, nodding his head. He was respecting your wishes.

“As you wish,” he agreed, and you made your way out of the suffocating quarters, returning to your shared one with Gaz and Soap.

“Dove,” a voice called out. It was quiet, like it was whispering, yet to you, it sounded loud. You hated its voice.

It was black. Your eyes couldn’t adjust to the light, no matter how much you shifted them to look around.

Your body felt heavy, as if something was weighing on you. Your lungs were tight, and when you opened your mouth for air, nothing came in. You slapped your hands over your throat, clawing at the skin.

Why couldn’t you breathe? You felt like you were drowning. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t take in an ounce of air, and you could feel your lungs beginning to protest.

A cold panic came over you, like an icy wave consuming you in its dangerous waters. You tried to move your legs, but they were stuck. They were too heavy.

All you could do was helplessly paw at your throat, praying to gasp for a breath, praying that the Gods had mercy on you.

“Dove,” it whispered once more. Where had you heard the voice before? You knew it, but your mind was blanking from the lack of oxygen.

“I’ll be seeing you, dove,” it mocked.

Dove. Dove. Dove.

“Dove!”

You shot awake, a sharp gasp invading your lungs. The burning in your chest was harsh, and it was as if you truly hadn’t been breathing.

Coming to, you blinked the groggy confusion away, lifting a hand to wipe at your eyes.

Soap peered down at you, his eyebrows knitted worriedly. His hands were on each side of your shoulders, as if he’d shaken you awake, and when you realized you had been asleep, you only guessed that’s what he was doing.

“I kept callin’ ye but ye weren’t wakin’,” he said wearily. “Are y’alright?”

You glanced around the room, taking it in. Gaz’s bed. The clothes strewn on the floor. The mess on the small desk that you’d never seen occupied.

You were no longer suffocating in darkness. It was a mere dream—no, a nightmare. A terror.

You were safe.

“I don’t know,” you confessed breathily, still catching air.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you recalled the nightmare. You couldn’t remember the voice, not when you were fearing a death that was merely fake, but you knew now.

“Tell me,” Soap urged gently, taking a seat next to you on the bed. You sat up to join him, frowning at the floor. “It’s okay.”

You risked looking up at him, searching his eyes. They were soft whenever they looked at you, and they’d been like that since the beginning. He was always patient, even when you did things that cost him a scolding from Price.

You felt like you could trust him, more than any of them.

“It was that man,” you explained. “Graves. I think he is messing with my head. I dreamt of dying, like… like I was drowning. I couldn’t breathe. The whole time, I could hear his voice, calling me out. Mocking me.”

Soap listened carefully, taking in every one of your words. He cared, that much you could tell, and the situation weighed heavy on him. The worry lines on his face were proof.

Graves was tormenting with your mind, feeding into your fear. He knew you were terrified, and he enjoyed it. The way he mimicked what he told you, whispering it the same as before, it sent chills down your spine and made your blood run cold.

You understood now why Ghost was always a mystery—because he was scared, too. He just hid it better.

“I am scared,” you confessed shakily. “I do not want to die.”

“And ye won’t,” he assured, but you shook your head.

“You do not know that,” you argued. “None of you do. You have not given me a chance at life. I am stuck in this without a choice, and I am the new target. It’s not fair.”

Soap’s expression dropped into one of guilt. His focus shifted away from you, avoiding your eye, before returning back to you.

“It’s not,” he agreed quietly. “We’ve done to ye what Graves did to Ghost. Treatin’ ye like—like burdening scum, like ye don’t matter. I can’t express to ye how sorry I am for everythin’.”

You didn’t want an apology, but you accepted it nonetheless. It was the first anybody had truly apologized for the mess you were thrown into. Maybe it was something you needed without realizing. You felt a sliver of weight lifted.

“I never had a family,” you told him, staring down at your feet that hung over the side of the bed. The shoes Soap surprised you with stared back at you. “The village did not like my values or my lifestyle. It was hard being an outcast there, but it is even harder here.”

“Yer not an outcast.”

Looking back up at him, you found him smiling, a faint sparkle twinkling back at you.

“Not anymore. We thought ye were a little strange in the beginning, though,” he said, the end of his sentence bordering a tease.

You couldn’t stop your own smile from forming. Despite carrying the crushing weight of the world’s worries, as well as growing a headache with every word spoken from each of them ever since your arrival, you found yourself growing more fond over them the longer you lingered.

It’d been a bumpy road, and there were still miles ahead of you, waiting to unravel. But you couldn’t fully convince yourself that there wasn’t a part of you, yearning to belong with them.

“You are all very strange,” you retorted lightly. “I have never met such people as you before.”

“Thank ye.”

“It was not a compliment.”

Soap snorted, shaking his head at the banter. “The Captain is bitin’ tooth and nail in his quarters, thinkin’ he fucked this all up with ye. Never seen him that worried before, but with Graves bein’ around again, I don’t blame him.”

The statement caught you off guard, and you found yourself curious. “He is worried for me?”

Soap eyed you strangely, as if it had been obvious the whole time. “Ach. ‘Course he is. Cap’s got a good heart, even if it doesn’t seem like it.”

“I did not realize he cared for me after everything,” you confessed.

Soap hummed, looking down at his trousers and picking at a loose thread. “We all do.”

You stared at him dumbly, cocking your head in question when he didn’t elaborate. You had become acquainted with them, surely, you lived with them now after all, but you weren’t aware they truly cared.

When Price had told you they’d grown fond of you, you didn’t quite believe it. You assumed it was his way of convincing you to trust him, but it seemed that wasn’t the truth.

The two of you sat in silence, staring anywhere but at each other. The awkwardness grew, and it felt strange to feel that when the relationships had been too uptight even consider having those moments.

You took the time to weigh out your options. The Captain being worried, especially over messing things up with you, had you in a turmoil.

As much as you wanted to deny the path chosen for you unwillingly, you felt an obligation to please them. Yet, not in the way you initially thought.

You didn’t want to let them down.

Maybe you truly were as strange as Soap thought.

“Is he still in there?” you asked Soap. He perked up, nodding his head.

“Aye. He’ll be rottin’ in there before we know it.”

You pursed your lips, facing that inner battle once more before coming to a conclusion. “Would you like to join me, then?”

Soap raised his eyebrows, watching you stand from the bed. You shot him a warm smile, tilting your head at his confusion.

“For?” he asked.

“You all need a medic,” you said, giving a nonchalant shrug. “And I do not wish to die by the hands of a filthy pirate such as Graves. I am in this now, so I suppose I’ll simply have to deal with it, am I correct?”

Soap’s smile slowly grew at your sudden courage, standing up to join you. He reached out for you, and once you became confused, he looped your arm with his, grinning down at you.

“Sure are, dove. I’ll come with ye.”

The Captain looked a mess when you entered his quarters with Soap. Ghost was beside him where Price sat at his desk, the map and prophecy still scattered on the table. The two of them were speaking hushed to one another, yet when the door opened and you stepped in, they went silent.

“She wanted to be alone, Soap,” Price protested, but you quickly shook your head, taking a step closer to the desk.

“It’s alright,” you assured. “I have had time to think.”

Price’s eyebrows raised and he glanced at Gaz for a brief moment before returning to you. “I see,” he hummed, nodding. “I have as well.”

You cocked your head, eyebrows furrowing. He gestured for Ghost and Soap to step out of the room, requesting privacy, and the sudden realization that you would in fact have to speak after your outburst made your nerves to churn.

Ghost gave your shoulder a light squeeze as he walked behind Soap, catching you off guard. When you looked at him, he stared forward, avoiding your gaze.

The door clicked shut as they left, and you stood uncomfortably in place, shifting on the balls of your feet.

“I owe you an apology,” Price began. “A true one. I may be a Captain, and I know in those regards, I come off rather violent. I can be a brute, I will admit, but I am also a man who knows times when he is right and wrong.”

He stood up from his chair, circling around the desk to face you. He leaned against the old wood, crossing his arms and clearing his throat. Upon quick inspection, you saw the faint smoke of his cigar swirling in its ashtray.

“I should not have treated you so unkindly since the beginning. I should have considered how scared you must have been, how alone it must feel,” he continued, eyes drifting off for a moment as if deep in perplexing thought. “I do not apologize for doin’ what I thought was right in that time to save my own, but I do feel sorrow for what transpired in your time bein’ here.”

You couldn’t help but wonder if Ghost had been the reasoning for this. He wasn’t a man of many words, but you knew the respect him and Price had for one another. It was safe to assume he’d speak with him privately regarding everything.

“I’d like to apologize as well,” you began, but Price stood up straight, quick to raise his hands in protest.

“You have nothin’ to apologize for—”

“I am sorry for lashing out the way I did earlier,” you cut off. Price stopped, lips pressing together. His gaze remained stuck on you, now that you had his attention. “It does not excuse what you have done to me, and I see you have realized that. If this is to be my life, I wish for compromise rather than seclusion.”

Price didn’t say anything at first. His eyes darted over your face, taking in your features. He saw the calmness you held compared to when you were last in his quarters.

You didn’t seem defeated, nor did you seem to simply agree for the sake of him and the others. You wanted this for yourself.

“I will grant you that,” he agreed in a hum, nodding once. “I do not wish for you to feel out of place no longer. You have had enough of that, I believe.”

You took in his words, and they made you smile. It was what you wanted to hear—no angry exchanges, no selfish banter. A simple compromise, one you both wanted.

“Graves came to me in a dream,” you told him. His expression soured. “I believe there will be plenty more instances where he will do that. Based off of what you have told me about him, I do not want to prolong his presence longer than I must. So, I’d like to be of help.”

Just as quickly as Price grew tense at the mention of Graves, he calmed down, shoulders relaxing when he realized your implications.

“Soap has not convinced you, yes?” he asked, uncertain. “This is your call. I may have taken you due to my own selfishness, but I give you the choice now. You do not have to be a part of it if you do not want. You are part of us now, but this is not your battle.”

“It is,” you disagreed, though remained a calm composure. For the first time around Price, you felt at ease in the same room. “If I am to be part of your crew, your family, then your battles are my battles. I may not have had a family, but I am certain that’s how it works. Does it not?”

Price stared at you; expression unreadable. It took mere moments for his lips to slowly curl up, granting you one of his rare smiles that seemed to radiate a certain light you’d never seen before. It caused your heart to pick up, though you were unclear as to why.

“That is how it works with us, dove,” he agreed softly. “Your battles are ours. You can count on it.”

“Wonderful,” you cheered with a smile of your own. “Shall we continue what wasn’t finished before, then?”

Price chuckled low under his breath, his amusement growing the longer you stuck around. He nodded, tapping his desk and calling you to it.

“Come on, dove.”

[embeanwrites]

Zima and his Handler (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

A/N: I think this is the longest one-shot I have ever written, and I wrote it like a person possessed. I haven’t written for Bucky since I was 13 so I hope I still got it.

No use of y/n or reader, the reader is a honeypot (prostitute) for Hydra.

No descriptions of rape but heavily implied. No description of suicide, but suicide idealation implied.

This story follows when they meet during Hydra, till after the events of Falcon and Winter Soldier in short spurts from Bucky's point of view.

Word Count: 7.9k

The Winter Soldier had various handlers that Hydra used with him. It’s not fair to say that any of them were his “favorite”. Some were crueler than others, but it was always a painful scale with very little rest or sometimes understanding why he was doing what he was doing. There was no growing use to his situation.

He learned early on that questions got him nothing but pain, and it wasn’t worth questioning the new world around him. He knew much more time must have passed since he first got his metal arm, but he was in no place even to begin to question it. The world was changing, and the technology was different than he had ever been aware of, but he never stayed unfrozen for long enough to decipher anything of value, nor did Hydra seem to think it was valuable to clue him in.

His handlers seemed to change with the times as well. Sometimes, he was used as an assassin, sometimes a bodyguard, sometimes something worse he’d immediately block out of his mind.

However, when it came to his handlers, there was one thing that he was painfully aware of constantly. It was the use of his trigger words, constantly echoing around him and forcing him to do whatever the handler had in mind, regardless if it was for the mission or not. There were more times than not he’d be forced into situations he knew deep down weren’t part of the missions, and parts of him would be used without his consent, but he had no say in any behavior of his own.

Except for one handler. It was rare the Winter Soldier was assigned to her, though, her missions required him to simply be an attack dog, on stand by protecting her while she completed her own missions that involved going to a back room. He would stand and wait, and in the morning, the two would go back to the base. He would never say anything to anyone, but near the beginning of their time together, he felt like he was wasted on these missions; any soldier could do what he was doing. But the more time they had together, the more he was thankful for the break and time with her.

The Winter Soldier found himself surprised during their first assignment together. At no point did his trigger words slip from her mouth. She looked at him with not even the expectation that he would do what he was told; she just…looked at him, and he listened.

It started off small. It became increasingly clear to her that he wasn’t going to talk unprompted, and even prompted, he’d rather hold his tongue than not. He’d rather not risk some form of torture from Hydra for saying something out of turn, but she seemed to have no problem risking it.

“Do you prefer Soldat or Zima?” She asked him one day as he drove them to their mission location. It had been hours of silence in the simple black car as he followed the map on a tiny electric screen. Looking at the map, the Winter Soldier had learned it would be at least another hour before they arrived. She allowed the question to sit between the two of them, but when it became increasingly clear he wasn’t going to answer, she followed up. “I don’t mind calling you something else if there is something you’d rather, but you have to tell me. Winter Soldier seems so long, and there’s quite a few of you, but only one you. If that makes sense.”

The Winter Soldier felt his hands tense around the steering wheel, mouth tense behind his mask. Something inside him swirled at the idea of her working with other super soldiers like him. It was one thing picturing a regular soldier, it was another to picture one of the many he would fight for training.

“I barely remember what I was named before I was this for Hydra. Do you remember yours?” She asked, receiving more silence from him. Finally, after a long stretch of silence, she seemed to let it drop. They arrived at what seemed to be another hotel. She sat and waited for him to come around and open her door. As they walked through the building, he slowly dropped further and further back from her, still close enough to keep an eye on her, but far enough that she could do her job without him intimidating the target too much.

Her words did, however, give him something to ponder. He didn’t know much about her, but he knew that the individuals who did the job she did rarely were mindwiped or tortured, it wasn’t cost effective like it was to do for the Winter Soldiers. As he moved silently behind her, he wondered where she came from, if she knew anything from her past, if she had been frozen through time like him, and if she was awoken to a jarring sensation of knowing time had passed on without you.

Based on what he saw from her, he didn’t think she was frozen, and she certainly didn’t have much training in self-defense. She also seemed comfortable with the technology they were around, confidently typing in the address on the small screen for him when he seemed to struggle with something that never made sense to him. He wondered if she had a family looking for her or if they thought of her as dead like him.

He knew these thoughts were traitorous, and if anyone knew he was having them, he would be lucky to walk away with no permanent injuries. If they found out, they would stop assigning them together, and they might even do something worse to her.

Dragging himself out of his thoughts, he watched her whisper something in the mark’s ear before letting out a giggle. She grabbed the man’s hand, and with a wolfish smile, she pulled him towards the rooms. The Winter Soldier watched as she spared him almost a second of eye contact. He nodded and slowly followed them, ready to stand post at the door until morning.

She would come out in the morning, slowly closing the door behind her. The two would make eye contact, and for a small moment, he could read guilt across her features as she handed him a small black piece of plastic that she had on a previous mission. She explained to him that it was something called a USB drive. Then she would take a deep breath, and he would lead the two back to the car.

He also learned that rarely would she pose her questions on the ride back to Hydra. Opting for a silent ride.

___________________________________________________________

If he had to guess, he would say it was roughly every 3 weeks or so he would accompany her on similar missions. Every time it was a different hotel, a different man, and different information the two would return with.

Hydra seemed to care little about how she would return and cared very little about what happened on the mission outside of the two coming back on time and with the promised information.

Some weeks when there seemed to be more time between their missions, the Winter Soldier would find himself anxious about her. He’d wonder if she was safe, he wondered if other soldiers were accompanying her on her missions and if they were as good at looking after her as he was. Did they answer her questions? Did she try to talk and connect with them like she did him? If he never answered her questions, would she keep asking, or would she eventually give up? Leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He allowed himself in his darkest moments to think that just maybe, for some strange reason, it was just him that she asked questions to, that she wondered about. That she was only interested in him and wanted to get to know just him. But it never took much conditioning for him to leave those thoughts behind, as pleasant as they seemed.

___________________________________________________________

He found himself in his usual spot near the end of their missions, standing still and silent outside of a room. Trying not to listen while she did her job for Hydra. He began wondering how many times she had done this type of mission as he stood outside another hotel room. If his memory served him right, which it rarely did anymore, this had to have been at least the 5th time they had done this.

He had grown used to it, and in a strange way, it was nice to visit a place where he wasn’t expected to kill anyone, just keep her safe and make sure she completed her mission. There was silence after her mission was complete, silence that the Winter Soldier found himself cherishing

“No!” Her scream ringed out as the Winter Soldier stood tense outside the hotel room. He had learned that some of the men she was with played rougher than others, and he had been told more than once by Hydra that her saying no didn’t mean anything.

“Please, no!” Her voice rang out again, he could hear shuffling in the room, a loud thump, a cry. His hands tensed at his side. He kept telling himself that this is just the game she is forced to play. This is her mission; maybe they decided beforehand this is some sort of roleplay the target was into, and she was simply playing a role. He had no right to listen in outside of making sure she completes her mission. He is just her bodyguard. She has a mission she must complete for the good of Hydra.

He is not supposed to interfere.

He is not allowed to interfere.

He is not permitted-

“Soldat!” Her voice is all it took.

It felt like a blink later. The Winter Soldier found himself standing in the room, gun in his hand, a dead body on the floor holding a knife that he had clearly used on her, and her crying in the bed with a long cut running down her bare chest, he took one glance to know that the cut would not kill her but had to hurt like hell. Blood was dripping down her body, staining the white bedding. She seemed barely aware that she was naked or bleeding everywhere.

“He…I’m so sorry. Winter Soldier. Please, I'm so sorry.” She cried. He stood still, watching the body bleed out, anything to not look at her body. He reached down and grabbed her undergarments from the ground. Without looking at her, he held them out. He listened to her sniffle before grabbing them. It felt like hours watching the dead body before her voice rang out again. “What are we going to do? Hydra will punish us.”

He found himself circling this idea, that they would punish her alongside him. All she did was cry, and he was the one who killed the target. He will be lucky if he sees her ever again. At that thought, he found himself spiraling. How could he ever think himself lucky to go on a mission? And why was she so sure she would be punished for his actions? This could not stand. The Winter Soldier couldn’t let this be the last time he protected her, for what if this happened again? Would the other soldiers do what needs to be done to protect her?

“What did we need?” His voice sounds unused even to his ears, he realizes it must have been days since he’s said anything. He sees her out of the corner of his eye, still in nothing but her undergarments, looking at him like he’s just done the craziest thing. A small voice in the back of his head reminds him that this might be the first time she’s heard his voice.

“I…I was supposed to steal his phone. It’s black and plastic; it looks almost like a brick but thinner, if that makes sense.” The Winter Soldier nodded, thankful for her description of the phone, and began looking through the discarded clothes; it didn’t take long for him to hold up a black square object. “That’s it, yes, but what if Hydra knows we killed him?”

There’s that word again, he thinks. We. She thinks of them as a partner in this, as if she held the gun.

“People die.” He answered simply with a shrug as he began handing her more of her clothes. She takes them and slowly gets dressed.

“People die of a heart attack! Winter Soldier, we shot him in the head.”

“Not we.” He finally finds himself saying.

“If I hadn't called for you, he would still be alive. Yes, we.” The Winter Soldier can’t deny her logic as much as he wants to. What he truly wants to tell her is that it is just him because she has never said his trigger words. That he pulled the trigger at all instead of standing outside the door and waiting for the man to be done, but he couldn’t. “Get dressed and get your stuff. I’ll take care of the body.” With that, she seems resigned to whatever comes next.

___________________________________________________________

The car ride is silent as normal. He catches her a few times out of the corner of his eye, rubbing where the wound is, her thick clothing hiding if it was still bleeding. Hydra would be unhappy that she’s been damaged, but they would take care of the wound easily. For a moment, he wondered if this would be the first time she’d return with a wound like this and if they would ask her questions about it or if they’d accept it as a part of her role. Would she be able to play it off correctly?

Though part of him feels responsible for her state. She didn’t even complete the mission the way she normally does, and she’s acting as if she did, being silent and almost as if she’s mourning something.

“We won’t tell.” He finds himself saying before he can stop himself. Almost immediately, her eyes are on him, wide and confused. He spares her a glance, hoping it puts her at ease. It doesn’t seem to work; if anything, she seems more wound up.

“They’ll kill me if they find out we lied.” He knows she’s right. If Hydra finds out they failed a mission and killed a target, she will be lucky to survive it, and he’ll be lucky to survive another punishment.

“We’re not lying, we’re just not telling.” He finally decides. Hydra will not ask the two point blank if the target is alive; all they care about is if they got the information they were promised.

“Are you sure, Winter Soldier?” She asked softly, aware of this slippery slope the two were staring at. If they start lying now, where will it stop? What will it get them? Surely there’s no happiness, and this life has already been so punishing, are they really willing to open themselves up to more?

“You can call me Zima. Soldat if you’re in trouble.” He says instead of a real answer, hoping she’ll understand what he’s saying. What he’s trying to give her. She continues to look at him, expression not changing.

“Okay, Zima. It stays between us.” She agrees, and he finds himself desperate to keep it between the two of them.

___________________________________________________________

Their next collection of missions remained similar. His eyes stay locked on her, his ears listen for her calling for him if she’s in trouble. She never calls for him now, but on the ride, he is always blessed with at least one question for him.

Most of the time, he remains silent or shrugs. It’s rare she’ll ask a question that he genuinely has an answer to.

Sometimes, he finds himself wishing he had the answer, just to see the excitement on her face when he answers her.

Zima, do you remember where you’re from?

How did you lose your arm, Zima?

Did you have a big family or a small family before this, Zima?

Nothing would swirl of his identity before he was the Winter Soldier. Sometimes, there would be glimpses in his few hours of sleep, but he’d lose any real connection by the time he was awake. It was on their fourth mission since killing the target that he was finally asked a question he could answer.

“Do you have a favorite food?” Her voice was small next to him, he fought the urge to shrug his shoulders. This was a simple question, surely one he could answer even if he wasn’t 100% sure his answer was even true. He could name one of the few foods Hydra fed them, but that didn’t feel genuine.

“I…I think I like coney dogs.” He finally answers with as much confidence as he can muster, still not really sure what the taste is on his tongue and why he seems to remember it, but he knew it was something he must have enjoyed prior to Hydra, he just wished he could remember more to give her.

“What’s a coney dog?” She asked with a giggle. The Winter Soldier feels as if he’s been struck by lightning with that sound. He had never heard her genuinely happy, and even though it was so small, he felt electric that he was trusted with that sound. He wanted to sit in this car forever just being able to answer her questions. He wanted to bottle up that sound and save it to listen to before missions, when they’re apart, to have something to hold on to, something that Hydra cannot take from him.

“I don’t remember, but I think I used to like them.” He finally answered. She hummed and looked forward in the car.

“I hope one day you get to have another one.” She finally answered after a long pause as they got closer to the hotel. He fought with his own internal monologue, desperate to say something else to keep her laughing and talking, but he had nothing. Just the hope that on the next car ride, he’d be able to answer her next question for her, and he’d be able to hear her laugh once more.

___________________________________________________________

He’s sure it’s been months since he’s seen her. Maybe longer. It’s become even more impossible for him to get time straight; the more he is frozen and wiped, the more confused he finds himself becoming. Every time he sees her, she is not aged, but he knows she’s not frozen. Are they freezing him for just a few weeks at a time? Why? Why are they bothering to freeze him when he can do missions, he can train, and more importantly, he can fight between missions?

Since meeting her, he has found himself asking more and more questions, always keeping them inside, yet they were still bubbling around him, now more than ever. It makes him want her. He finds himself needing her. He has become almost desperate for her but hides it within himself. He needed to tell her about what had been happening. Maybe she can make sense of the stories he’s been hearing.

He knows there is no way he will be assigned to a mission with her right now. Not while his main objective remains to kill Captain America with Pierce breathing down his neck for a successful outcome, but he needs her to know what’s happening, and before he can fully understand his actions, he once again lies in order to protect her.

He is silent as he walks through the quarters she is kept. He had swiped the key to her room off a guard almost a full day ago, waiting to see if he got caught with it between training and mission briefs. He’d rather just get him in trouble instead of the both of them if it gets to it, but no one seems to notice or maybe care.

He is vaguely aware that there’s a chance that she won’t be behind the door, that she’ll be on a mission with a different Winter Soldier, but this could be his last chance before they wipe his mind again, his only chance to tell someone what’s happening.

Slowly, he opens the door and he finds himself letting himself slightly relax when he notices that she is there, sitting on the cold gray floor. He makes quick work of closing the door behind him, leaving it unlocked just to make sure he’s not caught in here stuck.

Her eyes are instantly on him and stuck on him, wide and almost haunting. She looked more unkempt than usual, but he supposed if she didn’t have a mission, why would Hydra waste resources keeping her pretty.

“Zima?” She asks. He hears a slight fear in her voice. He realizes that in some fucked up way she might think he is here to kill her or hurt her, a punishment from Hydra considering their partnership on missions. A reminder that while he is there to protect her, he would not hesitate to stop her if she ever went against Hydra. He did not have the time or vocabulary to assure her of anything, and who’s to say he hadn’t hurt her before and Hydra wiped his memory?

“I don’t have much time. Can you remember something for me?” He asked her as quietly as he could manage, his heart pounding in his ears as she nodded. “My name is Bucky.”

Leaving Captain America, no…Steve. His friend. Someone from his past, before he was this monster created by Hydra. Someone who saw through the Winter Soldier and gave him back his name. Something he had wanted to give her for so long. On the shore, he left him with mixed feelings that were for certain. He fought internally with himself about what this meant.

He failed his mission; he could not return to Hydra. They would torture him or maybe kill him for a mistake this grave, especially considering he could’ve let Steve drown and just be done with it all.

But he knew that man, he knew Steve from before Hydra. Steve told him his name was Bucky and gave him a starting place to remember who he was before Hydra took everything from him.

He wondered if they would assume he died or if they would know he deserted.

He wondered what would happen to her.

Would she manage to escape? Would they torture her for information on him? Surely, they didn’t know that the two were close. Surely, they wouldn’t think he would tell her his plan, certainly because he didn’t even have a plan. There was no universe where he could’ve predicted this outcome.

He allowed himself a moment, a fleeting thought that maybe he could just rescue her. Kill whatever soldier was assigned to her next on a mission and just take her and run. Surely he’s not the first to run from Hydra, and certainly they’d just replace her and move on with their day.

But if he goes back and tries to get her, he could risk her life even further.

And he had a spiraling thought that maybe she only talked to him to give herself some sort of break from their missions. That maybe the closeness was all in his head and maybe seeing him again would torture her, would scare her.

And he just wasn’t ready.

“James, is there anyone left on your list you’d like to make amends to? Real amends.” His therapist's voice brings him back into her office. He is exhausted and done with these court-mandated therapy sessions. He’s tired of other people telling him what to do and how to feel. He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. It had been better than therapy (in his opinion) putting the ex-Hydra agents in their place.

“I don’t know.” He finally answers.

“Really? There’s no one you can think of that you’d like to make amends with. Non-violent amends with.” She tries again, and Bucky sighs.

“I don’t know, Doc. Do you have someone in mind?” He finally looks at her, and she holds out her hand for his notebook. With a sigh, he handed it over and watched her slowly flip through it before looking at him with a tired look in her eyes.

“Hmm, I think you already have someone in mind, James. Why don’t you go talk to her?” His therapist says as she throws the notebook back to him, and he catches it with both hands. He knows she’s right, that she’ll continue to haunt his nightmares and be on his mind till he confirms she was okay and she was safe.

He knew from his own…research (definitely not stalking) that she had managed to escape Hydra in all the chaos he and Steve caused and seemed to have a semi-normal life now, and who was he to stomp in on her normalcy and demand to make amends?

He wasn’t sure if she’d even want to see him or if seeing him would throw her into a bad state. He had his fair share of PTSD from his time with Hydra, and the idea of reconnecting in a positive way with any part of his Hydra past made him feel nauseous.

“It’s not as simple as just going to talk to her.” He finally answers, folding his hands in his lap, eyes fixated on his black vibranium arm, wondering if she’d recognize him with the different arm and hair.

“Why not?” She asks, and he watches her twirl her pen in her hand, knowing if he doesn’t start talking soon, she’ll start passive-aggressively taking notes like he hates to try to pull anything out of him.

“What if she doesn’t want to see me?” He asks.

“Then you leave, James. But I think for your own sake, you need to at least try.”

___________________________________________________________

“At least try.” He mumbles under his breath as he stands outside of her apartment, almost sarcastically. I mean, truly, what did his therapist know about the two's relationship? Seeing him would bring up a whole host of bad feelings for her, something he’d never want to cause, but a very selfish part of him was curious about how she was doing and if she could fill in the gaps for any of his memories.

Bucky took his time walking through the building and looking around her apartment. It was nice; the building was old but had a sort of old school flair that he really enjoyed looking at for the past 10 minutes, as he definitely wasn’t stalling. He let himself wonder what she did for work, if she had any roommates, if life was being kind to her.

It wasn’t until his hand was forced that he had realized how scary this moment actually was. As her door finally opened and she walked out, it took them both no time to recognize each other. She had stopped dead in her tracks when she noticed him, and he couldn’t help but drink her in. For a split second, Bucky couldn’t believe it was her. She looked the same to him; her hair was a little different, but he imagined she did it for the same reason he did. Just to have the illusion of freedom and choice, something to change for himself. She was dressed as if she was leaving, but her bag dropped to the ground the longer she looked at him. It looked like her, healthier, but still with the same wild look he sometimes finds in his own eyes. He feels like he can see the wheels turning in her head.

Why was he here?

Was he still with Hydra?

Was he going to kill her?

Finally, he forced himself to look her in the eyes, and he realized immediately she was crying.

“Are you here to kill me?” She finally asked, her voice coming out shaky. Bucky recognizes the panic, and for a moment, he wonders if she knows about him going after members of Hydra. If she thinks for a single second he blames her for anything that happened to them and that he would come to punish her he would never forgive himself. The thought hurts him more than he thought it would, but he pushes it aside as quickly as possible in order to comfort her.

“No, no, not at all. I promise. I just-” But that seemed to be all she needed because the moment he confirmed that he wasn’t here to hurt her, she practically jumped to him. Wrapping her arms tightly around his neck and pulling herself against him. It didn’t take him long at all to return his arms, more loose than her in fear of hurting her, but still around her.

___________________________________________________________

“Did I ever hurt you?” He finds himself asking, he still isn’t sure if he wants the true answer. He’s unsure if he can live with the idea that he hurt her. He watches her as she continues to pick at the fries on her plate. This was the second time the two had reconnected, and he had suggested the two get a bite to eat when he showed up at her apartment for the second time, this time being brave enough to knock. She nodded slowly and followed him out.

He had been more nervous this second time, now that he knows that some part of her trusts him he finds himself worried he’ll screw it up. That this fragile relationship the two are building will shatter at any moment, leaving him without anyone once again. They had arranged to meet up, to talk and try to be…normal, but Bucky still found himself struggling around her. His memories were still fragmented, but he wasn’t even sure how she was holding up with hers.

“No.” She finally answered. “I don’t think you ever even touched me, even in passing. You always let me lead.” This was news to him. He always felt so close to her and in control, but he guessed the proximity was enough for him to make it feel wrong and different from his usual missions.

“Did any of the Winter Soldiers hurt you?” He asks.

“Depends on your definition of hurt, I guess.” This answer surprises him, and he allows the silence to sit around them, hoping she would continue. “I mean, Bucky, come on, it’s not a secret what my job was.”

For a moment, he sees red. The idea that the other soldiers were putting her through the same torture Hydra did. That they saw her as nothing more than some toy, something that they could use and have and do whatever they pleased. That she was abused for other people’s pleasure makes him feel sick to his stomach to this day. It’s not until her hand finds his flesh one that he snaps out of his thoughts.

This is the first time since she hugged him that he’s touched her, the second time probably total throughout the whole time they’ve known each other, and it feels electric. He still feels the guilt bubbling in him, that she was being used and hurt, and he truly did nothing to stop it.

“It wasn’t your fault, Bucky.” She reminds him, and he finds himself smiling despite himself.

“You sound like my therapist.” He groans, and she laughs.

“Good, it means what I’m saying is right. I mean it, though; without you, I can think of a dozen different times I might have died.” She said with a smile. “Can I ask you a question now?”

“Of course.” He answered, almost excited at this sense of normalcy between the two of them, hoping that just like before, he’d be able to answer her questions.

“Did you escort any of the other girls?” She asked softly, thumb rubbing small circles against the back of his hand, his food completely forgotten as he tried to remember despite being distracted by her touch.

“No, I don’t think so,” He answered hesitantly. “A lot of my memories from Hydra are fractured. I can remember the people I hurt as the Winter Soldier, but sometimes the details of the mission I’ve lost them. I don’t think I ever escorted anyone but you.”

She nods at his answer, satisfied with it as she continues finishing her fries. There’s still a question bubbling under his skin, threatening to ruin their time together, but he can’t find the strength to ask, at least not yet.

“Can I ask you another question?” He asks and she nods. “When I came to tell you my name…was that the first time I had been to your quarters?” He watches her carefully, but she kept her hand on top of his. He watches as she picks her words carefully.

“It was the first time you had been to my quarters, yes.” He’s not blind to what she’s implying, but he looks at her until he continues. “Sometimes, Hydra would send other soldiers to visit me both as a punishment for me and a reward for the soldier, but no you had never been one of them.”

“When I showed up, is that what you thought was happening?” He asks, even though he already knows the answer. She sighs.

“Yes, but the thought didn’t last long. I never thought you would hurt me, ever. I still don’t.” She watches him closely as her words sink in. He has every reason to believe her, but he still finds it hard to believe, so he nods and gets back to eating. She follows his suit, clearly used to his silence.

___________________________________________________________

“You know I’ve been meaning to ask, did you ever get your coney dog?” She asked as they turned the corner. This time, they had decided to skip the food. She said she had somewhere she wanted to show him, and he was happy to follow along. He found himself not surprised by her question, he’s since learned since they started getting to know each other that she just seems naturally curious about the world with a memory sharp as a tack. She was always able to recall little things he had mentioned, he wondered if that’s why he trusted her with his name way back when because he knew she wouldn’t forget.

“I, uhh, no, not yet.” He said with a laugh. “I don’t think they’ll hold up as well as I’d remembered.” She hums and nods, seemingly satisfied with his answer.

“Do you have a new favorite food?” She asks as she continues looking straight. For a moment in Bucky’s mind, he feels like they’re back in that car, him driving them on a mission with her trying to learn a little about him. Either as a distraction or as a genuine interest.

“I really enjoy plums.” Bucky is surprised when she stops dead in her tracks and looks at him. For a split second, he’s worried he’s said the wrong thing, but within seconds, she’s laughing at him. Full-blown laughing, hands on her knees, tears in her eyes, the whole package and he can’t help the grin that finds itself on his face. “What?” He asks with a chuckle as she keeps going.

“I’m so sorry…I just, one second.” She said, trying to catch her breath. “I’m really sorry, Bucky, that is just the oldest man answer I’ve ever heard in my life.” She said with a cackle, and he couldn’t help himself and joined in on her laughing.

“Hey! I’ll have you know I’m over 100 years old. I’m allowed to enjoy my plums, okay! They’re good for your memory, and they’re healthy!” With his explanation, she continued laughing. “Oh my god, okay, I get it, let’s go; show me what you wanted to show me.” He said, gesturing for her to keep walking.

He follows her slightly behind, just one step behind. Overly cautious and knowing what following directly behind her could mean for the both of them, but not wanting them to take up the whole sidewalk. He wonders if she thinks about it too, how they must look together and how they used to look. He wonders if her actions haunt her the way he does him. He wonders if when she left Hydra if she had similar feelings of not deserving her freedom.

But this moment, answering her questions for her to laugh and tease him, something he’s unsure she would do to the Winter Soldier, causes a warm feeling in his chest, an understanding that while they are still the people they used to be, that they have changed. He is vaguely aware of these feelings that are making a home in his heart, and he’s unaware if they’ve always been there, but he’s starting to suspect they always were.

Especially as she opened the door and he stepped through. He immediately notices the smell, something so nostalgic that he immediately feels at home.

“I’m not sure why, but I just felt like you’d like this place. I found it on one of my walks.” He slowly walks past her, through the aisles, with her following close behind, wearing a sneaky smile.

The two were surrounded by a mix of old books from different genres, some in English, some not. Bucky was amazed by the collection, recognizing some of them from before he went to war. He felt as if he was walking through history, it was amazing.

“I know you’re from a different time, so I just think it’s cool because of history, but I just thought…that maybe you’d like it?” Even though it wasn’t a question, he could’ve sworn it was due to her nervousness.

“I love it, seriously.” He said, completely enamored with his surroundings. He watches her nerves go away with a small smile as she gestures for him to follow her deeper into the bookstore, and he happily obliges.

___________________________________________________________

It’s almost three weeks after the bookstore that they see each other again. Bucky had to go with Sam on a mission, cutting their time to short messages throughout the week instead of hanging out. There was a sense of nerves that had the unfortunate reminder of their time back in Hydra. The sinking feeling of something happening and him not being able to protect her was back in full force, and he had to fight the urge to call her at the end of every day, sticking to sporadic messages that hopefully didn’t feel as awkward to her as it did him.

All he wanted to know was if she was safe, just like before, but this time, there was more intent with it. He was remembering more of their time and the questions she asked, and their conversations finally got to stick with him; it was like they were building something that was a long time coming.

Finally, once he knew they were for sure coming back on a Tuesday, he asked her if she was free, but with her work schedule, they ended up not being able to see each other until Friday. Bucky had to fight the urge to just show up at her house and beg for forgiveness for needing to see her.

But he managed to wait, and once Friday rolled around, he showed up at her apartment, and the two of them made themselves comfortable on opposite ends of her couch, her cat in Bucky’s lap. The two of them did their usual of passing questions back and forth until a long pause brought Bucky’s biggest question to his mind.

“Can I ask you a really fucked up question?” He finally asked, feeling brave at this moment.

“I think all of our questions have been fucked up considering the our situation, but please let’s add to this.” She said with a watery laugh, clearly fighting off tears. Bucky took a deep breath, knowing he had to ask that he needed to know this answer and that he could no longer let this eat him up on the inside. Especially considering how their friendship is growing, he needs the answer before it’s too late, before it forms a black hole inside of him, tainting every action the two have.

“How come you never used my trigger words?” She freezes at his question, eyes remaining squarely on the floor, and he can barely believe he finally asked. He feels as if the silence between them is dangerous, as if she’s going to stand up and finally ask him to leave her alone. That all of this will be over and he will never see her again because he finally crossed that line.

“What if my answer is too fucked up?” She finally responded, doing nearly nothing to quell the rising feelings in his chest.

“Than it’s fucked up.” He decides, still desperate to know the answer.

“The trigger words were to control the Winter Soldier, but honestly, the worst thing you could’ve done to me is kill me, and that would’ve freed me from it all. From sleeping with all those men, from doing Hydra’s dirty work and being tortured. I would’ve welcomed the escape, Bucky.” Bucky allows the words to hit him, he understands what she means. He remembers missions where he was more careless in order to hopefully end his suffering with Hydra, but it never crossed his mind that she might be in a similar position.

“I know what you mean.” He whispers, understanding how she really viewed him during that time.

“But Bucky, I never thought for a second you would hurt me. The Winter Soldier…you protected me multiple times and were always as kind as you could be. I tried to never show favoritism to Hydra because I was afraid they’d stop assigning us together, but our car rides were the one break I got.” The words sit between the two; the truth Bucky probably could’ve figured out on his own, but it felt good hearing it from her.

“It never bothered you what I did?” He asks.

“Did it ever bother you what I did, Bucky?” She throws back, and he shakes his head. “We both were under terrible, horrible circumstances. Why on earth would I hold that against you?”

“I hold it against myself sometimes. I mean, I could’ve gotten us away during a mission; we could’ve run. I could’ve fought back.” He finally voiced.

“Right, because a man with a metal arm wearing all black clothes and a prostitute with no change of clothes would’ve been so hard for Hydra to find.” She said sarcastically, reaching over to put a hand on his thigh.

“I never thought of you like that.” He says with a mumble, unsure how she’ll react.

“Like what?” She asked, head cocked to the side.

“A prostitute. You were just doing a job required by Hydra. It didn’t reflect on you, at least not in my eyes.” He murmured, finally looking at her. Something had changed in her eyes at his words; somehow, they seemed softer, more understanding than before, as if how he viewed her had always weighed heavy on her.

“Oh, Bucky.” She said softly. She moved almost in slow motion as her hand found his and grasped it tightly. “If it makes you feel any better, I was so honored when you let me call you Zima,” The Russian sounded so familiar on her tongue to him, “I always thought of you as more than just the Winter Soldier; I knew you were in there somewhere and when you came to tell me your name was Bucky…Even though we didn’t see each other again from our time in Hydra, it did give me something to hope for.”

“You gave me something to hope for.” He finally said, trying to get his feelings across to her.

She simply smiles and squeezes his hand. He knows in this moment that those feelings constantly arising in him are some sort of love for her, for everything they’ve been through. He has no idea if she feels the same and wonders if he deserves her with the burden he’d be placing on her, but at this moment, it doesn’t even seem to matter. Because he loves her, and he knows it.

___________________________________________________________

Bucky wakes up in a bed, one that surely isn’t his as it’s far too soft. His memories of the night before slowly come back to him.

The two had talked late into the night, holding hands and clearing so much of the air left between them and their time in Hydra. A deeper understanding of the torture they went through and what each other meant to themselves. The reprieve she offered him and the safety he offered her.

He remembered insisting he wasn’t too tired to go back to his place, and he remembered her insisting that if he died going home from her place, she’d never forgive herself.

He remembered laughing but taking her up on the offer to spend the night.

He feels a slight pressure on his back, but when he begins to shift, the cat jumps off of him, and he lets out a chuckle as he watches the white cat make their way out of the room.

“She’s going to remember that.” Her voice supplied, and he flipped his body so he could look at her. She’s on the other side of the bed, looking at him with messy hair.

“Oh yeah?” He said with a smile.

“Oh yeah, Alpine holds grudges like nobody's business.” She said with a chuckle. He watched her gently shift. He knows at this moment that something has changed between the two, that their bond has changed, but he does not doubt that he will always be there for her, in any way she will allow.

“We didn’t have sex, by the way.” She blurts out in the silence, sitting up, causing Bucky to burst out laughing, blood clearly flooding her face and turning a darker shade. He’s almost positive his has turned red as well.

“Yeah, I do know that,” Bucky said, still laughing.

“I’m just…after everything, I don’t know if…” He watches her take a deep breath. “Bucky, if this…I mean, if we become a thing. I want you to know now that we may never have sex. I might never be okay or ready for it, but I do like you. I like you a lot, but I don’t want to lie to you or force myself to do anything I don’t want to do, so if you wish to just say friends, you have to say it now.”

“We could never touch, and I think I’d still be in love with you and happy to just be by your side, whatever that means to you.” He breathed out, almost surprising himself, but wholeheartedly meaning it. He watched the sunlight illuminate her surprised features.

“Yeah?” She asked, a smile like he’s never seen paint her face.

“Yeah.” He whispers out, and slowly, like she’s waiting for him to say no, she puts his hand on his cheek. He fights the urge to make any movement that might scare her as she leans in close, kissing him chastely on his chapped lips.

And it’s perfect and worth every bad moment the two had faced. All because he would get to come home to her and protect her. 

And it's all he had ever wanted.

[vroomvroomcircuit]

You pulling in made me wish your Dad pulled out

(A/N): Thank you to @foreveralbon for workshopping this fic with me with this prompt. I don't know what to do if you weren't my muse.

Summary: Charles pissed off his neighbor with his parking. Her answers are notes taped to his car window. How can evolve more out of that?

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x female!reader

Wordcount: 1.6k

🏎Masterlist🏎 ________________________

(Y/N) knows that she isn’t the most professional car parker. She should never start a career as a valet for sure. After all, she needed a second attempt on her own practical test to attain her drivers license.

But there is this one neighbor of hers. She doesn’t know what he looks like, what his name is or where he even lives. But (Y/N) knows one thing for sure: He is a shit parker.

Like, he is the worst person at parking that has ever walked the world. If he could, he probably would park his oh so expensive car onto other cars. But she tries to not let that get too close to her. After all, we just talk about parking spaces and it’s not worth getting her blood pressure up over it.

But (Y/N) found her tipping point.

Her whole morning has been a shit show. Her alarm went off, but she accidentally turned it off instead of giving herself another five minutes of sleep. Five minutes turned into 45. That meant the young woman had to rush through her usual morning routine and she is 90 % sure that she put at least one clothing item on the wrong way.

But it’s ok, she is still on time. She just needs to get out of the car par-

This is where (Y/N) last thread of patience with that neighbor snaps in two like a potato chip, crisp and unclean. This person parked the front half of his car in a way that completely blocks (Y/N)’s rear end from exiting the car in a way that does not hinder the sidewalk.

It takes a solid seven minutes to get out of her spot, trying not to scratch hers or another car. Arriving a few minutes late at work because of that and receiving a reprimand from her boss is really the young woman’s last straw. On her lunch break she does some snooping on the internet and comes across a really fine find. It’s worth the price and shipping cost to her.

Actually, she can’t wait for the week it is supposed to take to arrive at her doorstep.

But the time between that particular day and the day of arrival do fly by when you use it getting madder and madder at the dickhead that is unable to park like a normal person.

The next occurrence doesn’t take long after (Y/N)’s package finally arrives. She wanted to park her vehicle in her usual spot when Mr. Ferrari already took his and her own too. How can one person be such an asshole?

(Y/N) takes one of the business card sized cuts out of her glove box and puts it in the slit of the black car’s window. Satisfied with her work she steps back into her vehicle and looks for a different spot, ending up walking several minutes back to her apartment building, having to look somewhere farther away.

Charles can see from a distance that there is a card at his car’s windowshield. Which makes him suspicious. Surely no one thinks that he wants to sell his car for cheap, so it can’t be one of those car handler’s business cards. Maybe it’s a new ruse of thieves, trying to get him to stand long enough at his car to read it and be able to steal his car. Or they are kidnappers. Anyways, he makes quick work of putting the card into his pocket and drives off at a neck breaking speed.

When he arrives at his destination, the Monegasque pulls the piece of paper out and reads it. “The way you pulled in makes me wish your dad pulled out”, he reads aloud, laughing a little to himself.

He has to admit that he might not be the best at parking. Who is he even kidding, he would win the world championship at being the worst car parker possible. But the thought of someone getting that angered over his non-existent skills.

It’s something that makes him happy throughout his entire day. Which is his main reason to try and look how much he can piss that particular neighbor off even more.

So Charles starts parking even worse. If he also starts on the habit of watching out of his window more often now, he would claim it is just a coincidence. But something in him wants to meet that neighbor.

That person that gets more and more creative with their insults. One time they called him an obstacle to evolution. The other day the business card said something along the lines of him belonging to the asshole club now.

Another, a handwritten, note asked him not to reproduce. The neighbor even left a condom for him. This made Charles laugh so loudly, that (Y/N) looked out her opened window.

She just finished one of the worst shifts she ever had since starting that job and all she wants is just a quiet evening to come down from the stress. Just the noise of the laugh is enough to set her off again.

Seeing her handsome neighbor from under her apartment pocketing the note and condom she left just minutes earlier isn’t what she expected. Watching him opening the car, sitting down and driving off is even less on her list.

It kind of destroys her world view, realizing that hot neighbor and asshole parker are the same person. In the last couple of weeks (Y/N) started to get some fun out of the mean comments she left at the black Ferrari’s window. This also could be her chance to finally make a move on him.

The young woman waits for the brunette to return with his car and stays seated on her couch for another couple minutes, for extra measure of course. After that, she leaves the apartment building with her prepared note and tapes it to the car’s rear window.

Charles on the other side stays glued to his window as soon as he enters his apartment. He finally wants to catch the person that gets angrier and angrier each time he parks in an outrageous way in the act.

Seeing the beautiful neighbor, who lives above him, sticking another note to his car makes his heart flutter in an unexpected way. For some time now he wanted to get to know her and if everything went according to his original plan, ask her out on a date. But maybe he can now use this to his advantage.

As soon as the beautiful neighbor is back in the building Charles waits an extra couple minutes before he once again makes his way to his car.

Running over his vehicle with a pep in his step, Charles is kind of excited about what insults or threats await him now. He has to admit, he actually parked pretty decently. Or as decent as he is able to. So the note has to be at least a little bit nicer than the previous ones.

“Hey neighbor. I thought instead of shitting on you and your parking skills even more, I want you to help and get better. I may not be a driving teacher, but helping you wouldn’t make your skills worse. Just text me with the times you are available at ;)” signed with (Y/N)’s name and number.

It’s kind of funny to explain to the press later how Charles met (Y/N) and became her boyfriend.

"Yeah, well I know that my driving has become sort of a, a meme,” he answers when asked a week after his announcement on instagram, “And my neighbor wasn’t too fond of it either. So she started to leave me these really funny, but also really aggressive notes at my car. One said something like I won the inconsiderate Parker Price. Which made me quite proud.” This entices a laugh out of the journalist. “Yeah, (Y/N) has a really good way with words, I fear. But in the end she offered me some parking lessons.” Charles smiles and thinks back to them.

He had texted (Y/N) immediately and they set up a date for the lesson two days away. But they still continued to text non stop and by the time they met up, it felt like they had been friends for years.

Which didn’t stop (Y/N) raging at Charles after his fifth failed attempt of parking his car according to her instructions. “I don’t believe you anymore. With the way you park you are not from Monaco but the deepest and wildest parts of Italy! Your Ferrari seems really fitting now!” This drew a laugh out of him until she graced him with the meanest look he didn’t expect her to be able to muster up.

“How about dinner as a thank you and apology?” He asked sheepishly, trying both to diffuse the situation and make his move. Why not shoot his shot right now?

Luckily the young woman agreed.

“In the end my parking skills weren’t enough to win her over, but my charm was what scored me a second date.”

And a third. A relationship. After some more funny parking jokes and him kneeling down on one knee with a ring and the promise to take lessons to keep their future family safe he even scored himself his unexpected forever.

[em1989ts]

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏

chapter two. series masterlist. main masterlist.

five hargreeves x reader

word count: 1.8k

book summary: five hargreeves gets lost in time and your father forces you to go after him, leaving you to get lost in a completely different kind of solitude. after decades, you meet at the hands of the handler, except you're not exactly happy to work with him after what he did. the two of you agree to put your differences aside until you save the world. how hard could that be?

author's note: these first two chapters were mostly backstory but now i'm getting into the good stuff lol, not proofread, this is being written mostly for wattpad but i'm posting it here as well so more people can read it, comments and feedback is super appreciated! enjoy!

When you spend a majority of your life in darkness, there’s no harder challenge than adjusting to the light. All you see is glare. Your eyes feel like they might burn under the softest light, relieving you from your sense of sight once again. 

As they walked through the bright hallways of the Commision, Number Eight held her hands over her eyes to block the fluorescence. The Handler lent the elderly woman her personal pair of designer sunglasses, allowing her to see as well as stop her from walking into the other agents. 

Eight watched carefully as several people scurried through the corridors. 

Some carried weapons, some carried files, few carried briefcases. All were concentrated on their current assignments and missions. 

She tried to take in as many of her surroundings as she could comprehend, not wanting to overwhelm her brain with the increasing information, yet she wanted to be aware of the kind of establishment she was being brought into. 

The Handler held the woman by her shoulders and turned her towards an open door. 

“We’ll try to get you adjusted here as quickly as possible, hopefully this gentleman here can help.” 

Still holding onto her shoulders, the Handler gave a wink and cheeky smile to the old man in the room before turning on her heels and walking out the door. 

It took Eight a few moments of blinking repeatedly before the person she was left with came into view. He however, recognized her immediately. The cup of steaming black coffee in his hand fell to the ground as he lost feeling in his fingers. 

“Eight?” 

He sounded taken aback. Completely, and utterly shocked. Like he’d never thought he’d see face again. But who exactly was he?

Still unable to take the sunglasses off, Eight squinted until her sight became clearer, and she could distinguish a man, probably around the same age as her. 

A feeling in her gut told her this was exactly the boy she'd been looking for all these years. The face of the boy she resented. The face of the boy she had grown to hate for what his actions caused her to live through.

Now, the face of that boy who had grown into an old man stood before her.

The bitter aroma of espresso filled the air as she took the sunglasses off, submitting to the light. 

“Five.” 

He could barely move as he heard his name fall quietly from her lips, lips that had spoken few words in the last few decades. Lips that have only responded to the voice in her head and the voices in the shadows. 

He knew little about what happened to her. He only knew what Vanya knew and chose to expose to the world. Apparently, after he ran off, she had been forced into that chamber in the dark basement they all hated as kids to try and find him through her shadows. It obviously didn’t work, and she went missing too, subtracting yet another child from their numerical family. 

He didn’t even think of the possibility that the Handler would have found her along with him. 

He didn’t want to even think of what she went through because of him.

 He couldn’t fathom it. 

Before he could conversate with her, she turned around, found the door handle, and left him to deal with the puddle of coffee. 

~~ 

Five knew exactly what the Handler wanted from him. She needed someone with his power, his intelligence, to eliminate threats from the timeline. He was sure she wanted the same thing from Eight, why else would she bother finding her. 

The Handler let them both get settled into their new lives, their new apartments and place of work, before they started any training. The two of them haven’t been around another human in far too long to adjust smoothly. 

Once she felt they were somewhat ready, she brought them together once again. She found it hard to set up a meeting between the two of them, mostly due to the fact that Eight would refuse to show up if she even suspected that Five was involved. With the help of Dot and Herb, who Eight had become acquainted with quite quickly, to lure her into her office before inviting Five. 

Once Five walked in and sat down, the Handler quickly discussed her plan with the two of them. 

She wanted to assign the two of them as partners. 

“You two have quite the history together, as well as powerful abilities that I think would work together quite nicely.” 

The two elders looked over at each other from their seats, making uncomfortable eye contact as they considered her plan. Of course it made sense in her eyes, but they didn’t exactly want to put up with each other. 

“I believe you two would make a proper team here, especially since the conditions are far better than what you both are used to,” the Handler slyly referenced their previous unfortunate living situations to persuade them into agreeing. 

Five didn’t want to mess around. Anything would be better than the apocalypse, it only made sense to work with her, even if she was the last person on Earth he would have chosen to partner with. 

He stuck his hand out in an attempt of camaraderie, he always considered himself to be the bigger person. 

Eight didn’t protest. With no emotion visible, she took his wrinkled hand in hers and shook it firmly, officiating their partnership. 

~~~ 

They had been partners for a few years now, and everyone at the commission could see how productive they were together. The two were incredibly efficient, taking out their marks with ease and agility.

With several successful missions, their names were praised by all personnel at the commission. Everyone took note of the impressive team, often announcing their praise as they returned to the Commission and made their way to the Handler’s office to debrief. 

Of course the two of them knew how well they worked together. As children they both would be forced to work together on missions by Reginald, and even though they despised each other, they knew their powers worked well when put together. As adults, they obviously matured and had grown independent, but that didn’t stop the constant bickering and disagreements during stressful missions. 

At the current moment in time, the two assassins were on a mission in Dallas, Texas, although their minds had been drifting from the current task at hand. They were sent to confirm the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, which almost evoked a reaction of excitement for Eight when she first received the file. When she was a child, she spent a majority of her free time at the academy reading, and a majority of the books she enjoyed were focused on the life and death of J.F.K. Five knew this, having teased her about her fascination several times. He also knew how she would have loved to witness this important moment in American history. 

As they stood together behind a fence with a clear view of the grassy knoll, Five flipped through his book of mathematical equations he had been working on for the last several decades. He hadn’t discussed much of his plan to return to 2019 and stop the apocalypse from happening, afraid that someone at the Commission would overhear and report them to the Handler. He didn’t want to risk the two of them to be seen as a threat, becoming the next targets for elimination. 

Five looked away from his notebook to see Eight kneeling, fiddling with her gun, preparing to make the shot of her life if needed. He sighed as he contemplated, before clearing his throat. 

“I can get us home.” 

Eight looked up, she had been smiling slightly to herself yet that quickly turned into an expression of confusion as she looked up to question Five. 

“What are you talking about?” She asked him skeptically, standing up to match his level. 

He lowered his voice, afraid he was being watched, and lifted his equations into her view, “I have been working on these for countless years. We can go back and stop the end of the world from ever happening.” 

Eight hadn’t heard much of the apocalypse, it wasn’t something he often described in detail. She obviously knew it was inevitable, and the Handler did not want anyone attempting to prevent it. 

Eight eyed him, wondering whether or not he was asking her permission or only offering to take her along if she wanted. She did miss her family, never getting to say goodbye to them hurt her, and the thought haunted her throughout her time in the void. The look in his eyes seemed sincere, like he had been waiting for this moment his whole life, and genuinely didn’t want to face everyone alone after all these years. 

The Handler would come after them once she found out they abandoned the mission. She would probably send people who will stop at nothing until they are dead, but that was a risk Eight was willing to take. No agent was as good as her anyway. The only downside was if they leave before this mission was completed, she’d never get to see J.F.K. 

She sighed as she took one last longing glance at the grassy knoll. 

“Alright,” She looked back at Five, “Let’s do this.” 

Five let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He couldn’t believe he would actually be going home. 

He handed off his notebook to Eight to hold as he held out his fists which started to glow a blazing blue. A glowing portal began to open before them, with the courtyard of the Umbrella Academy coming into view, and the adult versions of each of their siblings. Eight quickly jumped out of the way as a bright red fire hydrant came flying through the portal. 

They exchanged an odd glance before Five shouted, “Let’s go!” 

The bright forces of the portal pushed against them as the two tried to push through with all they had. Eventually, they fell through into 2019, hitting the muddy ground in the courtyard a few meters in front of their siblings who watched the scene as if they were witnessing an alien invasion. 

“Does anyone else see little number Five and Eight or is that just me?” 

Swimming through oversized business attire, the two assassins stood up to find themselves in their younger bodies. They weren’t as young as they had been when they’d disappeared, they looked to be about eighteen years old. 

Eight brought her hands up to her wrinkle free face and felt her hair which was no longer gray and aged. Five looked down at his smooth hands, no signs of his many years physically visible. 

They looked at their siblings before looking at each other with wide eyes. 

“Shit.” 

☂︎

series masterlist.

author's note: thank you for reading! i appreciate any feedback, i love to hear from readers :) again not proofread but once i have more chapters out i'll go through them all and edit

tags: @groovydazephantom

[eat-limes-bitches]

Love After War

PAIRING: Female Reader x FATWS! Bucky Barnes

SUMMARY: The mind has a way of playing tricks on you, images you thought to be real are just a figment of your past. But how to get back to the present?

WARNINGS: Angst, nightmares, PTSD, panic attack, cannon-level violence, torture, smidgen of fluff at the end

Word Count: 1239

A/N: soooooo this was supposed to be the start of my Febuwhump challenge but with the way my life is going right now I won't be able to finish all the prompts by the end of the month, BUT I will post the ones I have done, and I will keep working on some prompts as well but don't expect them to be in order at all.

Prompt: Helpless

Enjoy! <3

Divider by Rookthorne

The first thing Bucky realized as he came to was how incredibly cold he was. A shiver wracked his body, causing him to try and pull the flimsy material covering him closer to his skin as water poured down on him. Wait- water? He looked to find the source and realized he was in a shower. The cold water turned red as it ran across his body from all the blood there. Was it his or someone else's? Bucky couldn’t tell. 

“SOLDAT.” A voice boomed from behind, causing him to flinch aggressively. He knew that voice, it was one of his handlers, and by the sound of the rapidly approaching footsteps, he wasn’t happy.

“Poydem s nami, soldat. Dok khochet tebya videt'” The voice growled and Bucky froze. 

His frazzled mind still trying to work out where he was and what was going on. His hesitance must have been seen as resistance because the next thing he knew, a rifle butt was flying towards him. 

Confused, Bucky blocked it with his arm, the clash of metal reverberated around the room causing more handlers to pour in, each one with a gun all pointing in the same direction. His pulse was starting to quicken, and every muscle in his body tensed. 

He was so focused on what was going on in front of him that he didn’t notice the guard coming up behind him with a stun baton. The guard struck, causing Bucky to fall to his knees as he hissed in pain, the electric shock causing his arm to fall limp at his side he clutched the useless appendage in his right hand as he looked on in terror as they all started moving in on him. Two of the guards grabbed him and began to drag him out of the room. He knew where they were taking him and as those rusted double doors came into view he began thrashing as wildly as he could to get away but it was no use.

“Bucky?”

They flung open the doors, his senses on hyperdrive as the blinding lights of the room burned his eyes. Noise. There was so much noise, nurses scrambling around, guards shouting, and doctors preparing for whatever horrible things they had planned for him that day. 

“Bucky!”

He tried to fight against them as they strapped him into the chair, but it was no use, he felt utterly helpless as they began tying him down. His metal arm, although useless, was cuffed in 4 different steel brackets to keep him from moving, the rest of his body bolted into place as the panels of the machine began to lower over his face and just as they were about to connect to his skin-

“JAMES!” 

He sucked in a large breath bolting upright in bed and scrambling far away from where he was until he managed to situate himself in the corner of the room. His chest, slick with sweat heaved up and down as he tried to get oxygen to fill his lungs, but his heart was beating too fast for him to do anything but hyperventilate. There was a quiet sound from the other side of the room that made him realize he wasn’t alone, and he let out a whimper as their footsteps got closer, curling in on himself to appear as small as possible. 

“Bucky?” This voice was soft and full of concern, a complete contrast to the voice he heard just moments ago. This intrigued him slightly, but not enough to make him uncurl himself to see who was speaking to him. There was a sigh from the other person and the floorboards squeaked as they moved their entire weight to the floor, sitting on the ground near him.

“Bucky? It’s me, baby.” The voice cooed gently, and with the next breath he took, the familiar smell of cedar and lavender invaded his senses. He peaked his head out from behind his knees and saw Y/n sitting on the floor looking at him with concern coloring her features and sorrow clouding her eyes. She noticed the small movement and smiled gently as her eyes caught his.

“There he is. Hello, my love.” She whispered, a gentle smile decorating her face. Bucky blinked owlishly at her, still not realizing who he was looking at, but still Y/n smiled. 

Progress she thought before she started speaking again, “It’s just me, love. You are safe. We are in our bedroom, in our apartment, no one is going to hurt you.” 

This made him cock his head to the side before looking around the room. There was no one else besides the two of them. Instead of the gurneys, there was a dresser. Instead of blood-stained floors, there was a soft, grey plush carpet. Instead of that chair, there was a bed, and her. Bucky took a deep breath, finally able to fill his lungs and when he did, his body began to shake. He would shake violently for a moment before his muscles would give out and relax before contracting all over again. Y/n watched him carefully and scooted a little closer. 

“Can I sit next to you?” It was a simple question, and it might seem trivial to ask someone you were just sleeping next to if you could be in their space but it was important for Bucky to feel in control of his situation, if he was in control, he was no longer there.  Bucky looked at her and gave a small nod and Y/n moved to sit next to him, her back plastered against the wall. Although she wasn’t touching him, Bucky could feel the warmth radiation from her body, another piece of proof that he wasn’t in the basement of a bunker in the Siberian mountains. The pair sat in silence for a moment, Y/n watching Bucky, and Bucky staring straight ahead at the wall. Y/n shifted, causing Bucky's eyes to leave the spot on the wall and look at her. 

“Can I touch you?” She asked softly. Buckys hesitated for a moment, before nodding again. Y/n scootched closer to Bucky so that their bodies were pressed against each other and she reached over with a hand and ran her fingers through his shortened chestnut locks. That simple action seemed to bring new life back to Bucky and he began to uncurl, leaning into her touch. Y/n began humming a soft melody as she continued to massage Bucky’s scalp. His tremors became less and less until they were all but gone. 

After some more time passed, Bucky wasn’t sure how much, Y/n stopped and gently stood up, offering her hand to him. 

“‘C'mon love, let’s get back in bed. Your back isn’t going to thank you if I let you sleep in the corner.” 

Bucky placed his hand in hers and allowed her to lead him back to bed. Y/n folded back the covers in a more orderly fashion before sliding under the soft grey sheets, motioning for Bucky to do the same. He did so, snuggling back into Y/n’s side listening to her steady heartbeat, reassuring him that he was safe.  She began humming that soft melody again. Feeling warm and safe, his eyes grew heavy and he fell into a dreamless sleep. The last thing he remembered was the whisper of an “I love you,” in his ear.

[abalidoth]

Replanting (Chapter 1)

(Chapter 2)

[read on ao3]

When you feel the missile clip the corner of your mech's leg joint, you know it's over.

It feels like a line of white fire directly to your brain; your pain and the mech's mingling. But pain is nothing, pain is your every day. It's the immobility that terrifies you. Your mech knows before you do that the leg won't work, can't carry you back to base.

They won't send a field repair team out this far, not into enemy territory. Not even for the material outlay of the mech. You have no illusions of what would happen to you if they had to extract, but at least it would be fine, given a new pilot and allowed to keep doing its duty.

Don't think like that, it sends to you. I don't want another pilot.

You struggle a few dozen meters until the residual coolant in the leg motivators gives out and the intractable hand of physics pulls your mech to its knees. A cloud of dust billows up around you and you give up the rest of the way, mech lying on its side amid the baked earth and the scrubby bushes.

Creosote bush, the mech says. Didn't know it grew this far north.

You know it's just trying to keep you from panicking. It's not working -- you can feel your heart racing, the connection gel around you contracting in an autonomic effort to keep you from thrashing in the cockpit. Worst of all, your handler's ever present voice in your ear has gone silent.

A pilot's job is to keep its mech moving. No more and no less. You know there's no real affection from your handler, that her ministrations are part of the system, but you can't think about that sudden abandonment without a pang of grief. She should be there, she should always be there, but now there's nothing. Silence and static.

That feeling gives you a rush of adrenaline, coarser and hotter than the artificial flush the mech gives when you complete an objective, purely a product of your own withered adrenal glands. You have to get back you have to get back. You struggle to your knees, planting the mech's hands in the caliche like anchors and shoving so hard you feel something pop. (In you? In the mech? Is there a difference?)

You make it another hundred meters before you fall again, and the Caskie mech finds you, hitting you with an EMP before you can take them down with you. It lands with a jumpjet hiss in your sightline, so you're treated to the view of the alien-looking mech opening its canopy wide, two pilots getting out of the crude-looking mechanical cockpit.

---

They salvage the mech with you in it.

The pilots didn't seem to know what to do with you; you could hear from your outboard sensors that they were discussing in that strange, fluid accent how to get you out without killing you.

(You don't understand why that matters.)

Eventually, they just called for reinforcements; three heavy carriers showed up some indeterminate amount of time later. They haul your mech, pilot included, through the air on a frankly ridiculous web of heavy cables. You see the desert fade to green, canals threading through the land like veins, as you pass from the disputed zone into Union territory.

Your mech keeps a constant stream of commentary, talking about the plants that it sees, pointing out where old semi-arid forests have been restored. Its voice across the neural tunnel holds false cheer, picking up whenever you start panicking, but the enthusiasm is genuine.

Finally the carriers land at a base. It looks much like Conclave military architecture, concrete in utilitarian blocks, but you can see shining glass and chrome off in the distance, a city. They must want to keep you a ways away from civilians. You suppose that's fair.

They land you in an empty mech bay. It’s been cleared out hastily – you can see the Union mech that used to reside there off to the side, plugged into an aux power array. Your mech is not the right size, not the right shape, but a gaggle of mechanics come out anyway. They locked a restraining clamp on you at some point so you can't move, can't fight. Still, the mechanics move around you warily, like you'll snap and take them all out at any moment.

You would, in a heartbeat. Not just to get the euphoric response, but to quiet the anxiety, the feeling that you're entering a world where you don't have the tools to survive. But you can't, and a quiet part of you (or the mech) is relieved at that.

They strip your mech of all its weaponry, a harsh and hasty disassembly. You feel each removal sharply. Not physically -- mercifully, the mech has dialed down the haptic connection so it's left to suffer alone -- but in loss of potential, the closing of options. 

Finally, when everything is done and your mech is defenseless (other than being a fifteen ton vehicle) a tall woman in a labcoat comes out, flanked by guards with red cross emblems on their sleeves.

"Hello," she says. Her voice is formal, neutral. Lower than you expected, with just a hint of that singsong Cascadian accent. "Can you hear me? Or see me? We have sensitive solid-conductance microphones on the outside of your mech so we can hear you if you speak."

You know the trainings. A pilot is part of the system, part of the Conclave war engine, and cogs don't speak. Your tongue flicks idly against the suicide capsule in your back left molar. You go to press in on it.

You feel something, like a hand, guiding you away. A great wave of fear washes over you, and you know it's not yours.

Please. No.

You stop. Think a moment. 

"Hhhhh."

It's been a while since you've spoken. Just whispers in the dark with your handler, words carrying neither voice nor meaning. Your throat is dry, and you feel for a moment like it's not there. (Why would a mech have a throat?) You clear it, and try again.

"Yes. I can hear you."

She nods. "Good. I'm Dr. Mia Crane. I'm required by Cascadian Union treaty to inform you that as a prisoner of war, you have rights including food, shelter, protection from torture, and the right to ask about your other rights." She adjusts her round framed glasses. "I'm required by basic hospitality to ask you your name."

You pause. You know what names are, of course. Your handler's name is Rebecca. But that's not something pilots have. "I, uh. No?"

She blinks, a little taken aback. "Okay, well, we can work on that. Do you at least acknowledge your rights as a prisoner of war?"

This isn't going to end until you acknowledge, you feel, so you just say "Yes."

"Okay. Is there anything we need to know before we get you out of there?"

"I don't want out," you say. Your throat tightens.

You can't stay in me forever. It's okay. You'll find a way back to me.

You hear a hissing sound, and the low, sick gurgle of the connection gel draining out of your suit. Before you understand what's happening, the canopy drops open and you stagger out of the mech onto the diamond-patterned steel catwalk.

The sharp edge of disconnection, the sudden hole where there should be something inside you, keeps you off your feet. You stagger to one knee, felled as surely by shock as you had been by the missile.

The guards rush over to you and help you up. You want to fight them off but your muscles are jelly. Your head hurts.

Dr. Crane looks you over. You know she's not your handler, but you reach for the familiarity anyway, half expecting the usual routine, the ministrations that get lost in the foggy haze of post-battle euphoria. If your arms weren't being held for your own stability, you'd start opening your suit.

Instead she shines a light in your eyes and asks you to stick out your tongue, making notes on a clipboard as she goes. She puts a strip of fabric around your arm and it gets tight for a moment. "Elevated heart rate and systolic pressure, pupil dilation is beyond what I consider normal."

Your heart hammers in your ears. The smells around you -- the saccharine sweet of connection gel, your own body, something undefinable coming off the doctor, heighten to a nauseating strength. Your head hurts. "Are you going to..." You swallow. "Do you have the syringe?"

Dr. Crane tilts her head. "The syringe?"

"When the..." How do you explain this? You haven't had to explain any of this, people just know what to do. "When I'm done. Rebecca, she has the syringe, it's blue, and."

"Do you know what's in it?" she asks, gently. Too gently. The words are too soft, they smother you, it's too hard to breathe.

Your head hurts. The lights beat down.

"No, but it... she... always..."

Your head hurts.

Your head hu--

---

There are voices.

At first you don't care. You just want to go back to sleep. But there's something wrong with your bed, it's too soft. And the voices don't sound right -- that soft lilt, one you've only recently heard.

"Patient has been stable for six hours. Their heartrate is still a little funny, and I'm not sure this godawful cocktail of tramadol, modafinil, and tricyclics we pulled out of their tox panel is good for anything other than keeping them from dying of withdrawal, but we should be seeing them awake soon."

"Thanks, Dr. Chen." You recognize this voice, soft and husky -- it's Dr. Crane. "Have you figured out the... um. Mortality problem?"

"Part of it is that stimulant cocktail, I'm sure -- we haven't had the chance to pull in a full Conclave mech with pilot intact, and our field teams don't have the tools to stabilize someone as quickly as we were able to do here. But the most likely reason... false molar full of tetrodotoxin. We made sure to extract it. Carefully."

You probe the back of your mouth with a sluggish tongue. There's still a tooth there, but it feels strange. The one that had been there was artificial already, of course, but this one is much smoother, more like the rest of your teeth. Something lightens within you -- you've lost an option, sure, but maybe you were never good with options.

"Fuck," Dr. Crane says quietly. 

"That's not all," Dr. Chen says. "There's extensive neural grafts consistent with the autopsies we've performed, but... there's something weird going on with the brain activity scan. I'm not sure what the Conclave is doing to their people, but it's scary."

"Nnn. 'M not," you say.

There's a rustling around your bed. You open your eyes and blink against the sharp light a few times, and eventually the face of Dr. Crane comes into focus.

"Hey," she says. "Glad you're awake. How are you feeling?"

You have no idea how to deal with this. Never expected to be in a hospital room of all things, being treated like valuable materiel instead of ammunition. So instead of answering her question, you just repeat your previous statement. "I'm not. Person."

She gives you a look you don't really know how to read. You never had to get all that good at reading faces, but you suspect this one might be hard even if you did.

"...well. Anyway." Dr. Crane clears her throat. "You had a medical emergency when you left your mech. You mentioned something about a syringe? I assume that's part of your post-operation routine? We've got you stable now. We're going to give you about another day to rest up before we bring you in for questioning."

"Questioning?"

"You're the only Conclave pilot we've brought in alive," she says, with a twist of her mouth. "It's damn near impossible to piece together any information about Conclave technology and hierarchy. I should know -- I'm the Union's top academic expert in Conclave culture and I always feel like I'm flying blind."

That was... a lot. You just nod.

"So you said something about... not having a name? Do you have something you'd like to be called? I know you're technically a prisoner, but you're safe here. People will respect what you say you are."

She says that last part with a lot of emphasis, a particular gravity to the words, but you're not sure why. "No."

"Okay. Designation number?"

"They re-assign our numbers every week so we don't get attached to them," you say.

She says a word under her breath that you don't know, other than that your handler says it when she gets mad.

"Alright." Dr. Crane takes off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. "How about I just call you "Pilot" for now?"

That's what you are, and you don't see why that's so difficult, but at least this line of questioning seems to be over when you answer yes. She promises to check on you in a while, and leaves.

---

You dream about vines.

They're all over you. You haven't seen many vines up close -- there was sparse ivy on the back of one hangar for a little while before Maintenance took care of it. But you feel you know these.

They aren't strangling you. It almost feels like a caress, like the flight suit, like Rebecca's post combat care, but not quite any of those. It's pleasant. Cool rather than warm, and calming.

There is intense pain in your arms and legs, but it doesn't bother you. It's like someone is telling you that your limbs are being shredded, but the pain isn't getting through to the part of you that cares. It's just another sensation, less pleasant than the vines but certainly not bad.

You feel things you can't explain. A name, a pull in a direction that's not physical, feelings and sounds beyond your ability to parse. They build to a crescendo, and you wake with a shout. But at the edges of your awareness, the green is still there.

---

The next morning, you're herded into a shower stall with a clean jumpsuit, a washcloth, and a bar of soap. You clean yourself off as well as you can, given the circumstances. The soap has a soft smell to it, and no grit. It almost doesn't feel like it's cleaning you at all, without the scratches.

You knock on the stall door once you're finished dressing, and the door slides back. In addition to the two guards, Dr. Crane is there. She's wearing the same white coat, but her hair is pulled back, and she looks even more tired.

Still, she manages a slight smile. "Pilot. Did you sleep well?"

"No," you say.

"Ah. Well, hopefully we can help with that tonight. In the meantime I have some questions for you."

You follow her through a maze of white corridors, lit with skylights. Your sense of direction was never the best (your mech always took care of that, you think with a twist in your gut.) You wouldn't be able to find your way back if you needed to.

She leads you to a room with two chairs, both of them plush and soft. You feel like you're sinking into it; she looks like she's perched on hers. She balances her clipboard on her knees and starts in eagerly on the questions.

There's a part of you that feels you should shut up, refuse to answer, let them finish the work they didn't let your false tooth start. But one handler's as good as another. You're a weapon, and weapons know no loyalty. So you answer -- even when the questions don't make sense, or aren't about obvious things, or are about things you've never been allowed to see.

The reactions don't really make sense to you either. You talk about some of your worst missions, and she seems sad but like she knew what was coming; you talk about your handler, and she's gripping her clipboard so hard her fingers go pale. You stop trying to understand what's going on, and try to hit the same state of unconscious action that you do on a sortie. Question, response. Question, response.

There are a few about your accommodations. They're fine, of course. You have little standard for comparison, and if she asks if you need anything else, you feel she won't leave you alone with a "no," so you ask for books. Rebecca was always reading when you were doing synch tests.

After what feels like the whole day, Dr. Crane lets you go. She doesn't ask you any questions about the haze of green starting to fade in around the corners of your vision when your mind drifts, so you don't volunteer any information.

---

The next day's meal comes with a couple of books, and Dr. Crane seems determined to find you the right reading material because every meal tray thereafter has more. There's a shelf in your room for the purpose. It was a ruse at first, but it is genuinely a better way of spending your time then staring at the wall.

There's more questions, along with a handful of medical tests, supervised by Dr. Chen. Dr. Chen's questions are even stranger than Dr. Crane's, but at least they seem satisfied with the answers given by the scans and blood draws.

A few days pass until you get a good enough feeling of the layout of the facility to know which direction the hangar is in. You occasionally see Caskie pilots in groups of twos and threes, talking and joking with each other. No handlers, no augments that you can see -- if you hadn't seen people in those same outfits walk out of their primitive looking mechs in the desert, you wouldn't believe that they were pilots at all.

All of them are coming and going in the same direction, and it's a direction that Doctor Crane and your guards never take you. So naturally, the first chance you get when both of your escorts are distracted and you have the chance, you peel off that direction and start running.

Your augments sing as you stretch your legs. They’re not like infantry augments (or so you’ve heard) and they don’t have auxiliary power – you can feel them burning away your body’s energy, energy that would normally be supplied by your mech. But your desperation fuels them just as much as your calories do, and the initial burst of speed and agility is all you need.

The facility is confusing as always, but you spot a sign that says HANGAR and get reoriented. Startled cries fly in your wake, doctors and workers and pilots confused at your frenzied speed. Something that might be an alarm and might just be lighting flashes at the corner of your vision, nearly obscured by the green.

You get lucky, and a mechanic is coming through the secured door at the checkpoint at the same time you arrive. You take advantage of her confusion and duck underneath her outstretched arm, through the door and out into the hangar bay.

It's not hard to find your mech. You remember the layout from your brief spell of consciousness after arrival, the way your mech looked so different from the rest and didn't quite fit into its space.

You pull up to a stop, wheezing from exertion, and look at it with dismay.

Your mech has been dismembered, all four limbs strewn about the bay hooked up to various pieces of testing equipment. The body itself is on a riser jack, slightly askew like there wasn't the right connector to fit it, hooked up by thick cables and patched-together connectors to the exposed limb contacts. The canopy stands open, the inside unlit but visibly cleaned of leftover connection gel.

The sight makes you sick. You hold it down, but barely; but the nausea makes it hard for you to resist when a burly mechanic comes up behind you and wrestles you to the floor.

You're not sure you would have, anyway.

By the time Dr. Crane has shown up, your face is wet with tears and snot, and your breath comes only with sobs. You're still being pinned to the ground by a mechanic, but she's not putting her full weight into it. She more or less let go when you started crying.

Dr. Crane pushes through the crowd of onlooking mechanics and kneels down in front of you. "Are you all right?" she asks.

At first, you think she's addressing the mechanic; it would be such an incongruous question to a pilot about to be terminated for insubordination. After a silence disproves that theory, you shake your head and gesture with one semi-restrained arm to the mech. "No."

"I'm sorry, pilot," she says, "but you are still a prisoner. I'm going to request the board not to restrict your access for this, given that you didn't really hurt anything -- and I'm sure they'll listen to me -- but you surely didn't think you could just get back in your mech and run away?"

"No," you say again, frustration at your own inadequate words prompting a fresh fall of tears. "It's... you're hurting it, you're..."

Things click together, things that you've always known. Feelings shared through the neural tunnel, deeply held beliefs that couldn't be kept from a pilot. You understand, now, what your mech was trying to tell you all along.

"You're hurting her."

Dr. Crane looks from you, to your mech, back to you. She goes pale.

"Are you telling me," she says quietly, "that there's an AI in your mech? A sentient AI?"

You nod. It's too late to lie, now. To protect her. The green in your vision threatens to overwhelm you. You're sorry, so, so sorry...

"A sentient AI that... we have been effectively torturing for four days. Fuck." She takes her glasses off, buries her face in her hands for a moment. "I can't believe that didn't come up during questioning."

It could have. You had avoided the topic, because you were afraid of this happening -- your greater part, torn away and experimented on because you couldn't keep her safe. You had always heard that the Union had strange beliefs about machine minds.

Dr. Crane looks around to some of the mechanics. "Anyone who was working on this mech -- did you have any idea there was a sentient AI? Any anomalous readings?"

"Some anomalies came up in the report that indicated synaptic activity in the post-0.4 Turing level," says one mechanic, nervously playing with their hair. "But everything about Conclave tech is anomalous. Kinda got buried in all the other weirdness."

"Okay." Dr. Crane sighs. "Can we get some input/output hooked up to her, please? And give her her limbs back."

One of the guards flanking her frowns. "I don't think that's a good--"

"She's a prisoner of war, Ortega. Pretty sure removing a sapient being's body parts is against something in the codes. Not to mention the First Principle."

Ortega sighs, and waves some mechanics over.

---

They don't know what connection gel is, but it doesn't matter. The sensation of her against your skin is important, but not as important as just reestablishing the connection.

Dr. Crane apparently spots your longing glances towards your mech, and takes you by the arm. When you flinch back, she holds her hands up in a defensive posture. "I'm sorry," she said. "I was just going to guide you over there again."

There's a lot of activity going on in the hangar, between the mechanics re-arming your mech and the other pilots getting suited up to react in case she tries to start killing people. (You don't think she's going to, but you suppose you can't blame them too much.) It would be a shame if your reunion with your mech got postponed because you got beaned in the head by an inattentive mechanic carrying a crysteel strut, so you offer your arm to Dr. Crane again and she guides you through.

You don't want to take too long, but you're only going to get to do this once. You run your hand over the lip where the canopy seats into the body, feel the soft seal and the framework beneath, then lift yourself up over and inside the cockpit.

There's no gel, so you can't hear her voice right away, but you know what to do. Years of drilling guide your hand to the hidden compartment with the emergency connection pads. It falls open with a clunk, the ribbon cables and connection pads jutting out in a fall like vines. One on either temple, one on either side of the chest, one on the back of each trembling hand. You're probably being watched, stared at as you have been since you broke into this hangar, but you don't care. She's here.

Hello, love.

You shudder, come apart, not in a procedural way like with your handler but in a form that shoots through to the very core of you. Untouched, but undone. You have no words for her, but you know she can feel your relief and your joy. You crumple, weeping, and run your hands over the familiar inside of the cockpit.

The green in your vision doesn’t go away, but it recontextualizes. It’s her. It’s the part of her that lives in you, a fragment within a fragment.

It's a little while, just basking in the connection, before you realize you've fallen in an uncomfortable position. Your skin, your joints, protesting their treatment. You reorganize yourself, pull yourself from the connection just long enough to get there. 

They've hooked a set of speakers up to her ports. They come to life with a spiky flare of static as she finds her voice.

"Hello," she says. You can feel her voice from inside and outside, through the tunnel and through the skin of the mech. "I am a Conclave of God Armored Forces Samson-B Light Interdiction Unit, but I would prefer if you called me Acacia."

[whereispearlescentmoon]

Hermit-A-Day Day 24: JoeHillsTSD

A reminder that these are both individual bits of writing that can be read on their own and supplemental material for my fic Glitch.

@hermitadaymay

Notes on the Player Known as JoeHillsTSD, Taken by the Admin.

Name: Joe Hills Tag: JoeHillsTSD Age: 38 Species: Human Ghost Currently Puppet Season of Arrival: 1 Method of Arrival: Invited to join near the beginning of the season. Species Traits: Joe was, at first, a perfectly normal human. However, it would seem, at some point a few years ago, Joe died. He showed up one day to a meeting as a ghost, with seemingly no memory of how he had become one. It is possible that his close connection to Cleo, a necromancer, is what allowed him to retain some form, though they have been cagey about giving any clear answer as to how Joe came to be a ghost. Miraculously, Joe retained the ability to become solid for long periods of time despite this, making him indistinguishable from a human most of the time. When he is not using this ability, Joe appears blue and translucent. His abilities as a ghost are the following- Moving through solid objects, creating cold spots, throwing his voice from random location, and possession. While the last one sounds terrifying, Joe rarely uses it as he seems to not find it pleasant himself*. *Additional Notes: As of season 10, Joe seems to have found a target for his possession that he enjoys. Which is to say, Joe is a puppet. Visually, he looks like a hand puppet being handled by a translucent handler. The puppet, however, can move independently and Joe's voice comes from it's mouth. The "handler" is largely visual and cannot be touched. Admin Notes: Of any Hermit, Joe has some of the oddest variety in his builds. It makes sense, for the kind of guy Joe is. The very first season of Hermitcraft, Joe spent the season creating a sort of ship of Theseus of his base so that by the end of the season he had the same shape made of different blocks. A lot of his builds are based on films, games, or TV shows. He's made a bar based on Cheers, a farmhouse from Field of Dreams,and in two separate seasons made builds from Dungeons and Dragons. He has also created replicas of a variety of buildings, like the Tower of Hercules and Hohenzollern Castle, and this season, Bell Labs. Joe's personality is really something to experience. There's a reason people talk about the "Joe Hills Difference". Joe isn't chaotic or crazy in a loud way. This does not stop him from being incredibly gregarious. He uses explosive fireworks to fly with despite them being both ineffective and causing damage. He sings randomly. His favorite color appears to be neon green which he wears constantly. It's hard to distill the sheer weirdness of how Joe moves about the world. It often leaves people unused to him speechless. And he does it all with a complete earnestness.

[fayemouse]

"It will do fine. For its first--"

That's the last thing you heard before the cockpit closed, hermoneu-- herma-- hermes-- whatever, airtight hiss blocking the industrial sounds around you.

You try to make sense of the panels and monitors in front of you and the flashing lights annoyingly blinking at the edges of your vision. You can't turn your head to look at them.

It lurches. You jump in your seat. They certainly didn't give you a briefing on this.

One monitor in your primary vision begins to tell you its story, reporting on something that certainly seems important: parallel lines and perspective in motion.

It takes -- you shrug -- 10-ish minutes for the first light to beg for action. A blue one, blinking fast and brighter than all the rest, in the corner of your right eye. Ugh, that kind of thing always flipped your stomach.

You reach your arm over to block it out. Why did your arm feel so heavy? The low rumble of the machine around you must have lulled you to sleep a little. You can't hold it up for long and it falls to a textured rubber mat.

At least the blinking stopped.

25 minutes pass. Another monitor tells you its story. There's some red dots up high and red dots below. Like an old cat with a light, you lethargically paw at them. Your fingers tap each spot through the film of the screen.

It could have been anything. You shrug off how you knew that the right answer was that they felt your touch, how your touch would cleanse the screen of invaders.

Anyway. Those lights are off now.

37 minutes. An impertinent 565nm diode pulses. You don't even need to unfocus to see it. Your arm doesn't feel like it's moving, but the ulnaris tendon contracts as you thoughtlessly turn a potentiometer.

The hum of the cockpit turns to a higher pitched whine, 782 hz. It stabilizes for 48 seconds then you know to snap the dial clockwise 114 degrees to cut it off.

The diode steadies.

2476 seconds, Handler. Another story being told across multiple screens and readouts. Swiftly moving reticles along virtualized environments, highlighting reinforced concrete in an inversion of brutalist ideals.

The Neo Etruscan government buildings, 5 of them, with occupational capacities ranging from 300 to 2400, each have their structural weak points.

Some are scars from previous tenants -- the governments change so fast. Others are flaws in the very way they were built. Each is enough that a well-targeted 12.7x99mm would lead to unexpected collapse.

Pilots do not need to move. Pilots do not need to consider. Targets are acquired and ordinance is dispatched.

Pilot's aim is true, Handler.

"T+14341, Handler. Sensors reported full structural collapse of 5 Etruscan government buildings leading to no less than 3955 casualties, disabling of 9 defensive turrets leading to an estimated 29 combatant casualties."

Handler's fingers slide through Pilot's sweaty hair as it continues.

"Pilot reports hydraulics failure in B-6 and B-8. Pilot reports compensation necessary and completed per Manual Section 3 Chapter 134 Paragraph 4 through 7."

Handler nods. He retracts his hand. He circles in front of Pilot.

"Attention."

Pilot stands sharply. There is a pooled stain of sweat on the rug where it sat.

"Dismissed."

Pilot gives an about face. Pilot leaves to its quarters.

Hours upon hours dawdle along the path of the day. Lights out comes as it always does. Sleep does not.

Pilot… It… You stare into the darkness of your windowless room.

You swear that you can hear them screaming.

[www-bvnny-b4b3couture]

Teeth

Deadpool and Wolverine needed help and Wade had the perfect(not at all) person in mind.

No idea abt the word count

Warnings: Blood, cussing, inappropriate jokes, small amounts of cannibalism, knarly looking mouth ima tell u now lmao

(Background on her for context, her mutation is actually that she can heal from basically any injury, BUT, she’ll only heal if she dies first. So to heal she needs to kill herself. She’s also just stronger and faster than the average person. Because of this scientists tracked her down and took her hostage, experimenting on her to get the “ultimate killing machine”. So they gave her those teeth and mouth, along with an insatiable craving for human flesh. Think like combining her dna or sum. Now her handlers use her as an assassin, and she’s somewhat succumbed to the instinct implanted in her brain.

I wanted to make a character like Mileena from Mortal Kombat, I love knarly powers 🙏🏼)

_________________________________________________

“Who the hell are we meeting, Wade?” Logan asked once they walked past their tenth storage unit, they were at the docks. “Uhh hold on I remember the number of it.” He held his finger up, inspecting each number and once again shaking his head ‘no’. Logan was starting to lose his patience when he suddenly pointing at a black cargo container.

“Alright- oh! I forgot to mention she doesn’t really like me.” Logan let out a genuine laugh, “Nobody likes you.” Wade just gave him a deadpanned face for a second before knocking on the door quite hard.

They were met with complete silence, Wade turned to Logan, “Mind knocking?” Logan rolled his eyes and knocked three times, this time the noise was startling and the crate was almost vibrating. “Attaa boy, I didn’t think mine would be loud enough.” Wade slapped Logan on the back, earning a scowl from him.

After a few seconds they heard some metal move and the door open an inch, 2 tiny throwing knives shot out. Wade let out a girlish scream, “Honey buns it’s me!” He shrieked, dodging another tiny knife.

“Wade get the fuck outta here!” A female voice suddenly shouted from inside. It was beginning to close but Wade quickly ran and grabbed it from her, pulling it back to open more, “You wanna lose your fingers fine!”

“Well now would be a great time to help, Wolverine!” Wade shouted his hero name mockingly, struggling against her. Logan firmly grabbed the door and all of a sudden the woman was easily overpowered by 2 to 1. An animalistic growl was heard as the door slid open and a black haired woman fell forward.

On all fours she sent a quick to Wade’s stomach, sending him flying back into another cargo container. Logan saw she had a black mask covering half of her face, only piercing amber eyes could be seen. She tried to kick him but he caught her by the ankle, she struggled against his grip. While she was physically stronger than Wade, not against him.

Realizing her situation she slipped her mask off, Logan cringed at the sight of her face. It looked like she had unhealed gashes along the corners of her mouth. A guttural growl escaped her throat and she opened her mouth. Her mouth began tearing at the sides, opening far wider than a humans mouth should, sharp razor like teeth lined her mouth instead of human teeth.

Suddenly sharp cat-like claws came out of her gloves and she slashed at his arm, causing him to drop her. She jumped up, attempting to slice at him but her eyes widened when she saw the giant claws coming out of his hand, stopping her attack. She growled and pushed against him, getting close enough to try and snap at him with her mouth. She wrapped her leg around his, using the fact he was heavier and knocking him over, with him falling first.

She attempted to bite at his face as they fell, using his forearm to block her bite she suddenly let out a painful scream when she bit down. She wasn’t aware of the adamantium encased all around his skeleton. She pushed herself off of him, making sure to get a bit of distance before stopping and clutching her mouth. “You fucking cock I think one of my teeth snapped.”

“Good you ugly bitch.” She scowled at Logan, who was staring at his bloody arm. “Fuck you, who do you think you are coming to MY house and knocking on my door like that?” She cursed back at him.

They both all of a sudden looked to Wade, who was just now getting up. “We need your help! You’re the only one I know who could help me find someone in 24 hours.” She rolled her eyes, “Why would I help you. The last time I saw you, you ran me over AND LEFT ME THERE. Which. FUCK YOU.”

That made Logan snap his head in Wade’s direction, giving him a ‘are you serious bro’ look.

“Well you tried eating me remember darling.” She rolled her eyes at him with a low growl, “Like always you were in my way.”

“Seriously what the fuck is wrong with both of you.” Logan muttered, she glared at him, her teeth becoming more visible.

“I can’t help either of you. Even if I wanted to.” She spoke calmer than she had the whole time, walking back into her box. But not before roughly bumping her shoulder into Logan’s on her way.

“She wants me.” Logan rolled his eyes at Wade, completely irritated with him since he wasted their time.

2 days later…

Wade and Logan were easily cutting down the men in their way of getting to the man they needed. Now on the third floor it was suspiciously quiet. They walked cautiously, guards up.

“Hey fuckheads.” Their heads snapped in the direction of the voice and Wade gasped when he saw her. “Baby! You care about me after all.” She scowled at him, “I will fucking eat you.”

“It’ll grow back every time.” She sighed in frustration and pulled out 2 sai from her sides, “You need to stop getting in my way.” She looked at Logan, “You too.”

Wade’s eyes widened in fake betrayal, but in reality he wasn’t surprised her handlers had her here. “Oh honeybuns, one day you’ll see I’m always there for you and you’ll realize you’re in love with me and we’ll make nasty debilitating hot sex.” He droned on, she shifted uncomfortably by the end before a dagger landed in his mouth.

She ran on all fours at them before jumping up and landing on Deadpool. Letting out the growl of an animal, her mouth open wide, biting Wade’s forearm clean off. Not stopping there, biting and snapping at him like a mad man. Her teeth easily tearing into whatever flesh she could.

She let out a screech when she felt something impale through her shoulder, pulling her back and lifting her up by her shoulder. She bent her back, trying to claw at Wolverine but he landed a punch right in her nose, she growled, using a sai in her hand and slashing at his hand where he was holding her captive by claw.

That caused him to retract his claws and she grunted feeling the metal slide out and landed on all fours, kicking Logan’s knee and making him drop down. As she was turning around she noticed a flash of red and was suddenly blocking a strike from a sword.

“We were meant to be honey buns. I’m your unlimited buffet.” She could see a grin through his mask and she slashed at him with her free hand, jumping up and trying to snap at him. With his other sword he caught her mid bite, she growled, struggling against him. He could see his sword beginning to fold and he kicked her knee harshly, crunch. That made her release his sword and fall on her knees, she wasted no time though and sent one of her sai into his torso.

She let out a shriek when she felt herself be impaled right in the stomach by familiar claws, and then she heard static in her ear piece before hearing a familiar voice. “MK. Scientist Lenovo has successfully been transferred to another location. Pull away.” She gritted her teeth, well it was a bit late now.

The two men noticed her change, now longer looking determined. She went a bit limp in Logan’s claws, looking at Wade, “The man you want isn’t here anymore.”

“What?!” Wade shrieked, looking into her eyes, not trusting if she was lying or not but as he looked into her eyes he knew she was being honest. “God dammit! So you were just here to distract us!”

“Get your fucking claws out of me.” She turned her head to Logan who was behind her. “I should slice through your ugly ass.” She gritted her teeth, “Fuck you old fuck.” She felt his claws dig in deeper somehow and she tried not to let a sound of pain out. She grabbed onto Wade who was arms length and used him to pull herself off. “Oo I knew you would see it one day-” He started before getting socked in the nose. She knocked him back into the wall.

She landed a bit weirdly since her knee was broken, she put distance between herself and the two men. She needed to get out of here soon.

“MK. Pull out.” The voice in her ear piece sounded less patient than before, she looked around a bit frantically. The sound of a helicopter could be heard and she saw a bright light from it appear from outside the window.

Logan was able to hear the voice in her intercom and realized she was looking for an exit. She sighed and realizing the quickest way out.

“Why do you work for them?” The question was out of nowhere and it made her brows furrow at Logan, she stared at him for 2 seconds silently. “What else am I supposed to do?” She scoffed at him before running at the window full speed and jumping out, the glass shattering making her eyes ring.

As she jumped out there was a rope coming down from the helicopter. It began pulling her up, he could see into it. There were a few men in complete black getups inside, one of the men suddenly raised a gun to her head, firing without hesitation.

That made Logan’s eyes almost pop out of his face but Wade laughed and pointed at his face, “Oh my god you should see your face. It’s ok silly goose she can heal like us except she needs to die first. So inconvenient huh? We’re so much better right. Made me shit myself the first time she hopped back up.” He nudged his shoulder earning a glare from Logan.

“Gives me the creeps.” His expression unreadable as he watched the helicopter disappear into the air.

A/n: This is the first ever fanfic I wrote on tumblr guyss. Lowk wish I could say it was better but like I’m barely gettin my groove guys. 🌚 Ima probably make more parts for this since I just like wanted to write how they met first. Also the pics r just refs for her mouth not actual her looks.

[leatherfag]

leatherfag pinned

This is an adult blog where I talk about leather, kink, and BDSM lifestyle things. Minors will be blocked.

about me: 23 y/o transmasc (any pronouns) bear cub. pup handler. sadomasochist. incorrigible brat. wearer of many very fun roles.

blog organization: I try my best to tag common triggers (usually without the addition of 'cw' or 'tw', just the words themselves). That said, I can't guarantee a complete lack of anything on this blog, other than excessive gore. You are welcome here regardless of what you like or need to filter. Common tags I use for people to filter as needed include: #cnc #intox #snuff #fauxcest #age play

I'll block liberally when it comes to bigotry but otherwise please feel free to approach, DM, ask, whatever :) I don't bite until I do.

[loumandaniel]

OKAY SO a lot of my s3 thoughts are informed by the rly weird (and imo satisfying!) things the show does w/its multiple timelines, non-chronological storytelling, forced limited pov, etc

SEASON 3 THEORIES:

s3 is going to combine the events of tvl and qotd! it’s gonna kickoff in media res with the Vampire Lestat San Francisco concert, and the events of s3-4 (x8ep each) with drive towards the end of qotd (i believe they will tie off loose ends so that the series feels complete, but leave opportunities for s4)

the meta container for the show is gonna be Daniel Molloy directing a rockumentary — Lestat is going to be a MUCH more willfully unreliable narrator than Louis on purpose so they’re gonna have a lot of fun with the visual representation of this — instead of “was it raining Louis?” it’s going to be “and then all the wolves did a Busby Berkeley dance number” and Daniel’s like “they did fucking not, but proceed”

it’s not just gonna be vox pops either, it’s going to be like 20,000 Days on Earth meets Desolation Center meets The Decline of Western Civilization

setting more stuff in SF is going to dig in a bit more to the history of SF’s response to the AIDS crisis & Shadows in the Skin is going to be a direct homage to And the Band Played On

Rashid goes on tour with Daniel & Lestat as Daniel’s Talamasca handler

loumand divorce sex

lbf shows up for a hallucinatory threesome involving young & old daniel

Louis, Claudia, and Armand are going to appear in Lestat’s recollections so there will be interesting stuff re: seeing them thru Lestat’s eyes

Past devils minion happened only in so far as stalking that Daniel never fully recognizes as such — he’s haunted but he’s worried it’s someone he borrowed money from, who he ripped off with bad dope, the boyfriend of someone he slept with looking for revenge etc

cough Julian Rhind-Tutt as Marius cough

okay okay i have to watch 20,000 days on earth because you and grace are both talking about it in relation to s3. you’ve given me so much TBR and watchlist material

i’m so stuck on the rockumentary, the use of the errol morris interrotron, and daniel’s mind gift now. i keep meaning to ask you about the three in relation. the camera method is typically intimate and up close (shifty lies caught in hd), but daniel should pretty adept at the mind gift by then. i feel as if lestat’s just better at blocking is a bit of a cop out personally. i’ve seen theories louis could take over midway.

louis in lestat’s eyes!!! it’s gonna be pink clouds and heart filters whenever the camera is on him. i’ve been really interested in claudia’s ghost as well. jesse reeves first sees her in the townhouse and i wonder if that’s why lestat no longer lived there.

there’s a line in queen of the damned “memory is a menace” and i think that’s the theme forward next to the odyssey of recollection” & “memory is a monster” of s1/2

[soaringthroughthegalaxy]

A Quiet Place to Rest

It's hard to sleep during thunderstorms, especially with enhanced senses.

Pairing: Hunter x f!reader

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: fluff, cuteness, sweetness, idiots trying to hide their feelings from each other - this is SFW folks.

Thunder cracked across the sky, illuminating the barracks on Kamino. Storms were common on the water planet, and you’d long learnt to love them. Tonight, you’d opted to camp out on the large couch that Wrecker had procured from Maker knows where and watch the storm as it rolled past Tipoca City.

Around you, the boys snoozed. These days, two years deep into the war, they could sleep through almost anything.

Two years. It had gone past in the blink of an eye. You could still remember the day you’d been introduced to Clone Force 99 and assigned as their civilian handler. It was your job to keep in contact with Command, feed the boys their missions, and ensure they had everything they needed to complete their work and return safely.

While most handlers chose to remain on Kamino, away from the blaster fire and chaos, you’d elected to go with the Batch, to live on the Marauder with them and share their barracks on the rare occasion you could return to base. After all, you couldn’t keep them safe if you weren’t with them.

“Can’t sleep?” The quiet, smoky rasp of Hunter’s voice graced your ears as he circled the couch, sitting down at your side. He was as nimble on his feet as a lothcat – you'd lost count of how many times he’d made you jump by suddenly appearing next to you.

Head turning to look at the man by your side, you admired the sharp line of his jaw, the tattoo that shaded half of his face, and the bags that were a permanent feature under his dark eyes. A constant reminder of the pressure he was under as the squad’s leader. “Still winding down.” You answer just as quietly. The last few missions had been tough, back-to-back with barely a few hours downtime between them. Your mind was too noisy for rest. “Can’t sleep either?”

Hunter’s gaze flits to the large window at your question, a small noise of discomfort sliding past his lips. “Lightening.” His answer is only one word, but it explains everything. The storm was messing with his senses, producing a strong electric field that he couldn’t tune out. He’d tried all his usual techniques for blocking it to no avail. So, he’d resigned himself to a night awake, and a thumping migraine in the morning.

“Here…” You murmur, stretching out a little on the couch before patting your lap in invitation. Sometimes after tough missions, Hunter would seek you out, sitting for a while in your presence, bringing the focus of his senses onto you so he could then slowly draw them back under control.

Hunter didn’t need to be told twice. He shifts, laying down across the couch, head resting in your lap, cheek pressed to your bare leg. Your fingers find their way into his hair – bandana-less and ruffled from trying to sleep. As your nails drag across his scalp, he lets out a small sigh, warmth seeping through him at the gentle action. Slowly he starts to hone in on you, letting the soft scent of your shampoo fill his lungs as he takes a deep breath, the slow thud of your heartbeat ringing in his ears, the feel of your bare thighs beneath his cheek and the warmth coming from your body. The fact you slept in one of Wrecker’s old shirts – oversized on you and skimming mid-thigh – was both a blessing and a curse.

“Any better?” You ask softly, gazing down at him, watching as his eyes slide shut and he lets out a soft sigh, the tension in his body starting to melt away. You loved these moments, when he relinquished his fearless leader persona.

“Mhm.” Hunter murmurs, feeling the pounding in his skull starting to recede the longer he rests in your lap and soaks up your affection. But he’s greedy, and he wants more, even though he knows he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be having anything other than professional thoughts about you. But that’s all they’ll stay for now, though – thoughts.

You fall into a comfortable silence as he rests in your lap. Slowly your hand moves from his hair to brush across his shoulder, and then down his arm, fingers dancing across tattooed skin. You’d been surprised to learn that the tattoo which shades half his face continues downwards to darken half his body too. Eventually, you find his hand, sliding your fingers against his to lace them together. It’s only a second before Hunter’s thumb moves to press against your wrist, right on your pulse point, giving him something else to focus on.

The storm continues to rage on outside, and together you sit through it quietly. It’s another hour or so before it passes, though the sky remains clouded and grey. You hadn’t spoken a word to each other during it – lost in your thoughts, coming down from the last few missions. “How’s your head?” You ask Hunter softly, breaking the silence as you give his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Easing.” He breathes a sigh of relief, his senses settling as the storm moves past Tipoca City. He’ll still feel it anywhere on the planet, but the further away it moves the less grief it gives him. Giving your hand a squeeze in return, Hunter’s greed flares again and this time he allows himself to give in to it. Pulling your hand closer, he cradles it to his chest as he remains resting in your lap, dropping a kiss on the smooth skin on the back of your hand. The action pulls a soft chuckle from you, the sound one of his absolute favourites, and he soaks it up like a man stuck in the sands of Tattooine. He notes how your heart pounds a little more fiercely too, but he opts not to say anything, privately relishing the effect such a simple act can have.

You know your heart is beating quickly, but you’d long given up trying to mask it. There was no fooling Hunter’s senses, and you were starting to suspect he was purposefully doing things to set your pulse racing anyway – he’d been a lot more open with his affection as of late.

“Try and get some sleep.” You murmur, gazing down at his profile, marvelling at this incredible man curled against you. His hair had been smoothed a little from your strokes, and the tension in his shoulders was gone now. He was even more gorgeous than usual, softer and quieter, without the weight of the squad's safety on his mind now they were safely in their bunks nearby.

Hunter stifles a yawn, burrowing closer towards you and your body heat. The tendrils of sleep are pulling at him, beckoning him into the abyss. And with your request, he’s even more powerless to fight it. He knows even an hour or two of rest will do him good, and with you keeping watch, he’s never felt safer. “Anything for you, cyar’ika.”

[wisedelusionalmarshmallow]

TAKE MY NIRVANA PREVIEW

1.6k (1/3 first chapter) - Ao3 link - fic masterlist

CW: Guns, assassins, fighting, fraud, suggestive language, alcohol, manipulation, mentions of (minor character death, drugs, bombs, suicide, sex)

“For the record, I’m never doing anything like this again—” Barty stresses, talking to the earpiece that’s sitting on the right side of his head.

He is currently en route to The Royal Hotel, where a gala and auction for The Harmony Network is taking place tonight. THN is some shitty mental health non-profit that was opened by one of the most influential families of this and last century, the Blacks. The organization ‘advocated’ for equal men’s and women’s support. They collected donations in hopes of opening a centre one day and creating a ‘safe space’ for everyone to get the support they need.

And, while that all sounds fine and dandy, awesome even—it’s all a lie. THN is actually fake. A sham. A way for the Blacks to launder money while keeping profits up and their image intact. But Barty doesn’t care about exposing them for their heinous crimes or shutting the entire thing down. He is more interested in getting paid. And he will be paid handsomely once he completes his mission—which is the whole reason he’s headed there in the first place. And the mission?

Murdering the heir.

Anyone who wants the Blacks gone knows that the quickest way to ruin their lives is to expose the charity. And where better to start from than the face of THN, Regulus Black himself? Sure, the kid’s barely 24 and is more often found on magazine covers rather than the streets (with the rest of his family). But he’s the block at the bottom of the Jenga tower. And pulling the block from the bottom means that tower will fall. Then, when their fraudulent charity goes down, they will too. Their image, their wealth, their power. It’ll all tumble down.

It didn’t really matter to Barty, but it’s good to know the motive before the murder.

The windows of the limo he is being driven in were tinted, so no one could see the way he’s currently sitting. Which is, of course, not sitting, and instead just laying in the leather backseat, popping complimentary mints into his mouth occasionally.

“—no more parties or galas, or weddings—anything of the sort. I’m not doing it,” he declares.

“Barty, it’s a fucking suit jacket,” James replies.

The suit jacket is entirely too small. It’s uncomfortable, limits his mobility, and does absolutely nothing to flatter his body. Barty wasn’t too fond of wearing a suit in the first place, so to find it didn’t fit was just perfect.

And who got the lovely suit for him? James Potter.

He had been Barty’s ‘handler’ for a few years now. It’s not an official term or position or anything. But James finds jobs for Barty to work, then keeps him safe and updated for a cut of the profit.

“Okay? It’s way too small, and I can barely grab my gun from here,” he defends. He always keeps his gun strapped to his torso, which usually is a very accessible location, but now, with the jacket, he’s too scared of ripping it. Thank God it’s only a simple hit.

“Barty! Shut the fuck up about the gun! Does the word ‘undercover’ not mean anything to you?” James exclaims over the line.

The assassin flinches. Even though James may not even be in the same country as him right now, he could feel his wrath through the communicator.

He checks his watch, then sits up in the limo, seeing that they should be close to the hotel now. A quick look out the window tells him that they’ve arrived as his driver pulls into the parking lot of the hotel. Perfect timing.

The building is beautiful. Magnificent. Gorgeous. Whatever other word you can think of to describe how disgustingly posh it is. Marble pillars, hand-laid stone pathways, luxurious gardens, and valet service. Golden lettering spelled out ‘The Royal’ atop doors big enough ogres could fit through them. Hmm, fitting. The hotel is a whopping fifteen floors and contained so many amenities it sounded like a tiny town itself. One of which is the grand ballroom, where the auction is being held.

“Okay! Okay! Fine, but the next time we do something like this, I’m having a proper fitting.”

“Thought you said you were never doing this again?” James asks smugly.

“Meh,” Barty shrugs. The more that Barty studies the hotel, the more he realizes how nice it must be to have one of those rooms. Maybe he’ll find someone tonight that has a room that he can spend the night with, just so he can see what their room service is like in the morning—actually, that creates the perfect alibi too. “It’s growing on me. The event, I mean, it’s a real fancy place. I still hate the jacket.”

“Wait, you arrived?”

“Yeah? Don’t you have like trackers on me or something?” Barty huffs a laugh.

“Well, I do. But I thought I made you promise to communicate with me this time. Or do I need to remind you of the last mission—?”

Last mission, of course. The whole thing went bottoms up because Barty forgot to mention he swapped guns with one of the security members in the haze of the fight, leading to not having the proper ammo to refill and being stranded, having to rely on hand-to-hand, which he didn’t practice much of back then. He’s much more prepared now. He hopes.

“Okay! You can forget the recap! I’ve arrived at the hotel, and I’m reaching for the door handle—” Barty responds sarcastically, narrating his movements for better ‘communication.’

“Wait!” James groans, clearly annoyed with Barty but needing to relay more important information to him.

“What? Need to tell me to stay safe and that you love me?” Barty responds in a mocking tone.

“Close. It’s actually called ‘let me know if you understand what the hell is happening tonight,’” his handler deadpans.

The assassin groans, his hand still holding onto the handle, fingers tapping the metal. “Want me to spell it out for you?”

“That would be great actually.”

A loud, dramatic sigh leaves Barty’s mouth. They’ve only gone over this like, two thousand times already. What’s another one? “Okay. Find the baby—Regulus.” He quickly corrects, not wanting James to pester him about his nickname for him again. It fits; he is the youngest and the cutest. “Kill him, and leave.”

“And…?” James prompts.

“And? There’s an and?” He falls back into his seat, letting go of the handle to run his hand through his hair. Then quickly pausing mid-action because he actually took the time to style his black hair today. What is he missing? That’s all that the job is. Just a simple hit.

“We went over this,” his handler responds, frustrated by Barty’s lack of memory.

“We did? Wait! Okay, I remember it now.” He groans, remembering the stupid rule James put in place for him. “Don’t get distracted by pretty boys.” There goes his idea for an alibi tonight and the chance for five-star room service.

“Good!” He responds patronizingly. Barty just rolls his eyes at him. “That’s the most important part, honestly.”

“Oh my god! That happened one time, okay?” Another big part of why the last mission went so horribly wrong was the fact that someone stole the hard drive—what he needed to retrieve from the nightclub—off of him. Some pretty blonde doctor that he was trying to take home. Nicked it right off his person. Barty tried to chase him afterward to get it back, but, again, his hand-to-hand wasn’t as polished as it should have been, and he was a little…distracted.

“Yeah? And it derailed the entire mission! You were looking at him like he hung the stars.”

“He punched me in the face; that's practically the same thing,” the assassin smirks. He kills people for a living; sue him if he’s a little masochistic.

A scoff came through from the other end of the line. “Right. Well, now you can actually head inside. I’ll be here—”

“—the entire time, remember to communicate, blah blah—yeah, got it, James. You keep me safe from your basement; I’ll do my thing.” Barty interrupts, having heard this line many times before. He sits up in the car and grabs onto the handle again, ready to get this over with. A simple hit.

“It’s not a basement—! Just get going. Nothing you haven’t done before,” James encourages, giving up on his protest. Barty would never believe him if he did, for all he knows James could just be some nerdy teenage boy in his basement, or the second Alfred Pennyworth. But he keeps him employed. That's all that matters.

“Haven’t done it in a jacket from the kids department before.”

“Barty,” his handler warns.

“Okay! Going!” Barty says quickly, not wanting to piss him off further and make things worse for himself. He pulls on the door handle to open it but quickly turns around and grabs a few more green mints for his pants pockets before actually leaving the car.

The moment he steps foot onto the cobblestone path outside the hotel is the first time he feels nervous. But he always has the jitters before a mission.

A chilly breeze passes by him, making the fall weather feel colder than it actually is. He felt a little bad for the amount of women with sleeveless dresses heading inside. But events like these would host the ‘beauty is pain’ crowd, so he’s not surprised.

He shuts the limo door behind him and fixes his clothes slightly. Straightens out his black vest, making sure his black dress shirt is properly tucked into the black slacks and trying to adjust the black suit jacket to something actually comfortable. It's pretty obvious what his favourite colour is, isn’t it?

And! Before anyone comments that black is ‘just a shade,’ what’s the difference between navy and Columbia blue, hmm? Wait, that's saturation. Well, whatever! Black comes in every 24-colour pencil crayon box. So at least he has Crayola on his side.

Okay! Enough winning fights in your own head! Let’s do this!

continue reading : Ao3 link