#Mission Operations Control Room | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

geminiwritten · 2 months ago

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perfect storm ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: you and jake have a messy history and have been comfortably hating each other for the past few years, until all hell breaks loose when you're brought in as the newest member of maverick's special detachment (enemies to lovers)

notes: okay, i'm starting to think that i really should work at work instead of write... like, is it unethical? anyways, idc!!! have some enemies to lovers! i'm not feeling as strong about this, despite the fact that i've chosen writing over sleep and work for the past few days... but i really hope y'all like it and i hope it lives up! please let me know what you think!!!

warnings: swearing, angst, miscommunication, jake is an asshole, allusions to sex (18+ ONLY PLEASE), bad weather / storm descriptions, a written plane crash, and frequent mention of plane crashes! let me know if i’ve missed anything!

word count: 12439

your callsign is angel

“Alright, listen up.” Maverick stands at the front of the room, his trademark leather jacket draped over his shoulders and his hands firmly planted on his hips. “You received your official briefing this morning, but we’re going to go over a few things now.”

The chatter that had filled the room falls to an abrupt silence as the aviators, now fully attentive, settle into their chairs—every eye on their captain.

“Let’s start with the basics. Just like the last operation, this mission is classified. You’ve all been reassigned from your standard duties to continue training as part of this special operations detachment. Not all of you will deploy, but everyone will undergo training and remain in reserve if you’re not selected. We’ve got a bit more time to prepare this go-around, but don’t mistake that for leniency. This mission is unlike anything you’ve experienced before, with brand new challenges ahead.” He pauses, his gaze sharpening as he locks eyes with Mickey and then Bob. “Our weapons systems officers will be key to our success.”

Natasha raises her hand, waiting for Maverick to acknowledge her before speaking. “Will the same pilots from the last mission be prioritised?”

Maverick shakes his head firmly. “No. There’s no favouritism or preference. Selection will be based on performance during training. We’ll see who excels in the specific skills needed for this mission.”

Bob leans forward. “Will Omaha and Halo be returning to the detachment?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Maverick replies. “As you’re all aware, Omaha and Halo were urgently recalled to their original squadrons and will not be returning. But rest assured, arrangements have been made to bring in a top-tier replacement.”

Jake tilts his head, a frown forming as confusion plays across his face. “Replacement, sir? Singular? If this mission hinges on WSOs, shouldn’t we be getting a pair to replace Omaha and Halo?”

What Jake is really asking—without being blatantly obvious—is why they’d bring in another pilot to compete with him for mission lead.

Maverick’s signature smirk, the one that gets him both in and out of trouble, curls at the corners of his lips. “You’re not wrong, Hangman," he says, voice steady. “Which is why I’ve decided that Coyote”—he glances at the man sitting beside Jake—“will no longer be flying solo.”

Javy’s eyes widen, brows lifting in surprise as a grin tugs at his lips. “I get a WSO?”

Just outside the training room door, a knot of nerves begins to coil in your stomach, but you don’t let them show. Nerves are nothing new to you—unwanted, but familiar. You’ve learned how to manage them. When your heart starts to race at the thought of something trivial, like walking into a room full of the country’s best naval aviators, you remind yourself what real fear feels like. Like being strapped into the back seat of a fighter jet, spinning out of control, wondering if you’ll ever see your family again. That’s fear. This? This is just another challenge.

The admiral standing beside you smiles, but it’s an awkward fit for his hard-lined face. “They’re ready for you now.” He gestures toward the door. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out. Maverick is your captain, but… well, he can be a bit trying. Exceptionally skilled, and somehow always managing to dodge death, but trying.”

A light laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Duly noted. Thanks, Admiral Simpson.”

His smile tightens as he gives you a terse nod. “Cyclone,” he corrects, his tone sharp. As he turns to walk away, he glances back over his shoulder. “Good luck, Angel.”

You take a steadying breath, roll your shoulders back, and step through the door into the training room—where ten sets of eyes, and one captain you’ve already met, turn to face you.

“This,” Maverick announces with a grin, “is Angel.”

Jake fucking Seresin—because of course it’s him—shoots up from his chair like he’s been launched, disbelief written all over his face. His scowl is thunderous as he whips toward Maverick. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Maverick’s smile drops instantly, confusion flickering across his face before it hardens into something closer to disappointment. He may not be a by-the-book kind of CO, but he’s not about to tolerate open insubordination first thing on a Monday morning.

Your heart slams in your chest, each beat pounding hot blood through your veins. Anger simmers under your skin, but unlike Jake, you don’t let it take the wheel. Instead, you plaster on the sweetest, most radiant smile you can summon—one worthy of your callsign.

From the front row, Natasha snorts. “Oh, man. This is going to be fun.”

“Lieutenant Seresin,” Maverick snaps, voice sharp. “Sit. Down.”

“Mav,” Jake says, clearly abandoning any trace of professionalism, “you don’t understand-”

“I understand perfectly,” Maverick cuts in, his scowl deepening. “Now take your seat. That’s an order.”

Jake drops into his chair stiffly, posture ramrod straight, jaw clenched so tight you can see it working from across the room.

“Good.” Maverick’s gaze shifts to you, his tone softening. “Take a seat, Angel. I take it you already know a few of my aviators.”

You nod and start forward, willing your legs to move. “Yes, sir.”

You offer quiet hellos to Harvard, Yale, and Fritz as you pass them, and Reuben and Mickey each get a subtle fist bump. Bradley throws you a wink as you slide into the open seat beside him, and Natasha and Bob twist in their chairs to whisper excited greetings your way. Across the aisle, Javy leans forward past Jake’s stone-still form to offer you a smile—though there’s a flicker of nervousness behind his eyes.

“Alright,” Maverick claps his hands together, “let’s go over the mission parameters.”

You do your best to focus on what your captain is saying, but it’s difficult with Jake shooting you dirty looks every few minutes. When Maverick announces that you’ll be flying as Javy’s WSO, it clicks—that’s why he looked so nervous before. Still, you’re more relieved than anything. As long as you’re not stuck in a jet with Jake at the controls.

After nearly an hour of mission briefing and discussing operational challenges, Maverick finally decides that it’s time to fly.

“Phoenix,” he calls as the group begins to file out. “Hang back a sec.”

Natasha gives you a curious glance but stops, turning back to the captain. You continue out the door with Bob, only half-listening as he talks about the last special detachment training. Something about SAM evasion drills and low-level ingress routes.

Once the room clears, Maverick crosses his arms and lets out a heavy sigh. “Can you explain whatever the hell that was?”

Natasha’s concern fades instantly, replaced by a smirk. “You mean Hangman and Angel?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah.”

“Why don’t you ask one of them?”

He looks up, visibly exasperated. “Did you see the way they were glaring at each other? I’d get two completely different versions of the same disaster.”

Natasha laughs quietly. “Fair.”

He waits, arching a brow—inviting her to keep going.

“To be honest, I don’t know the full story,” she says. “But it goes back to TOPGUN. She was his WSO. They were… kind of legendary. Unbeatable, from what I’ve heard. There were even rumours about the two of them dating.”

Maverick’s expression shifts—mild curiosity now threading through his frown.

“Rooster swears she’s the only woman Hangman ever really wanted but couldn’t have,” Natasha continues. “But I think he saw her as a threat and convinced her to fly with him just to keep her close.”

Maverick’s frown deepens. “So, what happened?”

“One of their last flights before graduation, Hangman pulled something reckless—overconfident, stupid. The usual. He got them into some serious trouble. They lost control and had to eject, both ending up in the hospital.”

Maverick doesn’t interrupt, just listens, arms still crossed.

“They refused to speak to each other after that. It got so bad during the investigation that they almost got court-martialled—they kept arguing during the hearing. I’m pretty sure the crash was ruled pilot error on their records.”

He lets out a low whistle. “And they still graduated?”

“With conditions,” she says. “They were given a choice—suspension or assignment to the same fleet squadron.”

That earns a blink. “Who gave that ultimatum?”

Natasha grins. “Admiral Kazansky.”

Maverick actually chuckles at that, despite himself. “Of course he did. So, they chose to patch things up?”

“Yes… and no. According to Coyote, they’ve coexisted by pretending the other doesn’t exist. That’s why Hangman was so eager to join this detachment—he was planning to request reassignment after it ended, and I’m pretty sure she is the reason why.”

Maverick’s amusement fades. A pale look crosses his face as the reality sets in. “What have I done?”

Natasha’s grin widens. “Sir, you’ve just set us up for the most entertaining training cycle in Navy history.”

The roar of jet engines fills the comms, and the sky outside is a dizzying patchwork of clouds and sunlight as Maverick's jet cut across the HUD like a ghost—fast, erratic, and unpredictable.

Javy’s a solid pilot, but you can feel the tension in his movements. “He’s all over the place,” he says, “I can’t get a clean shot.”

“You won’t,” you reply, voice steady. “That’s the point. Don’t chase—bleed his energy.”

Javy exhales sharply through his mask, trying to keep up. Maverick flips his jet inverted, slicing low over the water. Javy follows, but you're already moving, fingers dancing over the console. The radar pulses with activity, tracking Maverick’s erratic manoeuvres.

“I’ve got tone in five… hold steady,” you say, fighting a smirk under your mask. “Three… two…” A sharp beep echoes through the headset, and you let that smirk stretch across your lips. “Fox Two. Guns, guns, guns.”

“Holy shit,” Javy gasps.

On the HUD, Maverick’s jet flashes red—the simulated kill confirmed.

“Nice shooting, Angel,” Maverick says over the comms, a hint a laughter in his tone.

“Anytime, Captain.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he adds. “I was going easy on you.”

“Bullshit,” Bradley pipes up from somewhere in the sky. “You were scrambling, Mav.”

“Yeah, alright,” Maverick says with a chuckle. “Now get your asses on the ground. I want Pheonix, Bob, and Hangman up here.”

You let out a breath of relief as Javy guides the jet back to base, the landing smooth and controlled. The jet powers down, and you run through a quick check before climbing out. The second your boots hit the tarmac, you yank off your helmet, sweat dripping from your brow, and turn to Javy, who is grinning like an idiot.

“I can’t believe you just shot Maverick,” he says. “None of us have ever done that.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Really? Maybe he was going easy then.”

“Oh, he was,” Jake says, his voice sliding down your spine like ice. “You’re not that good, Angel.”

You round on him, jaw tight. “I’m better than you, Bagman.”

He lets out a laugh—sharp and mocking. “Says who?”

You shrug, masking the anger bubbling beneath your skin with false nonchalance. “I don’t know. Ask your friends—or, sorry—friend. Singular. Because I’m pretty sure Coyote’s the only one who can stand you, and even he’d admit I’ve got you beat.”

Javy chuckles under his breath but shifts awkwardly. “Hey, leave me out of-”

Jake cuts in before he can finish, cockiness dripping from every word. “You know, you really shouldn’t obsess over my social life. Maybe try having one of your own. Or better yet, get yourself a date. Maybe if you found some loser to fuck you, you wouldn’t be so tightly wound all the damn time.”

His words stick in your skin like pins in a voodoo doll—sharp and cruel. He always knows exactly what to say to really get to you.

“Fuck you, Seresin,” you snap, before shouldering past him and storming toward the hangar.

Your eyes sting, and your throat burns with the threat of tears, but you force it all down. You won’t cry. Not here. Not today. Not because of him.

Instead, you take a hard turn into the locker room—the men’s locker room—and head straight for Jake’s stuff. His name is stitched on the inside of his clothes, which you scoop up along with everything else he owns—socks, boots, the whole lot. You carry it all around the corner to the showers, drop it into a stall, crank the cold water, and walk out without a backward glance.

A few minutes later, you’re in the waiting room with the others, tension still buzzing under your skin but your expression cool. Natasha, Bob, and Jake are in the air now—you can hear their comms crackling over the speaker.

Maverick’s voice cuts through the static like a knife. “Hangman, if you pull a stunt like that again, I’ll ground you myself.”

You smile to yourself, satisfaction blooming like a flower in your chest.

The next week passes in much the same way. You do your best to avoid Jake, but apparently, he didn’t get the memo. At first, you think it might have something to do with how much time you’re spending with Javy, but it quickly becomes clear—he’s just really enjoying getting under your skin.

You argue almost every day. Most of the time, someone has to step in to break it up. But it’s never like that first day again. The fights stay surface-level—petty jabs over gear, disagreements about drills, snide little comments. It’s stupid, juvenile, and relentless. Still, you’re grateful that none of it gets personal again. Because it still hurts to think about what he said on your first day.

By Friday, you’re right back in the same room where it all started, sitting through an updated mission briefing from Maverick. You try to focus, but your attention keeps drifting. Jake is sitting across the aisle from you, whispering snide remarks about this morning’s drill—childish jabs you can’t help but respond to.

He leans in slightly. “Hell of a move back there. Almost looked like you knew what you were doing.”

You glare at him. “Yeah? That part where you nearly clipped your wingman was real smooth.”

He scoffs under his breath. “At least I was actually doing something instead of riding shotgun in the backseat again.”

Your head snaps toward him, heat flaring in your chest. “Why don’t you just-”

“Enough!” Maverick’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. “Both of you—cut it out.”

You freeze. So does Jake. Slowly, the entire room turns toward the back, every pair of eyes locked on you, and none more intense than Maverick’s furious glare.

“Everyone else—you’re dismissed. Hangman. Angel. You’re staying behind to help with inventory, and you’re not leaving until you sort out whatever the hell this is. I don’t care if it takes all weekend.”

You both know better than to argue. There’s a heavy silence as everyone else stands, shuffling out with awkward glances and murmured goodbyes. You sink lower into your chair, dreading whatever’s coming next.

Neither of you speak as Maverick leads you down into the hangar, where maintenance crews are busy running post-flight checks on the jets. The air smells like jet fuel and frustration.

He stops to speak briefly with a technician before handing Jake a clipboard thick with paperwork. “You’re logging and checking all the equipment used this week. Everything. Make sure it’s clean, accounted for, and stored properly.”

He meets both your eyes with a dry, unimpressed stare. “Don’t kill each other…” He pauses. “Or do. I don’t care. Just as long as you’re not still bickering on Monday morning.”

And with that, he turns and walks away.

The two of you quickly fall into an unspoken agreement to work in silence. You start with the flight suits and G-suits, then move on to spare helmets and oxygen masks. There’s the occasional grumble or muttered complaint, but for the most part, you both keep your heads down and your mouths shut.

It’s about an hour into your assigned torture when Jake drifts away from where you’re double-checking the spare survival kits. He doesn’t say a word as he crosses the hangar, heading toward a short row of rusted lockers shoved into the back corner—right where most of the gear you’ve been sorting through came from. Two of the lockers hang open and empty, but the one in the middle is sealed shut with a heavily rusted lock.

Jake gives it a jiggle, then a harder tug. Nothing. You glance over, ready to tell him to stop wasting time, but your own curiosity is starting to itch.

Against your better judgment, you rise from your crouch and wander toward the tool pile a tech left behind earlier. You grab a pry bar and walk it over to Jake.

“Here,” you say simply, handing it over.

He quirks an eyebrow, like he’s trying to figure out why you’re helping him. But he takes it without a word. You nod toward the locker, silently urging him to get on with it.

Jake wedges the bar into the seam and heaves. There’s a horrible screech of metal grinding against metal, and the door practically explodes outward. You yelp and instinctively jump behind him, your hands landing on his back as if he could shield you from whatever haunted relic might burst out of the spooky locker.

When nothing attacks, you quickly step away, cheeks burning. Jake looks over his shoulder, cocky grin already forming—but for once, he spares you the teasing.

“When do you think this thing was last opened?” he asks, using the pry bar to hold the warped door fully open.

You peer inside and snort. “Judging by the Barry Williams photo taped in there? I’m going to guess sometime before Mav even joined the Navy.”

Jake chuckles—and for once, it’s not smug or biting. It’s warm. Deep. It rumbles through his chest like thunder and coils around you like smoke, pulling you toward him despite the apprehension roiling in your gut.

He steps closer, pulling out his phone to shine a light into the dim locker. It’s mostly empty: a few cobwebs, a protein bar wrapper, a single sock, and the faded photo of Barry Williams.

Jake picks up the wrapper. “Wow. They really thought this was health food?”

You laugh softly, taking the pry bar from his hand. As he keeps inspecting the wrapper, you use the bar to hook the sock, trying to lift it gently. But it doesn’t drape—it holds its shape, stiff and unbending.

“Gross,” you mutter, balancing the hardened fabric on the end of the bar.

Jake glances up, his eyes widening. “Is that thing... solid?”

You drop the sock onto the floor. It hits with a soft thud and stays exactly how it landed: twisted and grotesquely preserved.

“Yup.”

Jake lets out a snort. “Do you think it’s full of-”

“Please don’t say it.”

“Jizz,” he says gleefully.

You groan and shove the pry bar back into his hands, fake gagging as you walk away from the scene of the crime.

Jake eventually wanders back over to the survival kits, apparently satisfied with having quenched his thirst for mystery. The two of you settle into what could almost be called a companionable silence—rare for you both.

About half an hour later, one of the techs approaches, his face smudged with grease and sweat.

“Most of us are headin’ out,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag. “Lance is still workin’ outside. If you need anything, give him a shout. Security’ll be doing their first walkthrough in about an hour. You can stay as late as you want, as long as your overtime’s cleared.”

You snort and shake your head. “Oh, this isn’t overtime.”

“It’s punishment,” Jake adds dryly.

The man tilts his head, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “What’d you do?”

There’s a beat of awkward silence before Jake replies, “Captain got sick of us arguing.”

The tech raises his brows, glancing between you with an amused glint in his eye. “That so? Wouldn’t’ve guessed. You two looked mighty cosy pokin’ around that locker earlier.”

You glance over at Jake, only to find his gaze already locked on yours. Heat creeps up the back of your neck, blooming across your cheeks. You quickly duck your head and return to sorting the gear.

Jake lets out an awkward chuckle. “Sorry about that. Curiosity got the better of me.”

The man waves a hand dismissively. “Ain’t no thing. Have a good night.” And with that, he ambles off.

“Cosy,” Jake mutters, cracking open another kit.

You roll your eyes, weariness softening your usual edge. “Don’t think I’ve ever been cosy with you, Seresin. Friends, maybe. But never cosy.”

You keep your eyes on the kit, missing the flicker of something—hurt, maybe—that crosses his face.

“Friends, maybe?” he repeats quietly. “If I remember correctly, we were very much friends.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice flat. “We were.”

Another few minutes of silence tick by, broken only by the shuffle and scratch of your work. You’re almost finished with the survival kits when Jake speaks up again.

“You know it’s not true, right?”

Your brows knit together as you look up slowly, meeting his green gaze. “Well, I can’t say for sure, but I’ve always assumed you’re lying about having a massive-”

“Not that,” he cuts in, almost growling, irritation flashing across his face before something softer—something almost sad—takes over. “I mean about why I encouraged you to become a weapons systems officer. Phoenix told everyone it was because I was threatened by you, but that’s not true.”

“Oh.” Your frown fades. “I know.”

He cocks his head. “You do?”

“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder and pack up the last kit, dusting your hands on your pants. “Like I said, we were friends back then, Jake. I know you weren’t trying to screw up my career. You saw that I had potential to be a great WSO—and you were right. I am.”

You can’t bear the look on his face. It’s too open, too honest—too much like the way he used to look at you right before a flight. Right before you both climbed into the jet and he’d promise to keep you safe.

You straighten up and turn toward the checklist Jake left nearby, grabbing it and pretending to study it. Anything to avoid the weight of his stare. “We’re almost done. Just a few miscellaneous items and we’re out of here.”

Jake pushes to his feet and puffs his chest out, as if trying to shove all the emotion down and replace it with ego. “Alright. Let’s hurry up and get the hell out of here.”

You barely sleep all weekend. You’re too strung out, too confused, and—annoyingly—still thinking about Friday night. Why the hell was Jake nice to you? You know you both need to get your shit together and start acting like adults, but he didn’t need to go dredging up the past like that.

Every time you close your eyes, you see his face. The one you used to love. The one you used to daydream about kissing. But that was years ago. Any feelings you had for Jake Seresin died the moment you heard his voice through your headset that day—that calm, reckless voice telling you that it didn’t matter if he made it out alive, as long as you did.

By Monday morning, you wake up in a cold sweat for the third night in a row, sheets twisted and soaked. Your head is a mess and your chest is tight, so you do the only thing you can think of that might help.

You throw on your workout gear and head to the gym, ready to exorcise some demons.

The gym on base is unusually quiet for a Monday morning, and you decide that it’s a blessing—you’ll get your pick of equipment without having to wait for others to finish. You set yourself up on a treadmill first, hoping that getting your blood pumping will distract from your turbulent thoughts. Sliding your headphones over your ears, you pick an upbeat playlist and start marching along to the beat.

Most of the other early risers are packed into the weights section—well away from you, thank God.

But then, Jake’s words from last week creep back into your mind: Maybe if you found some loser to fuck you, you wouldn’t be so tightly wound all the damn time.

You grimace. You hate to admit it, but there is a nugget of truth in there. Maybe you do need a release. Maybe that would help you stop fantasizing about strangling—or worse, kissing—Jake Seresin every time he so much as breathes near you. You’ve fought too hard for your spot here. You’re not about to let Jake, or your traitorous body, screw it up.

Your gaze strays toward the weights section again, casually scanning the candidates like you're hosting your own imaginary version of The Bachelor.

First up: a beefy guy with a shiny bald head, a thick goatee, and a death grip on the bench press bar. He’s grunting so loudly you can hear it over your music. Definitely not your type—hard pass.

Next contestant: a scrawny dude slouched on a bench, hoodie up, thumbs flying across his phone screen. The impressive-looking weights at his feet are a hilarious mismatch to his weedy physique. He’s either a sleeper-build legend or seriously overestimating himself.

Your treadmill beeps, announcing another mile. You bump up the incline and glance back up just in time to spot someone more promising.

Sitting at the lat pulldown machine is a guy with dirty blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and a smirk you can feel from across the room. He’s broad-shouldered, strong without looking like he eats steroids for breakfast, and he pulls down the heavy bar with ease. That little smirk screams trouble—and you love trouble. A cocky, pretty boy who can back it up? Now that is your kryptonite.

After a few more minutes of half-assed walking while planning your opening line, you see him leave the machine and wander toward the water bubbler.

It’s now or never.

You jump off the treadmill, loop your towel around your neck, and start sauntering over, practicing your most casual, I-don't-care-but-also-maybe-marry-me smile.

But then you see him.

And you stop dead in your tracks.

In the far corner of the gym is a man doing deadlifts, shirtless. His dark blond hair is sweaty and spiked up like he’s been dragging his hands through it. Tight grey shorts—painted on by Satan himself—cling to him like they were designed for the express purpose of making you lose your religion.

You only get flashes of his reflection in the mirror, but it's enough to short-circuit your brain. Broad back, taut glutes, rippling arms. Every single inch of him looks carved by someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and wanted you to suffer.

You forget all about Water Bubbler Guy. About why you even began walking this way. You stand there, completely paralysed, mouth dry, heart hammering, one singular, shameful thought blaring through your mind:

I want to lick him clean. I want to taste him like a cat in heat. Forget cold showers. Forget dignity. Just sign my soul over now.

The tremendous grunting of Goatee Guy jolts you out of your impure thoughts. You blink once—twice—before your gaze snaps back to the guy at the water bubbler. He smirks at you like he knows exactly what you’d been planning to do just minutes ago.

But not anymore. Sorry, buddy.

You give him a tight, awkward smile before scurrying over to the free weights section. You drop your stuff in a heap and unroll a rubber mat, all while stealing glances at the man still doing deadlifts—your future husband.

You still can’t see him properly. He keeps his back to you—which you’re not entirely mad about—and continues heaving that heavy bar off the ground like it's nothing. It has to be close to four hundred pounds, easy. Which means, yes, he could definitely lift you. Throw you around. Pin you down until you’re squirming.

God. Stupid Seresin was right. You do need to get laid.

You spend the better part of the next hour watching him like a creep. Subtlety is dead and buried. He never strays from his corner, which frustrates you—because it would be so much easier to accidentally make eye contact if he’d just wander past. Instead, you’re stuck hovering like a predator, practically salivating.

Eventually, you give up on trying to telepathically tell him to walk your way and decide to hit the showers before maybe—maybe—approaching him afterward. What’s the worst that could happen? You accidentally propose? Even if you crash and burn, odds are you’ll never see him again since you've never seen him here before.

You pack up the weights you’d been pretending to use and make your way toward the showers. After a quick (cold, very cold) rinse and a change into fresh clothes, you walk back out.

Your eyes immediately dart to the corner where they’d been glued all morning, but he’s gone.

Panic sparks low in your gut as you scan the gym, your pace quickening toward the centre of the room for a better vantage point. You’re so focused on searching that you don’t even notice what’s right in front of you—until you plough right into a firm chest.

You stumble back, an apology on the tip of your tongue—but then you realise exactly who you just ran into.

“Ugh.” You glare up at a very shirtless Jake Seresin, cocky grin firmly in place. “It’s you.”

He chuckles, deep and smug. “You really do know how to make a man feel special. It’s honestly a mystery why you’re still single.”

You roll your eyes. “Shove it up your ass, Seresin, I’m-”

The words get stuck in your throat as your gaze drops.

Shirtless, yes. And wearing a criminally tight pair of grey shorts.

No. Fucking. Way.

Silence stretches thick between you before Jake tilts his head, amusement dripping from every pore. “Cat got your tongue?”

Yes. A cat in heat.

You wrench your gaze back up to his face. “No.”

Without another word, you shoulder past him and bolt for the exit.

The second you step outside, you suck in a gasping breath like you’ve just broken the surface of deep water. Your stomach twists, nausea clawing up your throat.

There’s no fucking way you just spent the entire morning fantasizing about Jake fucking Seresin.

You try to avoid Jake for the rest of the day, which proves absurdly difficult—he’s like a bad smell you can’t escape. It makes you wonder if he caught you creeping on him at the gym. You weren’t exactly subtle. But if he did notice, he’s keeping it close to his chest.

By lunchtime, you’re so desperate for a reprieve that you decline the invitation to join your friends in the mess hall, opting instead for a little peace and quiet in the training room. Unfortunately, Maverick isn’t a mind reader, and he’s completely oblivious to your silent plea for solitude.

“You alright, Angel?” he asks, sliding into a seat across the aisle from you.

You glance up from your phone, hoping he didn’t notice that you had Tinder open. “Yeah, I’m good.”

There’s a brief pause before he chuckles to himself, shaking his head softly. “You know, I’ve heard a lot of callsigns, but yours always makes me hesitate.”

Your brows pinch together. “Really? There’s definitely worse out there… for example, Maverick. Ugh.” You can’t help it—being a smartass is in your blood.

He laughs again, tilting his head with a fond smile. “I don’t mean it’s bad. There are worse. But ‘Angel’—it’s so... affectionate. Forgive me, but I’m not exactly used to calling my lieutenants pet names.”

You snort, watching as Maverick’s face turns a soft shade of red. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I guess I’m just so used to it, I stopped thinking of it as something affectionate.”

He leans back in his chair, considering you for a moment. You feel a little too seen under that sharp gaze. Maverick is smart—almost obnoxiously so—and you’re not naive enough to think he doesn’t see straight through you.

“So it was affectionate,” he says finally, cutting through the silence. “At some point, at least.”

You sigh, warring internally about how much to share. The usual, abbreviated version you tell everyone else seems… somewhat insufficient right now.

“Yeah,” you admit. “It was actually Ja—uh, Hangman who called me Angel first. We met at the Academy. He tried some stupid pickup line on me, and I told him—rather colourfully—where to stick it.” You pause, chest aching as you drag the memory out of the dark corner you’d shoved it into. “He thought it was hilarious. Said I looked like an angel but swore like a sailor.”

Maverick chuckles softly, but his expression gives nothing away. You can’t tell if he’s judging you, or simply wondering how you and Jake could have fallen so spectacularly apart.

“Then, when I decided to become a WSO, people started calling me ‘The Avenging Angel’,” you add. “Because I was good at it. That’s usually the story I stick to. I don’t like admitting who really gave me the name.”

Maverick nods thoughtfully. “Fair enough. You two clearly have a complicated history. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

You offer him a tight smile, grateful he isn’t pushing, though you aren’t sure what else to say.

“I’m not big on advice,” he says after a beat. “And I’m not going to pretend to know you better than I do. But I’ve known Hangman a little longer—and if you’ll let me, I’ll tell you one thing. Take it however you want.”

You nod once, fingers fidgeting anxiously with your phone in your lap.

“I once had a back-seater who kept me grounded when I needed it most,” Maverick says, pushing slowly to his feet. “And I’d give anything to have him still flying with me.”

Your breath catches. You know exactly who he’s talking about.

“Unfortunately,” Maverick adds, offering a small, soft smile, “there’s nothing I can do to get my back-seater back.”

Then he turns and walks out, leaving you frozen in your seat, staring after him like he just dropped a nuclear bomb.

Did Maverick just tell you—in the most roundabout, emotionally devastating way possible—that Jake misses having you behind him? That you still matter to him?

You blink back the sting of tears.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The afternoon passes in a blur, and before you know it, Maverick announces that it’s time for some outdoor team-building—something everyone is far too excited about. You’re not sure why until he tells everyone to change into their “beach clothes” and then leads the group down to the sand, where Bradley and Reuben are quick to start setting up a volleyball net.

The sun is blazing, and the energy is electric. Everyone is stretching and practicing, casually tossing jabs at each other as they get the trash-talking started early.

Maverick decides that the WSOs will be paired with their pilots—so you’re with Javy—and the solo flyers are free to pick their partners. Jake teams up with Billy, callsign Fritz, while Mav steps in as Bradley’s partner.

The first teams to play are Reuben and Mickey versus Jake and Billy. The rest of the group settles around the court, all eager to watch and prep for their own games. The competition is fierce, and the excitement is palpable as Mav twirls the white ball on his finger and shouts out the rules.

But then, the worst thing imaginable happens.

Jake takes off his fucking shirt.

You hadn’t even noticed that the other guys had already opted to go shirtless under the blazing sun, but the second Jake peels off his white cotton t-shirt, your eyes lock onto him like a magnet.

You can feel your mouth go dry, your heart rate spiking, like a predator eyeing its first meal in days. The logical part of your brain is screaming at you.

Look away, you fucking idiot, before someone notices!

But you can’t. You can’t look away. You’re still seeing the guy from the gym—before you knew who he was—and now, against the backdrop of the beach, he looks absolutely obscene. His tan skin gleams in the sun, and his sunglasses sit low on his nose, giving him that effortlessly cocky look that makes your stomach tie itself in knots.

“Hey,” Javy appears beside you, nudging an elbow into your ribs. “You’re good at this game, right?”

You snort, tearing your eyes away from Jake. “I haven’t played since high school.”

Javy chuckles. “Well, shit. Let’s just hope we’re not up against Hangman and Fritz. Those two are more competitive than they have the right to be.”

You laugh again, letting your eyes slide back toward the game, landing immediately on the hot, tan man you hate yourself for fantasizing about. But you can’t help it—he’s fucking magnetic.

And, of course, he’s fucking good too. He knows how to play volleyball like a pro, and despite the stiff competition from Reuben and Mickey, Jake and Billy eventually prevail.

The rest of the group erupts into laughter and cheers as Jake does a victory lap around the court—cocky bastard. Mav then tells you and Javy to flip a coin with Natasha and Bob to see who goes next. Your heart pounds in your throat as the coin spins in the air, and when it lands on heads, you curse under your breath—you’re up.

The sun feels twice as hot as you stand across from Jake, grateful for your sunglasses that hide the very hungry look you know is threatening to spread across your face. This is Jake—annoying, cocky, careless Jake. There’s nothing special about him just because he was carved by the gods... right?

You wriggle your feet in the sand, trying to shake off the way your body is betraying you, and decide to take a little of Maverick’s advice. Maybe it’s time to stop hating Jake Seresin and at least try to be civil.

Jake gets into his stance just on the other side of the net, and then he tips his chin forward. His sunglasses slide down his nose just enough for you to catch a glimpse of those piercing green eyes. And then he fucking winks at you. The audacity.

He throws the ball into the air, his body coiling as he leaps up after it, slamming the ball over the net toward your partner behind you. Your stomach flips. This bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.

Javy whacks the ball back, and Billy returns it with equal intensity. You barely have time to think before you’re leaping up and spiking the ball back onto their side. It’s clearly Jake’s to save, but for some inexplicable reason, he freezes. He just stands there, staring at you like you’ve grown a second head, as if he can’t believe you just pulled that off.

It wasn’t that impressive. In fact, you’re pretty sure you hit the net, which would be a foul in a real game—but this is just a friendly match.

The ball hits the ground, and Billy throws his hands up in disbelief. “Dude, what the hell? I thought you had that.”

Jake snaps out of his daze, his head jerking toward Billy like he’s just been slapped. “Shit, sorry.”

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face as you turn to Javy. “Did you see that?”

“Fuck yeah, I did!” he exclaims, beaming back at you.

You rush over to him and deliver a high-five so hard it stings, but you don’t care. You just scored on Jake.

You glance back over at him, jutting your bottom lip out exaggeratedly. “You okay, Seresin? Cat got your tongue?”

You can’t see his eyes, but you know they narrow as he tips his head forward. “Oh, it’s on!” he growls. “You’re about to lose those wings, Angel!”

A giggle escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Bring it!”

The game wears on, and your confidence begins to wane—because, yeah, Jake is good. Really good. But that only fuels your competitive fire. You’re sprinting, jumping, leaping without worrying about how you look. All that matters is keeping that ball off your side. You hit the sand twice, and your knees are starting to burn, but it’s worth it. You’re in it now.

You and Javy are almost perfectly in sync, anticipating each other’s moves without a second thought. After every point, you share a high five or—at one point—a painfully awkward chest bump, but it’s worth it for the rush.

The fatigue starts to creep in after about fifteen minutes, but you know the game is nearly over. So, when Jake sends a ball sailing just out of reach, you spring as high as you can, throwing your entire body into the jump. Your fingertips brush the ball, just enough to send it back over the net.

You brace yourself for the inevitable thud of hitting the sand again, but instead, two strong hands catch you by the waist, pulling you into a solid, muscular chest. You do hit the sand, but with far less force than you anticipated.

And then, you tumble right on top of Javy. The two of you land in a heap, laughter spilling out of you like it’s been building up all day. Sand is everywhere, covering both of your faces as you giggle uncontrollably.

You hear Billy’s frustrated shout from across the court, and you realise that your dramatic save just scored you another point.

“Are you okay?” you ask, climbing off Javy.

He’s still chuckling and shaking sand out of his hair as he takes your hand to let you help him up. “Yeah, I’m good. You?”

“Yeah, I had a pretty soft landing,” you reply, winking playfully at him before you can even think about it.

When you turn back to your competitors, wearing a cocky smirk that could rival Jake’s, you’re met with a pair of blazing green eyes. Jake’s glare is nothing short of stormy, his sunglasses now perched on top of his head, eyes flicking between you and Javy.

Wow, he really does not like losing.

The next few volleys are borderline dangerous. Jake is putting everything he has into each hit—swinging hard and fast, directing every single ball straight at Javy. He’s darting all over the court, barely allowing Billy to touch the ball, sending it slicing through the air with a vengeance.

Five minutes later, Jake and Billy are declared the winners, but Javy is wiped out. Not because of the loss, but because he’s exhausted from dodging and saving himself from Jake’s ruthless shots.

Maverick calls for a break, giving Jake and Billy some downtime while Natasha and Bob face off against Brigham and Logan.

Billy shoots both you and Javy a teasing grin, offering a little jab about doing better next time before grabbing a water bottle and heading over to chat with Bradley. The two of them stand at the edge of the water watching Reuben and Mickey try their hand at body surfing on the small waves rolling toward the shore.

Javy grabs a cold bottle of water from the cooler before flopping down beside you in the sand. “That was intense,” he sighs.

You nod, taking a long drink of your own water. “Yeah. Hangman doesn’t like losing.”

Javy chuckles, his grin a little knowing. “In more ways than one, apparently.”

You frown, opening your mouth to ask what he means, but Javy cuts you off with a subtle shake of his head as Jake approaches. His dark sunglasses are back in place, concealing any trace of emotion written on his face.

You’re sitting next to the cooler, so you decide to extend a small olive branch. You pick up a bottle of water and offer it to him.

He takes it without a word and starts to walk away, effectively snapping your olive branch.

“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you’?” you call after him, unable to stop the words before they slip out.

He spins on his heel and strides back toward you, his broad shadow swallowing you whole. “Thank you? Right. For what? Doing something nice? I’m not in the habit of handing out gratitude to people who only pretend to care when it’s convenient for them.”

Your heart races as the words sink in. The heat of the moment rushes to your head, and you rear back, suddenly feeling too small beneath his towering presence. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“You are,” he snaps, voice sharp and low. “I can’t escape you. The academy, flight school, TOPGUN… then you had to run your fucking mouth and get us deployed together. This detachment was the best thing to happen to my career, and then you had to come in and fuck it all up. As usual.”

The sting of his words lands like a slap across the face. Your heart beats louder in your chest, and the bridge of your nose burns. Your vision blurs, but you rapidly blink away the tears, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“As soon as we’re done here,” he says, stepping closer, his voice dropping even lower, “I’m getting reassigned and getting the fuck away from you. For good.”

“Good,” you bite back, scrambling to your feet. “The further you are from me, the better. Because I fucking hate you, Jake Seresin.”

It’s a cheap shot, but it feels like the truth. You’ve never felt as hollow as you do in this moment, realizing that your past and what you once meant to each other still haunts you. He knows exactly where to hit to make it hurt.

“Woah, woah,” Maverick’s voice cuts through the tension as he rushes over. “What’s going on? I thought you two-”

“It’s fine, Mav,” you cut him off, voice cold. “It’s nothing.”

Without waiting for a response, you turn and storm off, your feet digging into the sand with every furious step. You have no destination in mind, only the burning need to get away from him. You swipe the back of your hand across your cheek, feeling the dampness of your skin and realizing too late that you’ve been crying this whole time. How fucking embarrassing.

Later that night, Maverick sends out a message to everyone to let you all know that training will start a bit later tomorrow. Something that you’re grateful for, because you don’t fall asleep until well past midnight. You spend the hours crying and wallowing, allowing your mind to spiral, and ultimately giving way too much of your time to the thought of Jake Seresin.

By morning, you’re feeling a little better and a lot stronger, fully prepared to ignore the hell out of him for the next few weeks.

At 9 AM, you’re all gathered in the training room, waiting for Maverick to finish his meeting with the admiral. Everyone is there except one—Javy. And the absence of your pilot is making you more nervous than you’d like to admit.

“Hey,” Nat says quietly, twisting in her chair to face you. “You feeling better?”

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah, heaps. Yesterday was just... a bit of a shit show.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “We’re all entitled to a meltdown, especially with the kind of assholes we have to deal with.”

You offer her a tight, appreciative smile. “Tell me about it.”

She turns back around just as Maverick breezes through the door, his face tight with tension.

“Alright, listen up,” he says, standing at the front of the room. “You’ve probably noticed by now that Coyote is absent. That’s because, during a particularly intense game of volleyball”—his gaze flicks sharply toward Jake—“he hurt his back. The doctors have recommended that he not fly until further assessment, so unfortunately, he’s out.”

Your stomach drops and your heart starts pounding as a wave of anxiety washes over you.

“Angel,” Maverick continues, his gaze shifting to you. “This means you’ll be Hangman’s back-seater.”

A collective gasp ripples through the room, and your heart jumps into your throat. This has to be some kind of joke. This can’t be real.

“Mav.” Jake leans forward, his posture stiff and tense. “This isn’t a good idea. I can’t fly with-”

“You can and you will fly with her,” Maverick interrupts, his voice hard and final.

You don’t look away from Jake, studying his profile with desperate eyes, searching for even a hint that he’s on board with this—like Maverick said he would be. But his face is stone cold, and you’re starting to think that Maverick might have been full of shit when he told you that Jake misses his back-seater.

“That’s all,” Maverick says, his voice slicing through the stillness in the room. “Now, let’s hit the skies.”

Downstairs in the locker room, your hands shake as you tug your flight suit on and drag the zipper up to your collarbone. You haven’t been this nervous since your first flight after the crash—but you managed then, and you’ll manage now. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t flown with Jake in years. You’re good at your job and he’s good at his. As long as you can both be mature, this will be fine.

Jake’s already seated in the jet when you approach, head bowed over his controls. He doesn’t flinch when you climb up and strap into the back seat. He doesn’t even move—until it's time to follow the ground team’s signals toward the runway.

You focus on steadying your breathing, the rumble of the engine thrumming through your body. When you glance up at the familiar helmet in front of you, a wave of aching nostalgia crashes over you, stealing the air from your lungs.

Once you level out in the sky, you take a gulp of oxygen from your mask.

Maverick’s voice crackles through the headset: “Enemy fighter inbound. Take him out. Work together.”

You snap to attention, eyes locking on your radar, fingers flying over the controls with perfect precision.

“Talk to me, Fritz,” Jake says coolly. “Where is he?”

“I don’t see him yet,” Fritz responds. “Angel, anything on radar?”

And then—Maverick’s jet appears on your radar. Fast. Slippery. Impossible to pin down.

“I see him, but he’s bouncing all over the place,” you say.

Jake dives after him instantly, and you resist the urge to look up—you have to trust him.

“I’ve got him,” Jake says. “Fritz, on your left.”

The g-forces shove you into your seat as Jake throws the jet into a tight, reckless turn.

“Hangman, wait—follow my lead,” you snap.

Jake scoffs. “No. Just be quiet and let me do my job.”

You grit your teeth and swallow your retort.

“Hangman, on your six,” Fritz warns, a beat too late.

Jake yanks the jet into a hard, inverted climb. Your stomach flips, chest compressing painfully.

Maverick isn’t playing fair. He’s a blur across your radar, pulling turns that would rip lesser pilots apart. Your fingers dance across your controls, tracking him as best you can.

“He's coming up behind us, Hangman,” you call urgently. “Evade, evade.”

Jake finally hesitates.

“Left, now! Then roll!” you bark.

And this time—he listens.

The jet swings in a sharp, vicious arc. You spot a window, heart hammering against your ribs.

“He’s right behind me, guys,” Fritz says, his voice strained with panic.

“Hangman, right!” you yell. “Hold steady! I’ll have tone in four... three... two…”

The shrill beep fills your helmet, and adrenaline floods your veins.

“Fox two. Guns, guns, guns!” you shout.

The HUD flashes red. Maverick is hit.

“Nice move,” Maverick’s voice comes over the comms, surprisingly warm. “Very impressive flying.”

You sag back in your seat, heart still racing.

Flying with Jake used to be your favourite thing in the world.

And God help you—you’re starting to realise it still might be.

Back on the ground, the others are buzzing. They can’t stop raving about how good you were—how insane it is that you managed to catch Maverick with the way he was flying.

Harvard and Yale are next up in the sky with Bradley, and Hondo tells you and Jake to go clean up before the afternoon briefing. Apparently, the admiral himself will be joining for a mission update.

You’re just about to push into the women’s locker room when Jake’s hand slaps against the door, stopping you cold. You hadn’t even realized he was right behind you until he’s there—towering over you, close enough that you can smell the sun and sweat on his skin.

“You—uh,” he starts, voice low and rough, like it’s been scraped raw. His free hand drags through his hair, mussing it up. “You were damn good up there.”

You blink up at him, heart thudding. “Um. Thanks. You too.”

You try to slide past him, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he leans in a little closer—close enough that you feel his chest against yours when you inhale too deeply. Your whole body locks up, wired so tight it’s a miracle you’re still standing.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he mutters, voice dipping even lower. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. It was... way outta line. And if you like Coyote... that’s fine.”

You raise an eyebrow, the tension snapping something sharp inside you. “Thanks for the permission,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Especially coming from the guy who told me to find some loser to fuck in the first place.”

You pause just long enough to see the way his throat bobs when he swallows.

“But for the record?” you add, voice soft but cutting. “I’m not interested in Coyote. He’s got a little too much Hangman in him for my liking.”

You expect him to lash back, but he doesn't say a word. He just stares at you—hungry, furious, starving—like he’s seconds away from doing something reckless.

“Move,” you whisper, breath hitching. “I’m hot and sticky and I need a sho-”

Before the words are fully out of your mouth, he grabs you.

His fingers wrap around your bicep, pulling you against him and then pinning you against the wall. He cages you there with his body, pressing so close that there’s not a sliver of air between you. You can feel every hard plane of him, the heat pouring off his skin.

“You drive me fucking crazy, Angel,” he growls, voice low and ragged, the sound vibrating through your chest.

You gasp, back arching instinctively toward him.

His mouth hovers just a breath from yours—so close you can almost taste him. His gaze drops to your lips, then flicks back up to your eyes, desperate and agonizing and wrecked.

“Do you have any idea?” he murmurs, the rough edges of his voice catching. “How fucking hard it is to be around you?”

His thumb brushes along your jaw, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorising the shape of you. Your skin burns under the touch, your whole body tightening with the need to just lean in—just once—before it’s too late.

Your mind is scrambling, unable to catch up with whatever the fuck is going on. I mean, yeah, you know you drive him crazy—but not in this way. Not in a way that should make him look at you with that much hunger in his eyes.

“Jake, I-”

The sound of footsteps shatters the moment.

He tears himself away from you like he’s ripping off his own skin, turning and disappearing through the next door without a word.

You sag against the wall, dizzy and aching, as Reuben strolls past and raises a curious brow. You can’t even summon the energy to pretend you’re fine.

Because for the first time in a long time, you know you’re absolutely, dangerously not.

The next three days feel like you’re an extra on The Walking Dead. You can barely eat, barely sleep, and even breathing feels like a conscious effort—and half the time, you forget to. Every time you see Jake, your chest tightens, your lungs constrict, and your limbs seem to forget how to function. You stand there, frozen, like you’ve forgotten how to be human. But then he walks right past you, as if you don’t even exist.

How he went from being molten hot to freezing cold is beyond you. And it’s almost tearing you apart.

Everyone can feel it—the thick tension that’s building between you two. It’s suffocating. Even over the comms during flight drills, you can’t ignore the electricity crackling between you. It’s as if the entire world is holding its breath, waiting for the moment when everything explodes.

Maverick has noticed it too. You haven’t even come close to catching him again during the drills. It’s like you’re both on autopilot—doing your jobs, but barely.

It’s finally Friday, and you and Jake are the last to fly today. You should be focused—laser-focused—on the radar in front of you, tracking the mission as Jake does the high-speed manoeuvres Maverick instructed. But you can’t. Your eyes keep drifting toward the horizon.

The sky was clear and sunny this morning, but now it’s turning ominous. You know there’s a storm coming tomorrow, but today was supposed to stay clear. Yet here you are, watching the sky darken, thick clouds rolling in like a slow-moving freight train.

“Angel?” Jake’s voice snaps you back into the cockpit.

“Yeah?” You blink, shaking yourself out of the daze. “Sorry, can you repeat?”

“Do you see Mav?”

“Not yet.” You hesitate, weighing up whether or not you should say something about the storm. But when you twist in your seat, you catch sight of the darkening clouds creeping toward you.

“Jake,” you murmur, your voice low, “the sky looks bad.”

The jet shifts into a turn, angling toward the oncoming storm.

“Shit.” Jake curses under his breath. “Mav, are you seeing this?”

“Yeah, I am,” Maverick responds, his voice tight.

You tune out the next few seconds of chatter as Mav asks control if they need to call it off. The jet begins to shake slightly, the turbulence picking up, and Jake curses again as the wind buffets the jet, pushing you off course.

You want to speak up and tell him that you’re scared. The words are sitting on the tip of your tongue, but then the memory hits you—the one from that day before the crash, when you told Jake, your best friend, that you were afraid.

“You’re gonna alright, Angel,” Jake’s voice comes through your headset, as calm as it has no right being. It’s meant to be reassuring, but it only makes your stomach twist in knots. Those aren’t the words you wanted to hear then, and they're not what you want to hear now.

The jet lurches again, and you grip the armrests, knuckles going white. Your chest tightens and you struggle to breathe.

“Control has called it,” Maverick’s voice crackles through the comms. “Bring it back to base immediately.”

“Copy that,” Jake replies, his voice steady but edged with a tension you can’t ignore.

You try to focus on the instruments, but the jet is shuddering, veering off course as the storm grows closer. The sky is turning an almost unnatural shade of grey, and you’re pretty sure you can see a flicker of lightning in the distance.

“Jake,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “Tell me we’re going to be okay. Both of us.”

There’s a long pause before his voice comes through the comms, low and firm. “We’re gonna be okay, Angel.”

You keep your eyes trained on the instruments as the jet wobbles its way back toward base. You’re moving slower than usual, every inch of the plane hesitant as it fights against the unsteady weather. Over the comms, you hear Maverick speaking with control, his voice calm and confident as he lands, having been much closer to base than the two of you.

Just when you think you might be able to breathe a little easier, a downburst hits, and the jet is slammed by violent turbulence. A scream tears from your throat as the plane pitches up and down, lurching wildly in the storm. You’re thrown against the harness, the seatbelt biting into your skin as your body is tossed around like a ragdoll.

Jake’s voice cuts through the chaos, but you can barely hear him over the deafening shrieks of the wind and the thunderous shakes of the jet. His words are broken and distorted, lost between the gusts of wind and the violent rocking of the plane.

You glance up just in time to see a massive bolt of lightning slice through the dark clouds ahead, and the jet jerks again, diving into a deadly spin.

“Jake!” you shout, panic rising in your chest. “We need to eject!”

His voice is strained, barely audible, but you catch the tail end of what sounds like him saying he can save the plane—save you—but you know it’s too late.

“Eject now!” Maverick’s voice crackles through the comms, urgent and commanding. “Eject, eject!”

“Jake!” you scream, the fear in your voice raw and desperate.

“Okay,” he says, his voice a rasp. “Eject!”

You brace yourself, gritting your teeth as the plane continues to be tossed around like it’s made of paper. You have no choice but to trust in the training, the equipment, and Jake.

Then, with a frantic press of the button, you eject.

The world explodes into chaos. A rush of wind roars in your ears, the pressure so intense it feels like your bones are being hollowed out. For a heartbeat, everything is spinning, and then the world falls silent. Your stomach drops as you’re weightless, free-falling through the air.

You force your eyes open, the blurring motion of the storm clouded sky making it hard to focus. But then, with a violent jerk, your parachute deploys, the canopy snapping open above you, catching the air and slowing your descent just enough to ease the shock of it all.

Being picked up and rushed to the hospital is a complete blur. The only clear memory you have is giggling like a lunatic in the back of the ambulance when you hear a huge crack of thunder. Like... yeah, you were just in the sky.

Once they’ve got you in a bed, hooked up to machines, your mind slips into a half-conscious state. You're too full of adrenaline to fall asleep, but exhausted and in shock enough to let your eyelids drift shut. You hear the doctors discussing your condition—something about you being fine but clearly sleep-deprived. Rude.

The thing that snaps you back to full consciousness is the sound of Jake’s frantic voice. Cracking and desperate as he argues with the doctors.

“I told you, I’m fine!” he exclaims. “Look! I’m standing, breathing, walking. I need to see her. Let me see her or you’re going to be the one in a hospital bed!”

You shift higher in the bed, and the beeping of your heart monitor increases its pace.

“Oh, thank God,” Jake sighs, his eyes reflecting a mix of relief and something you can't quite place as he rushes into your room.

The nurses at the door scowl at him, but they don’t try to stop him.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” he asks, stepping quickly to the side of the bed. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He reaches for your hand, hesitates, and instead places both palms on the bed railing beside you.

“I’m fine,” you say softly, your voice still rough. “Just sleep-deprived, apparently.”

His smile is shaky, watery, and the sight of it makes your chest ache as you look at the earnest, green-eyed boy you haven’t seen in years. The real Jake Seresin.

“What are you sorry for?” you ask after a beat of silence.

His brows furrow, and he hesitates, as if weighing his words carefully. “Um... you know, the whole plane crash thing... back there. Do you—did you bump your head?”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “No. I told you, I’m fine. Just sleep-deprived—which is something you should be apologizing for. Not losing control of a jet in a storm. That wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could.”

He opens his mouth, likely ready to protest, to say something about how he should’ve seen it coming sooner, but then he stops himself. His eyes soften, and he tilts his head slightly. “Why do I need to apologize for your lack of sleep?”

You snort loudly, a very unladylike sound. “Because of that shit you pulled the other day. Cornering me near the locker rooms and telling me that it’s hard to be around me. But not like ‘hard’ because you hate me, but like... I make you hard or something ridiculous.”

You feel your cheeks burn at the thought.

He chuckles, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “Oh. That.”

“Yeah,” you say. “That.”

Another awkward silence falls between you, and both of you glance away, unable to meet each other’s gaze thanks to the thick and unholy tension hanging in the air.

Your chest tightens as your heart tears itself in two. One half wants to forgive him for everything, to beg him to be your friend again and forget the years of unadulterated loathing. But the other half refuses to give in, holding onto the hurtful things he said and did—especially what he said before the first crash.

Huh. Now you get to sulk about not one, but two plane crashes with Jake Seresin.

Jake clears his throat, breaking the thick silence. “Do you want to know the real reason I encouraged you to become a weapons systems officer?”

You glance at him, your brow furrowing. “We had this conversation last week, Jake. Are you sure you didn’t bump your head?”

He rolls his eyes. “I said the real reason.”

You gasp dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. “So it is because you were intimidated by my massive talent. I knew it.”

He closes his eyes for a beat, inhaling like he’s summoning patience. “Why are you making this difficult? I'm trying to be intensely heartfelt right now.”

You bite your lip to keep from giggling, not sure if it’s the painkillers or lingering adrenaline making everything feel strangely buoyant. “Sorry. Force of habit to annoy you. I’ll shut up. Please, enlighten me.”

He grips the bed railing so tightly his knuckles turn white. When he looks back up at you, the intensity in his green eyes steals all the air from your lungs—and every ounce of humour drains away under the weight of his stare.

“The reason I encouraged you to become a WSO is because I knew you’d be good—and I knew we’d be good together. And if we proved that, we’d most likely be deployed together.” His voice drops almost to a whisper. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

It feels like you've just been ripped from your jet again, but this time you’re not free-falling—you’re caught in the storm, spinning helplessly out of control. Your heart pounds painfully against your ribs, and thanks to the rapid beeping of the monitor beside you, it’s not exactly subtle.

Jake’s eyes flick toward the machine, a quick flash of amusement crossing his face, but when he meets your gaze again, his smile is small and fragile. “I was scared to lose you, and then that stupid crash happened. I knew I’d screwed everything up. I knew you’d hate me for ruining your record, but I-”

“Wait.” You sit up straighter, twisting toward him. “Is that why you think I was mad? Because of the mark on my record?”

He blinks, confused. “That’s... not why?”

You stare at him, shock crashing through you. For years—years—you've carried this anger, this bitterness between you. And he never even knew the real reason why.

“Jake...” You hesitate, emotion swelling tight in your chest. “I wasn’t mad about the crash being labelled pilot error. I mean, sure, it sucked, but that’s not why I couldn’t speak to you afterward.”

His eyes widen, the colour draining from his face. “What?”

“God, this is going to sound so stupid.” You drag a hand over your face. “The reason I was angry was because of what you said before we almost died. You told me it didn’t matter if you survived—as long as I did.”

A heavy silence settles over you both, broken only by the too-loud beeping of your heart monitor.

“I just...” You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. “I hated that you thought so little of yourself. That you could leave me behind and think I would be fine. That I could just go on like you never existed. You scared the hell out of me, Jake. And when we ejected and I couldn’t find you... I didn’t know if you were alive. I thought-” You stop, throat closing up.

Jake’s chest heaves with quick, shallow breaths, his hands trembling slightly where they grip the rail.

“When I saw you again, I wanted to forgive you. I knew I would... eventually. But then, before the hearing, you told me to-”

“Stop acting like you're better than everyone else and get a fucking grip,” he says, voice hoarse, repeating the ugly words that had haunted you.

You nod, forcing yourself to look at him.

“I thought you hated me,” he mutters. “When you wouldn’t talk to me... I thought you hated me because of the crash. I thought I'd wrecked everything. I convinced myself you didn’t want me around anymore. I thought I’d lost you.”

A flash of anger sparks in your chest.

“So instead of just asking if I was okay, you made sure you lost me by being a prick?”

Jake’s brow furrows, a flush creeping up his neck into his cheeks. “You didn’t talk to me for three fucking weeks after we almost died! What was I supposed to think?”

“Maybe that I needed space?” You throw your hands up. “Maybe that I was a little rattled and trying to figure out how to breathe again? But no—you assumed that I hated you, so you just decided to hate me back.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, frustration practically vibrating off him. When he leans in closer, his eyes blaze with an intensity that makes your heart stutter—and the monitor beside you makes sure everyone hears it.

“Don’t you get it?” His voice is low, rough around the edges.

You can barely breathe.

“I never fucking hated you,” he says. “I’m in love with you.”

A nurse freezes at the door, shooting a concerned look toward the screaming heart monitor, but you barely notice.

Jake’s voice softens, but it still hits like a punch. “That’s why I couldn’t stand seeing you with Coyote.”

He pulls back like he’s preparing to walk away, but before he can, you grab his hand. Without thinking, you’re up on your knees, yanking him back toward you. There's a clatter behind you as your movement tugs at the cords and machines, but none of it matters.

Jake stares at you, stunned, like he’s bracing for you to shove him away.

But you don’t. You reach for his face, holding him between your palms like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go. You barely have time to catch your breath before crashing your mouth into his.

The second your lips meet, it's like a dam breaks. Jake's hands find your waist, steadying you as you cling to him, desperate and trembling. He kisses you back with a rawness that speaks of years of confusion, anger, and longing all tangled together. His mouth is warm and familiar, yet new all at once—like you’re discovering something you’ve been searching for without even knowing it. For a moment, there’s nothing else: not the heart monitor blaring, not the nurses whispering at the door, not the ache still lingering in your bones. There’s only Jake, and the way he kisses you like he’s terrified to let you go again.

But then a god-awful alarm explodes through the room, startling the two of you apart.

One of the nurses rushes in, heading straight for the heart monitor. She presses a few buttons before turning to you with a spectacularly unimpressed glare.

Your cheeks burn as you sink back into the bed, trying to sit properly. “Sorry.”

She gives you a deadpan stare, then starts untangling the cords from around you. “I can see you're feeling much better. I’ll remove these to avoid any... further incidents.” She fiddles with the machines, then adds, “And I’ll page the doctor to clear you for discharge.”

You nod sheepishly. “Thank you.”

Then she turns her death stare on Jake. “You still need to be examined, so please return to your room.”

Jake flashes her his most charming, boyish grin. “But I—”

“Now.”

You have to hold your breath to keep from laughing, but Jake doesn't even try. He chuckles low and deep, then leans over you again, his presence swallowing the space between you. He kisses you—firm and possessive—right on the mouth. Then at the corner of your lips. Then your cheek. Your jaw. Finally, he breathes against your ear, voice a delicious threat:

“When we get out of here, I'm gonna be the loser who fucks you ‘til you finally unwind.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you breathless and blushing like a maniac, while the very exasperated nurse pretends she didn’t hear a damn thing.

END.

1K notes · View notes

bitterrfruit · 24 days ago

Text

houndtooth [epilogue]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 4.9k words cw: none.

you try to move on.

Eight months later

Time is a river.

That’s what your sponsor Brian had told you, when you went up to receive your six-month chip. A navy plastic coin, unremarkable, special in its own way.

Y’just gotta let the current take you.

Poetic old Irishman that he is. Seen worse things than you. You’re not sure why you always find it helpful, grounding, to hear him talk about his experiences during the Gulf War. Plane shot out of the sky. Parachuted directly into enemy-controlled territory. A prisoner of war for three weeks, only liberated once the war had already been won. Wears the scars of it; a missing eye, doughy skin graft on his cheek, a pillowy stub where his hand should be.

Told you he got into heroin pretty quickly after coming back home. Said he couldn’t look at anyone the same. Couldn’t stay in touch with his brothers-in-arms. Couldn’t stand the dark. Didn’t take him long to replace food, water, air, with a needle in his arm. Felt a lot better back then, he said.

But using is like holding stones underwater, he told you. Keeps you stuck to the riverbed till y’drown.

He’s been sober for twenty years. Almost twenty-one. Said he offered to sponsor you because he said he saw himself in you.

You couldn’t tell him anything about your own experiences when you spoke to him at your Narcotics Anonymous meetings. Tongue legally tied by what was essentially an NDA and persistent government surveillance. Forbidden to utter a word of what had been a special operations mission of the utmost confidentiality. A failed mission, at that.

He saw it in you, though. That blackness in the back of your eyes. Understood without you needing to share it.

You wouldn’t have wanted to share it, anyway.

That was Mia’s life.

Now, you’re Amelia.

Amelia Frances Day. Printed on your new birth certificate, on your driver’s license, on your shiny new passport. A photo of you with your new haircut in the corner. Born in Leeds, it says, only child to Harry and Phillipa Day. Both tragically dead, of course, according to your manufactured origin story. Died in a car accident when you were a teenager, so you’re spared putting on the show of mourning imaginary people.

Captain Jonathan had decided your vaguely northern accent was weak enough to say you had been raised in Newcastle. Told you that London got hit the worst, and half the city is cordoned off by plastic tents and caution tape. Better to plant you somewhere reasonably intact.

He had asked you what you wanted your degree to be, when he had you in a boxy little office with him at Brize Norton, a week after you stepped off the helicopter.

It was surreal, you remember, sitting in that room with him. The Captain. In a cushioned chair, across the table from him; unrestrained by zip cuffs, with the door unlocked, and a window cracked open to let in the cold air of late winter. He was stiff as a board, then, only spoke with a bone-straight back and through gritting teeth. Nothing like the unctuous suave he put on when you first met him, or when he held that revolver to your head. He sat upright in his chair, laptop and a notepad open on the table, manila folders and documents scattered across it.

Psychology, you had suggested. Bachelor of Arts. The kind of unremarkable graduate degree that can slot in anywhere. That people don’t ask about. Helped that you sat through two years of lectures before you had dropped out — lends a bit of believability to your story.

“Does Amelia have any hobbies?” He had asked you, impassively, but you could hear the solemnity in his throat.

You had to think about it for a while before you could answer him. There was something forlorn in his expression that gave you the impression he was self-flagellating by asking it. Wanted to know how human you were as punishment for how he had treated you as less than.

“She likes to draw,” you had told him, mumbled it, staring vacantly at the six-day-old bruises on your legs. “She likes to read, too. Um… I can’t remember what else she likes.”

So he got you a library card. New health records. Clean criminal record, of course. Amelia hasn’t committed any crimes. Doesn’t even have a speeding ticket.

You remember how his face dropped when you told him your real name. You weren’t sure what compelled you to share it, that Mia Zakhaev was as manufactured and artificial as Amelia Day. Perhaps you wanted him to shoulder the guilt that came with being forced to acknowledge that you were never the enemy. Some part of you found it satisfying, watching him fidget in your company, avoiding eye contact or speaking more than three words at a time — evidence, you thought, that he understood how he had wronged you.

He had wrapped up the meeting, then. Scooped up all his papers and folders, shut his laptop with a thunk.

You asked about Simon before he left the room.

He only let out a terse breath and looked at his boots, before telling you that you’d get all your documents when you were cleared to leave the airbase. Left the subject at that, before he slipped out of the door and left it ajar behind him.

Simon died that day, you’re certain.

You haven’t heard anything otherwise in the eight months since. Not even from Kyle, your assigned custodian, despite how frequently you asked him in your first few months of confidential protection.

Let’s talk about you, he’d say, to change the subject. Or he’d robotically tell you, I’m really sorry, you know I can’t talk about that.

He’d come over every fortnight or so, at first, when you had been holed up in your safehouse in the city centre, a stone’s throw from the cathedral. Your new ‘apartment’, so they called it, repurposed to look like a young woman had been living there. He always told you he was visiting just to check on you, make sure you were settling in okay. You believed it for a while, when he’d come over for some takeaways, or to watch a movie, just to keep you company.

He was surveilling you, though. You could read it in the glimmer of shame in his doe-like eyes. Forced to ensure you continued to act in the Nation’s best interest.

You aren’t allowed to leave the country, of course. Aren’t allowed to travel too far without informing them. Aren’t allowed to disappear or to talk to anybody untoward.

Standard practice, they had informed you, to keep an eye on foreign informants. That’s what they had designated you as — an informant. Explained that it was for your safety and theirs; you might retain your foreign connections, after all. Might share secrets with the Russians you had been unwillingly allied with.

They gave you a compensatory pension, at least. Hearty payments of a few thousand a month, and a decent one-off payout as ‘reimbursement’ for the damage they had done. For the scars they left. Hush money, obviously, but you took it willingly.

You sold your wedding ring, too. The one Mia’s husband had proposed with. A pillow-cut pink diamond, four carats, encircled by twelve Burmese pigeon-blood rubies. Prong-set, white gold band. You traded it with a jewellery dealer for two-hundred grand. The only good thing Victor ever did for you, even if it was pocket change compared to the size of his wallet.

There’s not much you can do with that money, though. Not yet. They gave you an amorphous timeline, all but telling you that someday you’ll be allowed totally free movement, if and when they deem you trustworthy enough. There’s no spending it on travelling, on a house, on an apartment in the meantime.

The one benefit, though, is that it means you are spared the need to find a job. One day you’ll need one, you’re sure, but you’re not ready yet. Not ready for interviews, for background checks, for probing questions about the gap in your employment history.

You’ve picked up volunteering, instead.

Took you a while to gather the strength to leave the house, of course. A month or two before your agoraphobia abated and you were able to venture out onto the street. Even longer before you could go anywhere crawling with people — not to say anywhere was busy anymore. People kept indoors even still, just in case.

But after a couple of months of NA meetings and military-funded counselling, you were handed a UNICEF pamphlet. Information about volunteering at make-shift ‘childcare centres’. A gentler word for the last-minute orphanages set up to house swathes of children left parentless after the attacks on Eleven-One.

Black Thursday, they call it.

Makes your teeth saw together every time you hear it. And it’s everywhere.

It’s on the news, on the radio, on your phone. Plastered on street posters. Billboards. Trauma support services advertised on the sides of the arsenal of buses they eventually sent out to replace the underground Metro, now that the entire subway system is a red zone, still contaminated by the sticky nerve agent that had coated every surface and still lingers in the air down there.

Two bombs went off in Newcastle. Twenty-one in London. Three-hundred odd had been triggered all over Europe. Casualties in the tens of thousands, and counting. Never a specific number, always, tens of thousands.

Kyle had told you, against instruction, that there had been thousands of bombs, planted even further afield than Europe. Waiting for the ping that would set them off at the right time of day to maximise the number of casualties.

Simon had prevented that. He inputted the code that terminated the sequence, while knowing that doing so would kill him.

There was no heroic send-off for him. His name wasn’t in the press, wasn’t even whispered at the military bases you were tossed between for two weeks after you were sent home. No medals or commendation or praise for an act that prevented the deaths of hundreds of thousands of others.

At first the guilt was blinding.

All-consuming. Pumped like lead through your blood, gritty and black, leaving little sores in the ventricles of your heart. For a while you thought you mightn’t be able to live with it — bearing the knowledge that every casualty whose name was carved into the public memorial had died because of a button that you pressed.

Seemed that part wasn’t common knowledge, though. Somebody had kept that secret for you. As far as the world was aware, some Soviet extremist was the one to have set off the sequence of explosives. The simple explanation. A terrorist enacting terrorism.

Your counsellor believed your guilt to rest on the fact that you had married the man to orchestrate it. That you played a part in some non-literal, ignorant-but-obliging way. It made it even harder to overcome, because her method of comforting you was to tell you ad nauseum that it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault.

Her advice was still beneficial, at least. Could be extended to your less forgivable circumstances.

She told you to help people. To make a tangible difference. That doing so would alleviate even a portion of the guilt that weighed on you.

You’re approaching your fifth month of volunteering at CRSC Newcastle. Children’s Refuge and Support Centres, they call them — a whole network of them, fifteen-odd foster centres across the UK, all set up in under-used community centres or schools. Your fake bachelor’s degree certainly aided in getting you a role there, but it helped that they were and continue to be desperate for any support they can get.

You work the later shifts. Wednesday through Sunday, one p.m. to nine p.m. Mainly with the younger kids, too. Three to five. A relief, because any older and they’d have questions. They’d have the vocabulary to ask why their parents are dead. To talk about how sad they are, how much they miss them, how much they hate the people responsible for killing them.

You’re not a licensed educator or a counsellor, nor do you get paid, so they call you a supporter. You’ve got a name badge for it, too.

Amelia. CRSC Supporter.

You clip it to your cerulean UNICEF t-shirt as the last step of getting ready for your shift.

Hair in a claw clip, no earrings, nails unpainted. Legs unshaven. Jeans. Adidas sneakers. A spritz of perfume you bought on special at TK Maxx.

You felt stupid for missing it while you were stuck in your mansions, but you did. Normalcy. No need to perform, to consistently be stripped and scrubbed and ready for eyes and hands at any given moment. No need to cover yourself in ostentatious displays of wealth just to avoid ire from the moguls around you.

Amelia has the same sense of style as Bridget Jones. She doesn’t need to try too hard, because she’s not a billionaire’s tormented wife, she’s just Amelia. Amelia from Leeds.

Seems the weather is finally turning after a week straight of sunshine, as fat raindrops begin to patter on the window to your bedroom. For the best, you have a crisping-up sunburn on your nose and cheeks from when you took the kids to Ouseburn Farm on Wednesday. Still warm, though, a little under twenty celsius, so you only pull on your burgundy Primark rainjacket, and you bring your brolly with you as you head out the door.

The refuge is a fifteen minute walk from your military-issued apartment, and it’s a pleasant one, for the most part. Once you get off the busiest roads, anyway, and the streets go from being littered with shops to being lined with suburban terraces and big old trees. Leaves all on the cusp of yellow as autumn looms in the coming few weeks.

Saoirse, one of the licensed counsellors, is out the front of the old brick community centre when you arrive. Arm around one of the older kids as they sit on the steps together. She gives you a quick smile as you walk past with a little wave, occupied, but you can catch up with her after bedtime.

It’s Friday, so the kids are still in preschool by the time you arrive, and there’s nobody at reception. You pour yourself a tea in the break room behind the front desk in the meantime.

Even after eight months, you still think of him at the first sip.

I drink tea. You remember how his grumbly old voice sounded when he said it. Mourn that you never got to know what kind of tea he preferred. Whether he took it with sugar. He seemed like an Earl Grey type, you thought.

Stupid to reminisce on such a thing, and you shake off the thought like a wet dog when you do. It’s a vice, you’ve found, reflecting on your brief and harrowing time with him through such rosy lenses.

“Oh — Meals,” comes a woman’s voice, and you turn to spot Josie, one of the early childhood teachers who tends to stick around long after her classes. Gave you that nickname within a week, because apparently she has a cousin called Amelia who goes by Meals. “Quick warning — Daniel’s got an upset tummy. So… might be some clean up later.”

“Lovely,” you reply through a smirk. “What’d they have for lunch?”

“Ham sandwiches,” Josie says.

“He probably ate some dirt again, then,” you remark, and she giggles.

“Wouldn’t put it past him. Filthy little animals, the lot of them,” she snorts. “It was all maths and spelling today — you should let them have a play around in the art room for a while.”

“Good idea,” you nod.

Art time is your favourite after-school activity to monitor. Something soul-healing, you think, watching children express themselves creatively, unbounded by instruction or time limits. There’s so much stuff in there, too — acrylic paints, crayons, coloured pencils, glitter glue. Big sheets of brightly coloured paper and a bucket of toddler-safe scissors. Stickers, pipe cleaners, googly-eyes. All of the supplies funded by community donations, a fact heartwarming in itself.

So once the preschool kids finish their classes and eat their cheese and crackers, you turn them loose like piglets in a pen.

Your only job is to keep them company. Guide them when they ask for help, praise them for their drawings, take them to the toilet when they need it.

It was extremely distressing, at first, when the kids would show you crayon drawings of their late parents, or when they smeared red and orange paint on a piece of paper and told you it was a painting of the Metro bomb. You’d have to leave the room quite often, then, and Saoirse was a huge help to you.

She doesn’t know anything, of course, she only thought your grief stemmed from overwhelming sympathy. Still, she was a shoulder. Told you that it would only take time, and soon the children would return to their happiest little selves, and you’d get to hold their hands through it.

She was right. Now you most often get drawings of rainbows with a blue stripe as the sky above and a green stripe as the ground below. You get given little creatures made of pompoms and glue and googly eyes and are told you have to feed them glitter or they’ll get hungry. You get to tell Lila she looks beautiful when she asks you if you like her makeup and shows you all the stickers she put on her face.

They get about two hours of free time before you get their attention with the five-clap call and tell them it’s time for dinner. A few whinges later and they file into the cafeteria, where the donation-funded catering company feeds them roast chicken with peas and mashed potatoes.

Your shift aligns with Kate’s around dinnertime, because she looks after the kids older than nine — your favourite person to talk to, because she talks so much that you don’t have to think.

“Yeah, and you won’t believe the kind of shit he said,” she prattles on, under breath, so the kids don’t hear the content of her conversation. “He was all like — wow, babe, you’ve got such a cute arsehole. Like, what does that even mean? Cute arsehole? I mean I’ll take the compliment, but then I was thinking — how many arseholes must he be looking at to be able to distinguish a cute one?”

You can’t help but snort loudly at that, quickly covering your mouth when one of the children turns over his shoulder to squint at you. Taxes, Kate tells him, when he asks what’s so funny.

After all the kids have their pudding and their bathtime, they get to pick their Friday night movie. Cars 2 is the most popular choice, because they watched the first one last week. You sit with Kate at the very back of the telly room, behind where the pack of children sit cross-legged on the carpet. She continues to whisper details about her dating life in your ear, and you are spared from thinking about yourself or your situation or your failings for even a second.

Until she says; “What about you? Surely you’re seeing someone.”

Your chest tightens up when she asks it, and you suddenly get stage fright as you scramble for what to tell her. Amelia doesn’t have baggage, after all — not the kind of baggage Mia did, anyway.

“No, I’m — I’m taking a break from men for a while,” you settle for, vague enough to avoid probing but close enough to the truth that she won’t offer to take you on a double date or something equally as horrific.

“Ah,” she hums, with a nod. “Understandable. Getting over someone?”

You inadvertently let out a sigh. “Guess so.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Who—”

Miraculously interrupted by a four-year-old who waddles over to where you sit. “Miss Goodwin, um, I need to use the toilet.”

Kate all but groans at that. “You just went, Charlie!” She chides in a whisper, before immediately relenting and holding the wee girl’s hand. “Alright, c’mon.”

They slip out of the room and you’re spared the rest of the conversation.

Seven o’clock is bed time, but most of them wind up actually in bed closer to half past, after all their fussing and requests for more pudding and but I’m not tired-ing. There’s no falling asleep until eight, because what was once a temporary shelter has now become permanent, yet still only has the capacity for ten-bed bunking rooms. You shush some giggling and tuck in some blankets, and finally, by ten-past-eight, the kids are down for the night.

There’s a window of time before the end of every shift where you can chat with the other staff all at once, settled down in the break room for some post-sunset tea once the night-time custodians take over the childcare.

You tune in and out of the conversation like you’re fiddling with the dial of a radio, either staring vacantly into the table as you sip your tea or making eye-contact and nodding attentively.

“Wait, you’re still going on that date?” Josie asks Kate incredulously, head cocked back in shock. “I thought you said he was a freak?”

Kate gives her an impish smile. “I did.”

“You’re foul,” Saoirse snickers. “Far less salaciously, I’ve got my sister’s baby shower tomorrow.”

“Oh my god!” Josie gawks. “That’s so sweet — I forgot. She must be well along now, does she know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“No,” Saoirse murmurs with an eye-roll. “They want it to be a surprise. I keep telling her, I’m the aunt, at least I should get to know!”

Kate tuts. “That’s gonna be a big argument when it pops,” she says. “Who wants to be fighting about a name when you’re bleeding everywhere and pissing yourself? Not me.”

“Good thing you aren’t having babies any time soon then, Kate,” Josie teases, chuckling.

“Ever,” Kate adds facetiously, signing a cross over her chest. “These ones are plenty.”

“Ugh, you guys have interesting things going on. I’m so boring,” Josie moans, taking a sip of her tea. “You doing anything tonight, Meals?”

Your eyes flick up from where you fiddled with the label of your teabag. “Oh, um,” you think aloud, because you hadn’t even considered it yet. “Nah. I’m boring too. Might stick around and tidy up the art room, though, it’s a sty in there.”

“Gonna have to start hiding the paint,” Saoirse comments amusedly, “It’s all down the hallway. I even found some on a toilet seat. How do they even spread the mess that far?”

You giggle. “I had to stop Will from drinking it today. He got as far as taking the pump out. Got bright pink all over his shirt.”

“That solves it,” Saoirse laughs. “The paint in the toilet was pink.”

“Such goblins,” Kate smiles.

Kate leaves the moment she finishes her tea, hurrying off to get ready for her date, so she calls it — which gives you an excuse to slip out of the break room. Allow your social battery a chance to recharge before you implode.

Your prescribed counsellor reminds you frequently of the need for socialising. Tells you that solitude is the recipe for spiraling. That a return to regularity is a cure-all. She hasn’t yet been proven completely wrong, but your ability to feign contentment isn’t as honed as it used to be.

Strange, you’re aware, perhaps unjustified, given the starkly different circumstances you now find yourself in. But a mask is hard to hold up, regardless of who you are showing it to.

You just hold onto the hope that someday, years, decades from now, expressing joy won’t feel like a performance. Such a dream was lost to Mia, but maybe Amelia will be the one to find it.

It’s not uncommon for you to stick around at the refuge for much longer than your shift requires. Maybe out of some degree of obligation, indebtedness, making up for your wrongs. Maybe to avoid going home alone to your safehouse.

In truth, though, you enjoy being alone.

No mask needed, then. No performance. No need to worry about who might be watching. In solitude you can unfurl, because there’s nobody else alive you can be yourself around. Nobody whose company doesn’t feel like a collar.

You spend the next quarter hour alone in the art room, tacking new drawings to the pinboard. You can never bring yourself to take the old ones down, so you just find spaces in between them, or layer the new ones carefully so that the old ones still peek through. Flowers and sunshine atop missing parents and rain. No good pretending the old ones don’t exist, you think to yourself.

You hear some fuzzy conversation down the hallway as you’re washing paint off the palettes in the sink, getting a decent smearing of myriad colours on your skin and clothes in so doing. Perhaps one of the kids snuck out of bed.

You shut off the running water to listen, though, and you stand in the silence, broken up by water dripping from the faucet.

“Sorry, who?” You recognise that voice as Saoirse, that twinge of grouch she puts on when displeased.

“She’s a volunteer.”

A man’s voice.

Deep. Rumbles through the walls like an idle engine.

“Oh — you mean Amelia?” Saoirse asks, knife-sharp edge in her voice. “She’s, she’s in the art room, but she’s busy. I’ll let her know you came by?”

“Where’s the art room.”

There’s no give in his tone. No room for debate, no tempered frustration. It’s raw and bare in every word he utters.

“I’m sorry, you can’t just — excuse me,” she belts, edge escalating to a point.

You shuffle uneasily away from the sink, closer to the door, but you get caught in the centre of the room when you hear heavy but inconsistent footsteps landing on the hardwood.

“Hey!” Saoirse snaps, closer, angrier. “You can’t just barge in here, this is a childcare centre.”

No response from the man she must be pursuing, in your direction, as the footsteps grow nearer.

“Mia?”

A hoarse call through the walls.

Your eyes glass over. Ears fill with radio static. Feet glued to the floor as a figure suddenly fills the doorframe; towering, imperious, hidden by the shadow. Eyes catch a glint of the light within.

He lumbers slowly into the room. A noticeable limp. Umber bomber jacket, worn leather, black hoodie beneath it. Loose jeans. Black boots.

Wheaten blond in disordered spikes, unkempt. Stubble grown-out except where the side of his jaw is shiny and knurled with scars left by fire. Eyes that glow like amber.

Time stops flowing.

Your jaw is wired shut. Throat full of talc. Tongue palsied.

“Y-you… you’re—”

You choke on your words like they’re made of cotton, and you cannot muster a full sentence; you stumble hastily in his direction and land in his chest like falling a distance into water. Release a breath you had kept pent for the eight months since you last saw him breathing.

His arms constrict around you, warm and heavy; wide hand settles at the back of your neck, fingers weave into your hair at the nape, and soon your feet feel light on the floor.

You distantly hear Saoirse stumble into the room, likely armed with a taser and ready to call the police, but she falls quiet. Empathetic woman that she is. She must slither away quickly, because you don’t hear her leave.

Sobs shatter you despite a feeble effort to contain them. Earnest cries that catch in the fibers of his sweatshirt and the skin of his neck. Tears that you can taste in your mouth.

“I thought—” you falter, tongue weak, teeth soft. “I t-thought you were dead.”

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

His voice quakes through you from where he speaks it into your shoulder, fluttering along your nerves like a hot shiver. Clutches you tightly as if you’re dripping wet and liable to slip through his fingers all over again.

You breathe him in like oxygen. He smells the same, like skin and leather and gunpowder. Feels the same, warm and rough, soft in the middle. Familiar as you could have become with his touch and taste in your extremely transient crossing of paths.

“They d-didn’t tell me,” you sob. “They didn’t tell me anything. I didn’t know what h-happened to you.”

“I’m sorry,” is all he says, bites out the words like it’s hard to let them loose. Firm hand smoothes down the back of your hair, the other coiled around you tightly enough to keep you off the floor, and you feel his heart beating against your sternum.

Your hands form claws that lodge in the folds of his jacket as though digging for flesh you can hook into — not yet convinced he’s real, let alone that he won’t disappear the moment you can’t feel him there. So you cleave to him, soaking in him, and you unfurl completely.

“God, I — I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you lament, in a whimper. “I c-can’t believe you came back.”

He presses his lips into your temple, soft and yet cracked, as if he might speak directly to the worried subconscious hiding in the cavern of your skull.

“I promised.”

#call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod smut #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x female reader #ghost cod #bella-writes

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petalbcrnes · 19 days ago

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❀﹒﹒⇅﹒𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ╱ with JASON TODD & DICK GRAYSON ㄨ BLACK WIDOW ! READER ꩜ .ᐟ ⠀⠀ hcs & drabbles. ⠀·⠀ ୭

　　﹕ (✿˘͈ᵕ˘͈) ┈ #directory #rules . ♡ ﹒ this ask made me rethink the whole ‘reqs closed but suggestions open’ deal i gave going on rn. i cannot physically write everything req i get in my inbox,,, so i just take suggestions— no pressure to write it like a request.

❛ ꜝ ┈ ✺ cw ﹒ violence and abuse described in this work— it doesn’t take a big part of it though. a bit of angst because i cannot control myself.

𓏲𓏲⠀⠀.. ⠀Your reputation precedes you—former Black Widow, perfectly trained killer, someone who understands that justice isn’t always clean or merciful. But Gotham’s protectors seem determined to complicate things. You find yourself in unfamiliar territory— a certain vigilante has wormed his way into your heart. ✶

. 　 ✺ 　 ⁺ 𝐉𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 ︶︶

The warehouse explosion lit up Crime Alley like the Fourth of July, and Jason couldn’t help but grin as you dropped down beside him from seemingly nowhere, not even slightly singed despite having been inside thirty seconds ago.

“Show off,” he muttered, but there was admiration in his voice.

“Says the man who literally just drove his motorcycle through a second-story window.” You checked your weapons with practiced efficiency, muscle memory from a lifetime of survival. “Find what we needed?”

“Financial records, shipping manifests, and enough evidence to put half of Falcone’s operation away.” Jason held up a hard drive. “Plus whatever you did in there should send a nice message to the rest.”

You shrugged, the movement elegant even in tactical gear. “The message needed to be loud.”

“No arguments here.” He stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in your eyes. “Bruce is gonna have an aneurysm when he finds out about tonight.”

“Good. Maybe it’ll keep him busy enough to stop lecturing us about ‘excessive force.’” Your fingers found the edge of his jacket, tugging him closer. “Besides, you didn’t seem to mind my methods when I saved your ass in there.”

Jason’s laugh was rough around the edges. “Pretty, I never mind your methods. Just wish you’d give me a heads up. I like to watch.”

Your smile was dangerous and entirely too appealing. “Next time, I’ll put on a show.”

Jason absolutely gets your approach to justice and rarely questions your methods— if anything, he thinks you’re more efficient than the Bat-family’s usual “catch and release” program.

Will definitely team up with you on missions and enjoys the hell out of it, especially since you don’t try to hold him back from doing what needs to be done.

Gets incredibly protective when other people criticize your past or your methods, even though he knows you can handle yourself— old habits from his own experience being judged.

Loves sparring with you because you’re one of the few people who can actually challenge him, and there’s something thrilling about fighting someone who’s genuinely dangerous.

Sometimes you’ll find him reading up on Red Room techniques or Widow operations, not to judge but to better understand what made you who you are.

Has absolutely gotten into arguments with Dick and Bruce about your relationship. It’s a delicate situation. While Bruce and Dick understand you would never hurt Jason on purpose, they do worry how the methods you two choose will affect not only Jason— you as well.

There’s a twisted kind of understanding between you and Jason. I think in the end Bruce only wants the two of you to be able to find peace and not feel trapped by the blood you two have spilled.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　

. 　 ✺ 　 ⁺ 𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒𝐎𝐍 ︶︶

The Blüdhaven rooftop was slick with rain as you materialized from the shadows, silent as death itself. Dick didn’t even flinch— he’d learned to sense your presence weeks ago, though he still couldn’t figure out how you moved so quietly in those boots.

“You’re late,” he said, not turning around.

“I’m exactly on time. You’re just early because you’re nervous.” You stepped beside him, close enough that he could smell gunpowder and vanilla perfume. “The target’s already handled.”

“Handled how?” Dick’s voice carried that careful neutrality he used when he was trying not to lecture you.

You tilted your head. “Does it matter? The trafficking ring is shut down, the girls are safe, and the world has three fewer monsters in it.”

Dick closed his eyes briefly. “We talked about this—”

“No, you talked. I listened.” Your gloved fingers traced along his jaw, gentle despite the calluses from trigger guards and knife hilts. “I know you want to save everyone, even the ones who don’t deserve it. It’s what makes you beautiful, Dick Grayson. But some people can only be stopped one way.”

He caught your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “And what does that make you?”

Your smile was sharp as broken glass. “Practical.”

Dick tries so hard to be the moral compass in the relationship, constantly walking the line between accepting who you are and hoping he can influence you toward less lethal methods. (He’s like “I can fix them” and just makes it even worse). It’s not as if he doesn’t want to see this side of you. He does. He just wants to help you navigate the pain jt took to get here.

He’s genuinely fascinated by your skills and will ask you to teach him your stealth techniques, though he draws the line at the more assassination-focused training.

Gets genuinely distressed when you disappear for days on missions, not because he doesn’t trust your abilities, but because he worries about what those missions might be doing to your body and mind.

Has definitely tried to introduce you to everyone else as a “reformed” anti-hero, which backfired spectacularly when you made a casual comment about eliminating witnesses. He learned not to sugar-coat you and your methods after that. Better to accept them head on.

Loves the way you move— there’s something almost hypnotic about your grace in combat that he finds beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.

Will patch up your wounds without question, but always with that worried crease between his brows that you’ve learned means he’s planning another “conversation” about your methods and how you cannot keep putting yourself in so much danger.

Sometimes catches you staring at him like you’re memorizing his face, and it breaks his heart a little because he knows it means you’re always prepared to run.

Has started leaving his window unlocked specifically for you, even though you’ve never actually needed to use the window.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　

﹒ ♪ ┊ INBOX OPEN.⠀⠀feel free to send me asks and suggestions in my inbox. ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

˖ `· . 𓏵 © 𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐂𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒 don’t use my work without my consent. ... ⏤ㅤ Ⳋ ⊹

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supernova2205 · 5 months ago

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The Silence Of The Mole

Poly 141 x Medic Reader

Summary: A field medic and lover to the 141 is caught in a web of suspicion and betrayal after a mission goes wrong. Accused of being a mole, the reader faces harsh interrogations from the squad, leading to deep emotional scars. As the truth comes out, trust is shattered, and the reader must decide whether they can ever forgive the team, especially those they were closest to.

Warning: ⚠️ Ghost being extra mean ⚠️

The mission had gone to hell in seconds. You crouched behind cover in the wreckage of what was once a safehouse, blood staining your gloves as you worked frantically to save an injured operative. Shouts and gunfire echoed around you, the air thick with the stench of smoke and burnt flesh. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

The intel had been airtight, or so everyone believed. You’d moved in with precision, confidence, and a plan. But the ambush hit hard and fast, your every move countered like they were reading from the same playbook.

You didn’t have time to think about how it had gone wrong. You were too busy pulling Soap out of the line of fire, throwing yourself between Gaz and the sniper that had him pinned, dragging Ghost back when shrapnel ripped through his shoulder. The fight was chaos, but somehow, you all made it out alive—just barely.

When you finally made it back to base, everything was eerily silent. No one spoke as you filed into the debriefing room, the weight of the failed mission pressing down on all of you. Price stood at the head of the table, his face like stone, and you could feel the tension in the room simmering beneath the surface.

“This wasn’t bad luck,” Price said finally, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Someone sold us out.”

The words hit like a physical blow. You looked around the room, seeing the same shock and disbelief mirrored in everyone’s faces. A mole. Someone had betrayed the team.

The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating, until Ghost spoke. “We need to find out who.”

It wasn’t long before the rumors started.

It began as whispers, quiet and insidious.

“She always knows where everyone is.”

“I heard she was asking a lot of questions before the mission.”

“She’s close with all of them—maybe too close.”

At first, you ignored it. You told yourself it was just paranoia, that people were looking for someone to blame. But then the stares started. The sidelong glances in the hallways, the conversations that stopped when you walked into the room.

You tried to push it aside, focusing on your work in the med bay. But the tension followed you everywhere, growing louder and more hostile with every passing day.

The breaking point came when Price called you into the debriefing room.

The room felt colder than usual, the air thick with tension. Price sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable. Ghost was next to him, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture radiating controlled fury. Soap and Gaz sat farther back, their expressions uneasy.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” you asked, your voice steady despite the sinking feeling in your stomach.

“Take a seat,” Price said.

You hesitated, glancing at the others, but eventually sat down. The silence stretched on, oppressive and uncomfortable, until Price finally spoke.

“There’s been a development,” he said. “Rumors are going around that you’re the mole.”

You froze, the words hitting you like a punch to the gut. “What?”

“It’s not just rumors,” Ghost said, his voice low and biting. “We have to investigate.”

Your stomach twisted. “You think I did this?”

“No one’s saying that—” Soap started, but Ghost cut him off.

“We’re saying we can’t rule you out,” he said.

Your breath caught in your throat. “I’ve been with this team for years. I’ve saved your lives more times than I can count. How can you even think—”

“Enough,” Price interrupted, his tone sharp. “We’re not accusing you. But we need answers.”

Your chest tightened, anger and disbelief warring with the hurt that clawed at your throat. “So, what? You’re interrogating me now?”

No one answered, but the tension in the room was answer enough.

The interrogation started that night.

Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz all took turns questioning you, their voices sharp and relentless as they picked apart every detail of your actions before and during the mission.

“Where were you two hours before deployment?” Price asked, his voice calm but cold.

“In the med bay, prepping supplies,” you answered, your hands clenched into fists beneath the table.

“Alone?” Ghost pressed, his tone unreadable, though the accusation was clear.

You nodded. “Yes. I always prep alone; you know that.”

“That’s convenient,” Ghost said, his eyes narrowing.

Your jaw tightened. “What are you implying?”

“Just stating the facts,” he replied, his voice clipped.

Soap shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding your gaze. Gaz leaned forward, his brow furrowed in conflict, but he didn’t speak up. It felt like they were watching you drown, unsure whether to save you or let you sink.

The questioning dragged on for hours, each question more pointed than the last. They dissected your every move, twisting your words until even you started doubting yourself.

“Did you access the mission brief before it was officially released?” Price asked.

“I didn’t,” you said firmly.

“We’ve got logs showing someone accessed it from a med bay terminal,” Ghost said, his voice hard. “You’re the only one who uses that terminal.”

Your stomach dropped. “I didn’t touch it. I swear.”

“Then who did?” Price asked, his eyes boring into yours.

“I don’t know!” you snapped, your voice cracking under the pressure. “But it wasn’t me.”

Your words hung in the air, but the doubt in their eyes didn’t waver.

The interrogations became a daily occurrence. They pulled you into that cold, sterile room every night, questioning you until your voice was hoarse and your body ached from the tension. The physical toll started to show—dark circles under your eyes, a tremor in your hands that you couldn’t hide.

But the worst part wasn’t the exhaustion or the relentless questions. It was the way they looked at you.

Price, the man who had been your anchor in countless storms, now looked at you like a stranger. Ghost, your silent protector, treated you like an enemy. Even Soap and Gaz, the ones who always comforted you and usually had your back no matter what, kept their distance, their expressions torn between doubt and guilt.

It wasn’t long before the interrogations escalated.

One night, after yet another grueling session, Ghost stood and loomed over you, his towering presence casting a shadow over the room.

“You’re not telling us everything,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

“I’ve told you everything I know,” you said, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

“Lies,” he said simply.

Before you could respond, Ghost’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist in an ironclad hold. You gasped as he pulled you to your feet, his grip bruising.

“Ghost,” Soap said sharply, stepping forward. “That’s enough.”

But Ghost didn’t let go. “People died because of that ambush,” he said, his voice cold and venomous. “Our people. You think you’re walking out of here without giving us answers?”

“I didn’t do it!” you shouted, your voice breaking.

Ghost’s grip tightened, and panic surged in your chest. You tried to pull away, but he was too strong.

“That’s enough,” Price said, his voice sharp as a blade.

Ghost hesitated, then released you, shoving you back into the chair. You stumbled, clutching your wrist as tears blurred your vision.

The room was silent, the tension thick enough to choke on.

The physical strain from the interrogations started to show. Your body ached from being yanked and shoved, your wrists bruised from Ghost’s rough grip. Your hands, once steady and skilled, trembled constantly, making it harder to do your job in the med bay.

It wasn’t just the physical toll. The emotional weight was unbearable. The 141—your lovers, your partners, your family—looked at you like you were a stranger. No matter how much you pleaded, no matter how many times you swore your innocence, they refused to believe you.

Only Gaz and Soap seemed to falter. They still looked at you with doubt, but there were moments when you caught glimpses of something else—guilt, hesitation, maybe even regret. But they didn’t say anything, and their silence hurt almost as much as the accusations.

A week later, the truth finally came out.

You were in the med bay, stitching up a soldier’s wound with trembling hands, when Price walked in. The look on his face was unreadable, but there was something heavy in his eyes.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice softer than it had been in days.

You nodded, though your chest tightened with apprehension.

Price led you to the debriefing room, where Ghost, Soap, and Gaz were already waiting. The tension in the room was palpable, but this time, it felt different.

“We know the truth,” Price said, his voice low.

Your heart stopped.

“It wasn’t you,” he continued. “The intel breach came from someone else. A jealous operative spread the rumors to cover their tracks.”

You stared at him, the words not fully sinking in. “What?”

“They’ve been discharged,” Ghost said, his tone clipped.

You looked between them, your anger and disbelief bubbling to the surface. “So that’s it? You spent a week tearing me apart, treating me like a traitor, and now you expect me to just move on?”

No one answered.

“Do you have any idea what you put me through?” you demanded, your voice shaking. “What you did to me?”

“Lass, we—” Soap started, but you cut him off.

“Don’t,” you said sharply, tears streaming down your face. “Don’t you dare try to justify it.”

They tried to apologize, but the damage was done. The betrayal cut too deep, and no amount of words could erase the memories of their accusations—the way they’d looked at you, interrogated you, hurt you. It had shattered something fundamental between you and the people you once trusted with your life.

You stopped sharing quarters with them, opting instead to sleep in the med bay. It wasn’t ideal—your back ached from the stiff cot, and the sterile smell of antiseptic filled your dreams—but at least it gave you space. You couldn’t bear to wake up beside them, to feel their hands on you, knowing what they’d done.

The med bay became your haven. You threw yourself into your work, tending to wounded soldiers and drowning yourself in the steady routine of bandages, stitches, and medications. You thought if you stayed busy enough, you wouldn’t have to think about the past week—or the aching void in your chest where their love used to be.

Soap and Gaz tried the hardest to make amends.

“Lass, let me help you with that,” Soap said one evening, stepping into the med bay as you struggled to move a heavy supply crate.

“I don’t need your help,” you said coldly, refusing to look at him.

“Please,” he said, his voice quiet. “I just… I want to help.”

You hesitated for a moment before stepping aside, letting him carry the crate to the storage room. He lingered after, standing awkwardly by the door as if waiting for you to say something.

“Is there something else you need?” you asked, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice.

Soap flinched but shook his head. “No. Just… sorry.”

You turned away, refusing to let him see the tears welling in your eyes.

Gaz was more subtle, his attempts to bridge the gap quieter but no less earnest. He stayed late in the med bay, helping you clean up or organize supplies without saying a word. He brought you coffee in the mornings, setting it down on your desk before slipping away.

“I know you don’t want to talk to me,” he said one night as you worked side by side. “And I don’t blame you. But I want you to know that I’m sorry. For all of it.”

You didn’t respond, keeping your focus on the sutures in your hands. But when he left, you found yourself staring at the door long after it closed, wondering if maybe—just maybe—he meant it.

Ghost and Price, on the other hand, kept their distance.

You saw them in passing—Ghost’s hulking figure lingering in the shadows, Price’s steady presence in the command room—but they didn’t approach you. They didn’t try to explain themselves, didn’t offer apologies or excuses. At first, you were relieved. You didn’t think you could handle hearing their voices without breaking all over again.

But as the days stretched on, their silence began to weigh on you. It felt like they were avoiding you, like they’d given up on even trying to make things right. And maybe they had.

One night, as you sat alone in the med bay, the door creaked open. You looked up to see Price standing in the doorway, his hat in his hands.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

“Where else would I be?” you replied, your tone sharper than you intended.

He stepped inside, hesitating for a moment before sitting down across from you. The weight of his presence filled the room, the silence stretching unbearably between you.

“I owe you an apology,” he said finally.

You stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

“I let my judgment get clouded,” he admitted, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I should’ve trusted you. I didn’t. And that’s on me.”

“Is that supposed to make it better?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Do you have any idea what you put me through? What you all put me through?”

Price looked up, and for the first time, you saw the guilt etched into his features. “I can’t take it back,” he said. “But I want to make it right.”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. “You can’t make it right, Price. Not after this.”

Ghost came to you a few days later.

You were organizing supplies when you felt his presence behind you, a familiar weight that sent a shiver down your spine.

“What do you want, Ghost?” you asked, not turning around.

“I wanted to talk,” he said, his voice unusually hesitant.

You laughed bitterly. “You? Talk? That’s a first.”

There was a pause, and when you finally turned to face him, you saw something you had only seen when he showed you his face: vulnerability.

“I was wrong,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was wrong about you. And I’m sorry.”

You stared at him, the words hanging in the air between you. For a moment, you almost believed him. But then you remembered the way he’d looked at you during the interrogations—the cold, unyielding fury in his eyes—and the anger surged back.

“You think ‘sorry’ is enough?” you asked, your voice shaking. “You didn’t just accuse me, Ghost. You hurt me. Physically, emotionally—you broke me.”

“I know,” he said, his voice cracking. “And I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

“Good,” you said, your eyes blazing with tears. “Because I don’t think I can forgive you either.”

Soap and Gaz were the only ones you started to let back in. It was slow—painfully slow—but their earnest efforts began to chip away at the walls you’d built around yourself.

Soap made you laugh again, his humor cautious but genuine. Gaz stayed by your side during the long, quiet nights in the med bay, his steady presence a comfort you didn’t realize you needed.

Price and Ghost, though—they remained on the outside. No matter how much they apologized, no matter how many times they tried to reach out, you couldn’t bring yourself to let them in. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

And yet, despite everything, a part of you still longed for the family you’d lost. Whether that longing would ever outweigh the pain they’d caused, though, was a question you weren’t ready to answer. Not yet.

Authors note: Hey everyone! I hope you enjoyed this week’s fic! It was definitely a rollercoaster for me to write my heart was all over the place! I’d love to hear your thoughts on it, so please let me know what you liked and if there’s anything else you’d like me to explore. Looking forward to your feedback and what you’d like to see next 🫶🏼

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virginburial · 1 month ago

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.·:*¨༺ cupid's girl. ♱ bob reynolds ༻¨*:·.

SUMMARY: in which a failed assassination attempt turns into something more

SHIP: afab!reader x Robert Reynolds WARNINGS: explicit content (minors stay out), unprotected p n v, and f receiving oral, sub!reader, bob can't pick between being a soft or hard dom, spittingggg??? also you hate bob's guts before he rearranges yours! #enemiestoloversfinalboss. random storytelling/porn with a plot. is this a self insert? i wish I knew. also btw you're from florida now :D!! TW FOR: mentions of murder/violence/self inflicted harm, grief, recovery/healing, ptsd related topics, mass violence mention.

WORD COUNT: 7K

SONG: cupid's girl by MARINA "Don't panic when it hits ╴shoot my arrow right into your back!"

A/N: well well well shawties... I've returned. This plot is a lil crazy but it made sense in my head so i wrote it. I haven't written smut in so long but i have been treated well since then so maybe this is better than my previous work ;) I'm having such a weird regression into my old fandoms so I might publish more work soon! as always, reblogs, comments, likes, and shares are greatly appreciated!

.·:*¨༺♱༻¨*:·.

Quiet steps lingered down the hall as you got a handle on your bow, you knew your mission was only complete if he was taken down, and the last thing you wanted to do was betray Valentina. You were her favorite…which only started to click for you now. Of course you were. There’s no Valentines without cupid shooting arrows and manipulating the background. You were the baseline for The Sentry Project; a test dummy. And similar to the Sentry, you were the only one to survive. Valentina’s secret weapon. You were agile, quick, and seemingly docile and sweet.

To quote Valentina, directly; “she’s like if Sabrina Carpenter and Natasha Romanoff had passionate sex and scissored out their love child…that’s you, by the way.”

Of course, you didn’t harbor the same powers as Sentry, in fact, you were almost sure you were created to be the Eve in this situation. Some sidekick with the cute gift of emotionally manipulating the emotions of others, while also being a ruthless killer. You don’t emotionally manipulate others the way most people think off; sure, you bat your pretty lashes and you talk lightly and yes, occasionally, you play devil's advocate. However, you could feel and change the way others feel just by touching them. You know your hand to hand combat, but what's the point if you can just shake someone’s hand, hunt them, seduce them, and control someone so well that they do the job for you?

No bruises, busted lips, or bloody noses if you will someone to…well, you know.

It’s what made you so dangerous, and maybe, just as powerful as Valentina’s trophy. It’s also what made him such a good target for you. No need to take him down if you just shake his hand. You could feel the calmness around the room he stayed in, it was almost too calm. It was expected; Valentina just paraded him around and called him and his ragtime team of circle jerkers the “New Avengers”? New Avengers? The sentiment alone made you gag on envy. You hated that they got their flowers while you stayed put, while you obeyed, while you kept sweet. Sentry was just a glorified military weapon. You were the will of Eros and Sigmund Freud’s worst nightmare.

It should’ve been you.

And the fact that Valentina still wanted him gone, despite everything, made this operation all the more vital; promising you his spot, promising you everything you initially signed up for when you decided to go through the test trials for the Venus project; a better life. Not a life of suffering.

It was easy sneaking into where the Thunderbolts were staying at, in fact, you already ran into two members already; that fat oaf Red Guardian and the family dollar (and slightly closeted) Captain America, John Walker. It was easy to get them out of your way, the same way you got men to move out of your way your entire life. Staring up at them with your big eyes and pretending that you were doing the opposite of what you were actually doing; And maybe you did pat a couple shoulders here and made them less…on guard.

It didn’t matter, you weren’t here for them, you’re here for the poor man’s Homelander. Or whomever he really is. Despite having the same background, being from the same lab, you never once met him, or knew him beyond his project name. You knocked on the door, laying your weapon against the frame of the door as you straightened up. It was your time to shine. Your time to prove everyone wrong; dressed in a white blouse, a black skirt that was way above your knee, and knee high boots with tights underneath.

The door slightly opened, a small crack of light entering the room as curious, doe eyes peaked out behind the slab of wood that separated you from your most treasured victim. The plan was simple; fill him with the doubt, the rage, the sadness that he had before, and then some. Let him do the rest. It wouldn’t surprise anyone considering his history. You were a character assassin. However, the awkwardness filled the air with its stiffness. You could smell how anxious he got as it sept through every pore. Once he opened the door, you realized he was a lot more timid than previously mentioned. You almost thought you had the wrong guy.

“Um…can I help you?” He stammered.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you smiled. “Yes.” a soft hum leaves you. “Are you Robert Reynolds? I-I got sent here by Mel to do a room check.” you lied, even dropping a slight stutter to convey just how nervous the idea of this made you; even if it didn’t bug you at all. “I already checked in with the others, you were last on my list.”

He raised an eyebrow. “...Why couldn’t Mel do it?” he asked earnestly.

He already had you stumped, but you just shrugged. “She got promoted, so I'm the assistant’s assistant now…funny how life works, right?” you stared up into his eyes, you could practically hear his heart beating faster and faster the longer he made eye contact with you. Anxiety mixing in with curiosity, and a hint of attraction; oh, he was in for a rude awakening. He didn’t need to know that just yet. “So, are you gonna let me in?” you ask kindly.

He hesitated, you could see his jaw clenching–was that irritation? You didn’t care. The minute he stepped aside, you sauntered in, looking around at the bare room as your eyes went towards the nightstand. You slowly walk over as you open the drawers and rummaged through what was inside with only your eyes. “How come I’ve never seen you before?”

You snap over to him. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I would have recognized you if you worked for Mel.. or Valentina, for that matter.” he leaned against the wall, looking down at the ground until his eyes met yours. You brushed it off with ease. “Was always more of a background actor.” you hummed as your fingers went to the other drawer. “Besides, I was away while everything was happening, just got back from a trip the minute you strolled in. I can't say I'm terribly inconvenienced by the suddenness of everything.” it was a white lie, you were inconvenienced.

he just nodded. “I mean…you’re a government worker.”

Yeah, and so are you; 1/4th of the military spending.

You clenched your jaw, releasing it as you turned your head, flashing a fake smile as you shut the drawers behind you. “You can say that, yeah.” we’ll agree to disagree for now. You sigh softly and look around. There wasn’t much else to check for your fake assignment, it was time to move onto the real one. You approached him. “You should hit up an Ikea or something, and soon, it’s kind of sad in here.” you joke lightly, feeling him slightly relax.

“Eh, I guess…I could fill it up with some things like a bean bag or a nice rug, maybe a couple of posters like a SlowDive one or maybe even an FSU one-”

General disgust hit your face, and you weren’t too keen on hiding it, and he noticed it right away. He furrowed his eyebrows, laughing nervously. “...what?”

“An FSU poster?” your voice winced softly.

Then it hits him, he takes a step back, and a smug look on his face replaces the timid one. “Are…are you from Florida too?” he questioned, and you shook your head, not to say no, that you’re not from Florida, but to say; “The Gators are so much better-” “-Ew, no.” he combated. “Let me guess, Orlando?” he joked softly. God, we really are in a sassy man apocalypse.

You scoffed. “Gross, I’m from Tampa.”

“Should’ve seen that coming.” he smiled softly. “You’re…a lot nicer than Mel and Valentina, despite your bad taste in college sports-” “-I’ll have you know, that the Gators have won multiple national championships, and I also root for the Bulls.” you cut off, then blush slightly. “Sorry…and thank you, Robert.” you stare up at him, and there it is again; Anxiety mixing in with curiosity, and a hint of attraction; a shot of attraction now, there might as well be a pint of it the next go around. The man looked down at her.

“I’m…Bob, by the way. No one calls me Robert.” He sticks his hand out.

The golden opportunity, you practically water at the mouth to get your hand over his. You didn’t want to make yourself look desperate to touch him; that’s always a little awkward. You wanted to give it such a good shake that you were able to send him on that spiral, without having to use that weapon you brought and stashed in his blindspot. So you grin, your manicured fingers slowly slithering over and interconnecting with his fingers, as power surged through you. It felt like a runners high, better than sex, better than taking back what’s yours. “Y/N”

You could see it actively working, the uncertainty that lingered on his face, yet, something else started to swallow you whole. You felt it run through you as everything turned black, and for a second, Bob was gone. He was the Sentry, after all, maybe you were the delusional one for thinking you could be as powerful as him. However, Valentina didn’t mention this. She didn’t mention this unwavering ability he had that made you feel utterly alone.

You felt yourself shift to a new plane of existence, your body now sitting as slight murmuring grew louder and more coherent. The smell of coffee and old books hit your senses like a gut punch, and fluorescent lights peaked through your thin eyelids and lashes. Your clothes were the same, yet everything was different. When your eyes opened, you noticed yourself sitting in a group with people you wouldn't believe you were seeing. Because they were your classmates. Because it’s been years. Because..they’re all dead. The monotone voice was your teacher. She was dead. The clock struck 2:15, and stayed that way after that day. You were strapped to your seat, an adult, seeing your teenage pupils panic to news over the intercom.

Stuck to your seat, you watched them scramble to barricade doors. Stuck to your seat, you watch them arm themselves with textbooks and chairs. Stuck to your seat, you watched as everything failed, and each life got ripped away from you, the way you couldn’t have seen back then when you played dead. This was what you were escaping. This is the promise Valentina failed at keeping; having to see it play out over and over again; until you realized you could move. You could always move.

You try to run to the door, swinging it open and seeing yourself and Valentina going over your own project. Before you could run to your salvation, you see Bob on the other side of the classroom, staring at you in horror.

You snap back to reality, stumbling back as tears reach the rims of your eyes. You were on the verge of hyperventilating as your legs shook, holding onto the edge of the bed frame. Your knees cowering as you look down at the floor. Bob puts his hands up, almost as shocked as you are. As your mind racks with the idea of how your powers failed you here, Bob stares at you.

“I know what you are…” he says sternly, his jaw tensing up as he keeps his gaze. “Project Venus?” he asked.

You try to calm down, your breaths slowing down slowly as your eyes finally meet him. You neither confirm or deny. “...Project Sentry.” you grit. You see him slowly put his hands down. “Valentina told me that everyone from Project Venus died…” you watch as he connects the dots as to why you were kept in the dark for so long. Before he had time to process the possible failed assaination by proxy attempt, you ran to hit, backhanding him, distracting him, before kneeing him in the stomach.

He groaned, annoyed, and before you could land another punch, he grabbed your wrist; holding it tightly as you tried to snatch it away. “I’m not gonna fight you-” “-bullshit, if you know me, and what I can do, then you know why I’m here-” “-it doesn’t work, and that’s why you were scrapped, now stop before you sprain something-rob” you didn’t listen, you kicked him and pushed him out of the way, running to the door and grabbing the bow, and aiming it at him.

“God, what the fuck, Stop!” He holds his hands up.

“What did you do to me?” you barked. “How did you-” your voice shook as Bob shook his head. “Look, it’s clear that Valentina fucked us both. Okay? You-You have every reason to be upset! She didn’t care about you then and doesn't now either. She probably sent you here to be killed just-just-put the fucking bow down, please!” he pleaded. “Please don’t make me hurt you more than I already have-”

“Oh shut up!” you raised your voice over his. “I was supposed to be you! I signed over my entire life to be as great as you and you stole that from me, you stole my life…” your tears ran down your cheeks. “You stole my life, and I'm gonna get it back!”

“I didn’t steal your life.” he snapped. “Valentina did. That man who did that to your friends back in high school did.” he huffed out as he dropped his hands. “God, Y/N, what was the plan here? You ‘infect’ me with depression until I kill myself? Do you know anything about me outside of me being the Sentry?” he stared in bewilderment. “Valentina used just about everyone in this building, you’re not alone.”

Your hands shake as you hold the bow, and you start to realize that you never shot the bow before, and that you’ve always cruised simply by using your powers. Bob saunters over, his hands reaching towards her bow and lowering it. “There’s…nothing you can do that I haven't already done to myself.” he admits. ��Please stop, before you hurt yourself.”

You’re enraged, and you want to do everything you can to regain control, but there’s no use. You throw your weapon on the ground, drying up your own tears as you sniffle softly. “Did you learn all that after singing kumbaya with Red Room Barbie and her fucking friends?!” you spat. Bob just nods. “I don’t know, have you ever considered that maybe you could use your powers to help people? Instead of hurting them?” he barked back. “You know how much time you could save if you healed people instead of, I don’t know, inducing suicide–Can you stop fighting with me for a second.”

You hate that he’s right. “If i started with you, we’d be here all night. You have enough personalities to keep me completely occupied.”

“Now that’s a low blow.”

You both just stare at each other, staying silent for a second as you sigh. “Why didn’t my powers work on you?” you were dying to know, even if it meant knowing that you were a failure, and you were meant to be scrapped.

Bob shrugged. “I don’t know. I wish I could tell you.” he sincerely said. “Maybe instead of filling a…whatever I am with depressive thoughts, have you considered filling me up with happy thoughts? Let me live like that for a bit and then come back to take it from me? Maybe I'll do what you want then.” he muttered that last part under his breath.

“Are you seriously giving me tips on how to kill you more efficiently?”

“I don’t know anymore, Y/N. This is awkward–I’m feeling awkward, in case you can’t tell.” he stared into your eyes. “You know why your trial was called Project Venus, Y/N? It’s because Valentina wanted to make a-a seductress who was an assassin. A whole…Killing Eve situation.” he critiqued. “You put the super serum in Steve Rodgers, you get Captain America. You put the super serum in me, you-you get a clusterfuck of problems. But if you give it to a people pleaser? you get an emotional manipulator…”

You had enough. “You know what? Fuck you, Sentry.” you pick up your bow, not drawing anything, but holding it, just ready to leave this all in the past. “If there’s nothing I can do that you ‘haven’t already done to yourself’ then my work here is done. You’re the ticking time bomb. Not me.” you spat, only to feel what you felt earlier again; the anxiousness, now masked with annoyance and anger, the curiosity, the attraction skipped the pint size, and the pitcher, and the gallon, it jumped two gallons three. Four. Five. You didn’t care, though. He kept pissing you off.

“You aren’t gonna try?” he asked.

You groaned and turned around. “Jesus christ, Bob. What would make you happy, huh?” you bellowed. “A puppy? A girl? FSU actually winning something?”

Bob sighed. “All I know is that we came from the same lab, and we’re both the only survivors. It’s not a fluke. If you truly want to know why your powers didn’t work on me, then I'm telling you that you’re using them wrong.” he looked down at your hand. “Put it on my chest, make me think of something good. Valentina sent you here to die…prove her wrong.” he earnestly suggested. “I was able to prove her wrong, so were the Thunderbolts.”

You hated that this might be the reason why it didn’t work on him. Maybe he was already filled with such darkness, that filling him with more, oversaturating the inevitable, it was never going to work. The public knew about Project Sentry, but not Project Venus. It made sense as to why you’d never be in the picture. It was a losing game. It was always a losing game. Reluctantly, yet, willingly, you dropped your bow and placed your hand on his chest. Oh… there had to be a rock underneath his sweatshirt…was it always this tight? Didn’t matter, you tried to focus on something that would make anyone feel good. Chocolate, a good cry, ten hours of sleep. Something.

Bob looks at your hand, then down at your face, studying every feature. Your hand glows a soft pink, your eyes moving underneath your eyelids as you try to change his demeanor. You just sigh and pull away. “This is stupid-” “-maybe.” he muttered. Looking up at him, you realized how close you two were to each other. “All I can feel is how much I annoy you and stress you out.” his heart beats faster, the blood rushes to his face, and you felt all of that too, you just didn’t want to entertain that possibility. “Can also feel how bad you want me.”

Bob’s cheeks turned a dark shade of pink, he furrowed his eyebrows. “Well, Cupid’s Girl. at least you didn’t force me to feel that.” he looked down.

Your breath hitches slightly, but you shake your head at the idea of it. “I’m not dealing with this-”

“I’m just trying to help you see that you don’t have to follow her orders anymore.” He gulped softly, staring into your eyes. “None of us do. Actually, the last thing I want is to see another person like me be under her thumb-”

“-I’m nothing like you.”

“Bullshit.” he said softly. “Traumatized Floridian escapes pain by signing up for a trial, instead of going to therapy, they become the sole survivor of said trial and, under Valentina De Fontaine’s thumb, they become her own personal weapon…Sounds familiar?” you couldn’t escape from the similarities after he put it into words. You just sigh, opening up your mouth to say something, but Bob cuts you off. “I mean, we own her. Don’t you want that? It doesn’t drain you to do her bidding every now and again?”

Damn it. You just look down, but feel his hand slowly raise to your cheek. He was right. Part of you hated how something as beautiful as being an empath, emotionally attuned, as turned into some cheap party trick to make top scientists and government officials leave the world behind without a single thought. There was a time you wanted to help others. You figured after you learned what you could do, you could help yourself. It doesn’t work on you, but you wished it did. You felt Bob’s thumb run across your cheek, feeling his anxiety tremble once the both of you locked eyes. “...you’ll never have to force anyone to do anything awful ever again, you won’t even have to force them to love you.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Bob just gazed into your eyes, trailing along your soft features as his eyes fluttered down to your lips. Oh, because I didn’t have to force you to want to help me. I didn’t have to force you to see me as more than just a potential enemy. His eyes flicker back up to yours. He wants to say more, maybe even show you exactly what he means. He’s too anxious, too awkward, too nice, while also flooding with some sick desire to have his way with you. The air between the two of you gets thick. The same way it did when he first opened the door, except now the playing field has flipped itself on its head. You stare down at your hands, and so does he, before his eyes find yours again. It’s almost like he’s signaling you on what to do.

Your hand slowly reached his chest, but before you could make him feel anything, he mustered up the courage and grabbed your chin, slowly bringing it over to him as he kissed you softly. Maybe he just wanted you to touch him, not to make him feel anything he doesn’t already feel, but to reassure him that he wanted to feel you and only you. You feel him relax into you, all the anxiety and curiosity quieting down as you gently kiss back, bumping noses and heavy breaths as the kiss deepens. One hand shakily goes to your waist as he uses the other to slowly shut the door behind him.

You weren’t expecting this, and part of you wasn’t sure if this is something that should happen, but once you both pulled away, your lips chased each other again; like magnets trying to find their polar opposite. You felt his grip on your waist slowly tighten, almost scared he’d break you if he grabbed too roughly too soon. Your arms find themselves around his neck as you feel your body get warm with need, way too soon to be feeling like that until your tongues accidentally brush past each other; then it was game on for the both of you.

He feverishly kissed you as his grip on you strengthened, a small huff leaving him as you felt yourself gravitate to him. Feeling his knee slowly slip between your thighs, it was all too convenient. His hand grappling to the back of your neck as he pulled you in more; like he was some needy vampire and you were a blood bag with his name written all over it. His hand on your waist slid over to your lower back as he pulled you more into him, as if you could fade into him, as if he wanted you all to himself. And who were you to deny him of that? Especially if you just started to feel yourself dampen, and wanting nothing more than to get rid of the chaste feeling of not knowing what to do, and wanting something more so bad.

Alchemizing the hate into passion was something you never thought you could do for yourself. Your hate for Sentry turned into wanting nothing more than to show him just how deeply you felt about him, how deeply you felt for him. The kissing picked up more and more, until teeth started clashing and the both of you started running out of breath. You pull away, breathing heavily and almost mumbling against his lips. “Bob-” oh god, you can’t believe you were getting hot and heavy over someone who willingly goes by the name ‘Bob’.

He whines softly after he stops chasing your lips for more kisses, you can feel the heat radiating off of him like a space heater. His fingers run through your hair, as he huffs gently. “Sweetheart…” he hoarsely said, his voice dripping in desperation as his thumb slowly ran across your bottom lip. He couldn’t believe that you’d let him get this far with you. “You stress me out.” he chuckles softly. And it turns you on. you think to yourself as he leaves soft kisses on the corners of your mouth. “Picking a fight with me just to…” his mind lingers on the idea of having you in his arms the way he has you now. He loves hearing your heartbeat speed up with such a slight or sudden move, and you realize you’re not the only one who can hear hearts too.

He softly kisses you for a split second, before leaning his forehead against yours. “Please?” he asked tenderly against your lips. You nearly squeeze your thighs around his knee at the idea of him touching you without it whisking you away to some twilight zone. This could be a sweet dream instead of some awful nightmare, one you deprived yourself of since the trial. “Please I wa-want…” he chokes up, before you nod your head and reciprocate the kiss from earlier; short and sweet. You felt him smirk against your lips as he gently pushed you back up against the bed.

The bed is plush, and soft; it’s a stark contrast compared to the surprising pair of abs underneath Bob’s shirt. He eagerly attaches his lips to your neck, taking a deep breath and smelling the sultry perfume and the vanilla shampoo that you lather your hair in each night. Your skin is the softest thing he’s ever touched, and he misses it more and more each time he pulls away from you. “So..fucking pretty.” he mumbles to himself as his lips trail down to your collarbone, your blouse getting in the way of everything he wants.

Your breathing speeds up softly as his hands fidget with the buttons of your blouse, you can feel him have some semblance of self control, and how close he was with throwing it out the window just to have you. God, you can feel the self constraint. He was strong enough to rip your clothes off with one tug, but the last thing he wanted was for this to be shorter than he wanted it to be, even if he wanted nothing more than to dive into you. The more buttons he unclasps, and the more skin he sees underneath, the harder you feel him get. It was right up against your thigh, and all you wanted was to feel it break you in.

He breathes out a soft ‘fuck’ as his eyes wander onto yours, almost pleading for permission to strip you from the rest; please let me undress you, let me tear this off of you, let me have you. You could feel yourself getting more and more wet with each passing second. The way his hands slowly went over to your inner thigh and softly stroke his thumb closer and closer to your core was just the tip of the iceberg. He slowly leans forward, leaving another kiss on your plump and chapped lips. He stares down at you. “I need to taste you…please?” his voice becomes rash, strained, restricting himself so he doesn't go crazy needing you.

“You wanna taste me?” your voice is tainted with the desire to assume control, because he sounded so pathetic for you. He nods like a puppy, nearly salivating from the mouth like one too. “You wanna taste how fucking sweet I am for you?” you reiterate, feeling his thumb slowly slide between your clothed crotch, feeling how damp your tights were, knowing your panties had been lined with how sweet and wet you are.

He blushes at your words. “That…mouth of yours.” he raspily voiced, and before you knew it, the self restraint he could have prided himself on melted away. He pulls your hips down, taking your black miniskirt with you and unzipping your boots in the process as well. You can’t help but let out a soft laugh. “Someone’s eager-” you hum before a gasp leaves you, because before you knew it, he had ripped your stockings; tears lining down your leg as he leaned down. God your panties were cute, and you weren't even planning on this happening. Lucky you.

He leaned down and gently kissed your clothed clit, a shiver went down your spine as tender whines left your parted lips, and the more noise you made, the more Bob kissed and rubbed and sucked on your panties. The friction makes you more and more desperate. You then felt Bob slowly slide that strip of soaked fabric to the side, spitting on your clit before ravenously lapping his tongue over your sensitive, throbbing nub.

A moan rips from your throat as you toss your head back, feeling your back start to sweat with anticipation as he buries himself more into your cunt. His arms wrapping around your thighs as he forces you down on his tongue. If there was a heaven, this was it; getting endlessly eaten out by someone you tried fist fighting with earlier. You feel your stomach churn with excitement as he drinks out of you, instantly getting drunk off of you, and muttering helplessly against your clit; “god so sweet–so fuckin’ sweet–sound so pretty” intercutting with a few moans and swear words. You relished in how weak he was for you. “Fuck, Bob!”

Just the single mention of his name made him speed up, sucking on you as his tongue gently continued to savor every last drop of you. You’d squeeze your thighs around his head, and he forced them back open. If you wanted, he could stay like that for hours; tongue deep into you while prying your shaky legs open. He wanted to stay like that, until your moans became higher in pitch, and more airy in tone.

His eyes searched for yours, and the way he was looking up at you made it impossible for you to look away or not beg for more. Before you had the chance to, his fingers slowly slid into you, causing your back to arch since there was no sign of him ever slowing down his tongue. Moans spilled out of you as your wetness leaked all over your ripped stockings; dribbling down Bob’s chin and making him even more privy to what you liked, what you wanted, what you needed.

If he was drunk on your juices, then you were equally as drunk as him on his motions. You became a bumbling mess, and he hasn’t even stuck himself in you just yet. “Ohmygod.” you mumbled as more moans got caught up in your throat. You felt the urge in your stomach, blood rushing more and more to your groin as you whimpered. “Just…breaking…you…in” he muttered against your clit, a low hum escaping him as his fingers rapidly entered you, leaving you, entering again, and feeling it overwhelm you.

“God-so close!” you whined as he sped up. He huffed out a small laugh, continuing to work on your clit as his fingers curled inside of you, pressing into that soft spot none of your past partners could reach. A small squeal left you as your legs shook with desire. Grabbing a pillow and holding it to your mouth, you came all over his tongue, and you watched as he licked up everything he could get out of you. Your muffled moans were music to his ears, as he pulled himself up, grabbing the pillow from you and engulfing you in another kiss.

Tasting how sweet you were, how tart it was on his tongue, and how it ran down his neck; you grabbed his face and pulled him away from your lips. He kept on wanting to kiss you, pouting when he couldn’t. You tried to catch your breath before feeling him slide off his sweatpants, exposing his boxers and the giant bulge he was sporting. You could see it throb as he looked into your eyes. “Please Sweetheart…” he begged. “I wanna feel how soft and warm you are for me please.” his voice strained as he looked into your eyes.

You nod, eagerly pulling off his underwear with him and staring at his cock. Your cheeks, as if they weren’t red already, turned crimson at the idea of him splitting you in half with his member, already dripping in precum. Your hand slowly goes over and wraps around him delicately, seeing a shiver run through him as he grabs a chunk of your hair and pulls you up just to kiss you, then softly letting go and slowly going back down with your lips still attached to each other. A soft moan passes his lips, which are red and plump from the excessive kissing. He teases your entrance. “Sweet thing…” he whispers before placing a soft kiss next to your lips. “Good girl” he hums as he slowly slips himself in you; whimpering the deeper he went

A gasp leaves you as you try to adjust to his length; you weren’t expecting it to make you feel so stuffed already, and it wasn’t even fully in you just yet. “Oh fuck…fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-” it all spills out you as Bob chuckles weakly, trying to keep himself together under the amount of pleasure he was feeling. He almost couldn’t think straight with how tight you were around him. How perfectly your cunt sucked him in; like you were both designed for each other. “So-so fuckin’ pretty when you swear-makin’ pretty noises for me.” he musters out before his hips finally react, finally slamming into you in a repeated fashion that’s just…perfect.

A loud squeal left you, and his hand flies to your mouth as he keeps you quiet; clasping so hard around your jaw that the pain alone makes you cry out for him. Yet, it was overwhelmed by the feeling of him fucking you the way you were meant to be fucked. Your body jolts with each movement as cries spill out from the crevices of his hands. “My sweet fuckin’ girl…” he nearly growls, loving the way you were getting worked up for him; but also getting worked up over you himself. He moves his hand away from your mouth and kisses you softly; god, he had to be addicted to your lips.

You took this opportunity to express just how good he was making you feel. You knew others were going to hear you anyway. “God-fuck you fit so well in me i-it-s just perfect for you!” your voice wavered, coated in pleasure, feeling him pick up the pace. “I fucking-love-it when you fuck me like this I deserve to get fucked out-” you cry, looking into his eyes.

He slows down, almost to get back at you for all the trouble you put him through earlier. “Never expected something so nasty to come out of those pretty lips of yours…”

“Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it, Sentry?” You challenged.

You could see his eyes bristle with power as he grabs you and flips you over, forcing your head down into a pillow and holding your hips up as he slams into you; not caring about how rough he was being. You scream with pleasure as your arms try to hold you up, but the pressure of taking him in this position forces your face back down on the pillow. You whine and swear and cry out, but it’s muffled underneath all the pillows. His grip on your thighs holds you in place; you could’ve almost collapsed with how bad your legs were shaking.

“Yeah?” he grunted. “That’s what I'm gonna do.” He murmured hoarsely, trying to keep his control for just a second longer so he could enjoy you, but he’s been close to cuming the minute you put your hands on him. He grabs your hair and pulls your head up; forcing you to take his cock deeper and deeper as he tries to whisper in your ear; “shut you up, sweetheart.” he declared as he let you flop back onto the pillow. He stops thinking about being gentlemanly, and more about how to make you cum for him a second time. He could fuck you for hours until you came if it came down to it.

Your screams and cries and coherent thoughts turned into a jumbled up pile of words, as you drooled onto the pillow; hair sticking to your face as Bob continued to unapologetically thrust against your cervix. It didn’t matter how nervous he was at the beginning, you had him right where you wanted him; helplessly plunging into you and whimpering with each jab. Feeling him rub against your clit with the speed he was going was sending you into a frenzy, causing your thighs to tremble more and more. “What was that, sweetheart?” he slightly smirked as more and more of your muddled moans sept through the fabric of the pillow.

“You…yes…fuck…so…good.” you cried out aimlessly.

Bob’s breath shook as he sped up. “Sweet, dumb, thing.” he groaned with each lunge into your cunt. “Good…handsome…boy…fuck!!” you whimpered out as Bob felt his stomach churn with excitement. He didn’t care to slow down, the last thing he wanted was to ruin the moment just to catch his breath. Why do that, when he can finally release the tension he’s felt since laying eyes on you? He groans at the idea of cuming in you, filling you up and making you his. God, he wanted you to be his so badly. He doubted it, but he wanted you every day of the week.

Sooner rather than later, he felt his own thighs shake. His hands climbed from your hips to your waist, pulling you deeper and closer as he groaned loudly. “Holy fuck…” you felt his cock seize inside of you, twitching every time you squeeze your walls around his member, and every time you did, he’d suck his breath and try to move. He couldn’t take it anymore, he quickly pulled out and pressed his tip against your raw and sensitive clit. He came on your clit, watching his semen roll down your cunt and veer off onto your inner thighs as your hips finally lower themselves.

Bob flops onto the bed and tries to catch his breath. His eyes still glowing as he huffs out in exhaustion, he looks over at you and smiles weakly. “You look…so cute when you’re tired.” he joked lightly.

You face him, blowing a piece of hair away from your face and blushing at the thought of Bob being one of the only people who’s ever seen you this tired. You kept to yourself up until now, and now knowing that someone has seen you all dazed and fucked out turned from an insecurity to something to be celebrated. You reciprocate the same smile. “Well…it’s not every day I get dicked down by someone I was supposed to…” you cringe at the thought of why you came here earlier. “So..this team you’re a part of…”

“The Thunderbolts?”

You nodded. “They…didn’t judge you? Like, at all?”

Bob stops for a second, then shakes his head. “No…you don’t even have to fight, Y/N, I just…don’t want Valentina to hurt you the way she’s hurt me or the others. No one deserves to feel that alone.” he looks into her eyes. “You have something that can…change the world. You always took care of Valentina’s problems, always took care of her. But..who takes care of you?” he asked with genuine concern.

He was right. No one did. But maybe here there could be companionship, support, trust, everything you ran away from before Valentina, because you thought it was no help to you; and only got worse with Valentina sending you on pointless missions. Maybe you were done being under her thumb just like how Bob was, and the others were as well. Maybe it was time for you to forge your own path–talk about some serious post-nut clarity, but at least you have it now and not down the line when it eventually gets worse. If you wanted there to finally be someone who cared for you…why not have it be Bob? If he wanted to hurt you, he would have already.

Your eyes stay on his, as his hand slithered to yours; no ominous black shadows included, or horrible memories that already plagued your mind; just a true alliance, an unadulterated connection (despite how smudged your makeup is and how red Bob was) and all the mess that came with it. “What do you say, Cupid’s girl?” and with a soft breath, you nod, giving him a resounding yes. He nearly leans in to kiss you, but you stop him. He pulls away and raises an eyebrow. “What? We’re team members now so we can’t kiss?” he asked, but you shake your head. He furrowed his eyebrows. “Then what is it?”

“…Cupid’s girl is not my hero name.”

.·:*¨༺♱༻¨*:·.

buy me a coffee ૮⸝⸝> ̫ >⸝ ა

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tmpestuous · 1 month ago

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the other side

summary: the avengers rescue their newest recruit from hydra: you.

pairing: bucky x (future)avenger!reader

warnings: canon level violence, mentions of torture by hydra all throughout, mentions of death/murder, nightmares, guilt, trauma, angst, but bucky is a sweetheart who the world doesn’t deserve

word count: 4.5k

a/n: going baaaack in time for this one with the start of phoenix’s journey with the avengers. i’ve had this unfinished for a while and have finally completed it (: there will be a second part to this, but this can definitely still be read as a standalone; i hope you enjoy <3

phoenix & the winter soldier masterlist

Fuck.

The pounding in your head could equate to being repeatedly hit with a hammer. Only your reality was much worse.

The man currently smashing your head into the pavement was one you’d rarely seen. He seemed to be in control of the entire organization currently holding you captive, immediately ordering around operatives and seeing the employees fall to his will.

He came once every other week. His name was unbeknownst to you, just like many things since the moment you’d stepped foot in this makeshift prison. The source of his anger was also a mystery, as you were dragged from your ‘room’ (if you could even call it that), shoved in that dreaded chair in front of dozens of people speaking in Russian, with an IV lodged in your arm and an irate man staring at you with disgust.

“Why have we not tried putting words in her brain yet?” The man spat at the operative to his left, seemingly a scientist.

“Unfortunately, none of our methods have worked. We do not have a record of how Dr. Zola managed to do so with our Soldat—”

“You mean to tell me we have no one as smart as a scientist from fucking 70 years ago?”

The scientist shook his head promptly. “I’m afraid not, sir.”

He grunted. “And the serum?”

“The enhancement serum was a success, but only on our current subject here. The others have not seemed to respond to it very well. She seems to be our strongest soldier. She is in top condition, save for an incident at the beginning of her treatment,” he rambled, the man looking at him as if he’d answered the question wrong. “The control serum is also effective, sir. We have currently extended its effectiveness to around seven hours, but we have not tested it in the field.”

“Why not?” The man spat once more, his tone filled with disgust.

“While attempting to suppress her memories, it seems that the serum wipes her memories almost entirely, which sometimes included our direct orders. We cannot send her out to the field if she cannot provide us with a mission report. She also resists when we attempt to subdue her—”

And that’s how you ended up snatched out of the chair, thrown on the floor, with your nose taking the brunt of the force from your head being smashed over and over.

“Not as fucking strong as they claim, hm?” The man snarled as he leaned over you, then swiftly stood up, ordering the men to get started on sending you on the field.

You met the chair yet again, your arm reintroduced to the IV, all while your head thumped like a heartbeat and blood rushed out of your nose.

A plea sat on your tongue, though it never came out. And soon enough, that moment joined all of the other memories you were forced to lose.

There was no way for you to tell how long you’d been here, a repetitive cycle every time you woke up that you were utterly unaware of. It left you drained, not knowing who you were, where you were, anything.

You counted your luck when you were left alone for over a week. Starving for sure and a broken nose to add to it, but you’d choose it over waking up with a lack of recollection.

After the thirteenth day of solitude, soldiers would come in and take you back to the chair every day for a little over another week. They argued with the scientists about injecting you with the serum, claiming they needed you for a mission.

“The феникс is needed for an operation,” they always said.

Somehow the scientists always convinced them otherwise, instead giving you hydration and vitamins to account for the lack of food in your system. One of them always looked at you with pain in his eyes, seemingly an apology for everything that’s happened. Not like you remembered much of it anyway.

Two days after that, you noticed that the same scientist was gone. Dead, you presumed.

Six days later, some of the scientists had come in and taken your vitals again, your questions falling on deaf ears as they’d never come into your ‘room’ before. Once they’d finished, they silently gestured to the guards and exited.

“On your feet,” one of them spat towards you, pulling you to stand by your wrists before tying them together. He and one other guard led you to a room with a group of girls, ages varying from teen to maybe middle-aged.

“Stay here, феникс,” a soldier said, untying the rope from your wrists, hearing that same nickname again. “We will come back for you. It’s a big day.”

A big day. Couldn’t mean anything positive for you.

“Phoenix,” a slightly older woman said to you after the soldier left.

“What?” You questioned, your voice a lot more hoarse than you thought it’d be.

“That is what they call you. Us. But you are their favorite.”

You nodded, not exactly having much to say. The word sounded similar to its English translation, but you never thought much of it. The reason for the name was unknown to you, but knowing what Hydra was capable of, it probably meant no good. They’d call you it so often, you didn’t even know if they knew your name. The one piece of identity you at least were able to hold on to. It seemed so miniscule, but it kept you from losing yourself entirely.

After what seemed to be a few hours, the soldiers started to gather all of the girls and women in the room. From what you could hear, they were being dragged down the hall. Almost every one of them begged to be left alone, promises of good behavior to avoid whatever fate they were about to meet. The pleas fell out of reach of your hearing, silent as a door slammed far away.

As the guards were finishing rounding everyone up, there was the sound of rapid gunfire from the opposite end of the floor.

“What the hell was that?” One of the guards asked, quickly turning around and aiming his rifle at the empty hallway.

“Doesn’t sound good,” another one muttered. “We need to hurry it up.”

You noticed they looked more than uncertain as you analyzed their expressions, both of them putting their guard up with their weapons. There were only two women left beside you, but the thought of taking all of you to wherever they needed to was now an afterthought.

They listened, and as you all heard a few more rounds of gunfire, they rushed out of the room. You quickly got up and grabbed the door before it could seal shut, looking out into the hallway as the guards turned the corner sharply.

“Do you think someone is here to save us?” One of the women behind you asked softly.

“I never get my hopes up,” the other woman responded. She was the one who translated for you earlier. “What do you think, феникс?”

You immediately turned back around to look at her, your foot in the doorway to keep the door open. “Don’t call me that,” you said, no clear tone of aggravation in your voice, but not a kind one either. Turning your attention back to the hallway, you listened for motion. “I can’t tell what’s going on, maybe we should move.”

“Are you crazy?” The first woman asked. You couldn’t see her expression, but something told you there was fear all over her face. “They’ll kill us. You’re the only one with any skill here.”

“I don’t know what skills I have to begin with.”

From what the scientists and guards had argued about, you knew they had trained you in combat. You weren’t confident about any moves you may have had in your repertoire without the help from the serum. It seemed as though it was second nature while under their control, but what good are you without it? There weren’t many signs telling you to take the risk of trying.

“What if it’s the Avengers?” The first woman spoke up again.

“The Avengers…” you said, the name sounding familiar.

“Earth’s mightiest heroes,” the second woman added. “Two or three of them have Hydra history.”

Racking your brain, you remembered the guards exclaiming about a mission with ‘the Avengers.’ A few pictures of people, but they were hyper focused on two. One with a shield, one with a metal arm. The one with the metal arm was the one they wanted—“needed” you to kill.

They called him all sorts of names, but the one that stood out to you was soldat. Soldier. The only one you could somewhat make out. They’d referred to you as a soldier a few times, though you couldn’t feel far from it. You’d wondered if he had made it out, escaped. Something you’ve been dreaming of, longer than your memory allowed you to recall.

Your thoughts were cut off as you heard one of the guards making his way back, swiftly closing the door and sitting back on the floor.

The two women next to you shrunk inwards in fear, prompting you to look around for anything useful to arm yourself with. You trusted that you weren’t entirely useless, and the less people they harmed, the better the world was. Seeing an old, rusty crowbar, you reached and grabbed it, hiding it behind you as the guard opened the door and looked directly at you.

“Ready for your first real mission, феникс?” He said, a distressed look on his face. “Get up and follow me.”

You did as told, still hiding the crowbar behind you. As he turned his back, you swung as hard as you could. After grimacing at the wound left in the man’s head as he dropped to the floor, you threw the crowbar aside, turning to the women still on the floor.

“Let’s go,” you ordered them softly, grabbing the guard’s rifle and handgun before exiting the room.

You handed the older woman the handgun before pointing the rifle, walking slowly to the intersection of the hallway. Peeking into the adjacent hallway, you saw nothing for a few heartbeats until a shield made its way down and back the hall parallel to your position.

Your hearing then picked up footsteps coming towards you from behind, the woman beside you turning and shooting a guard before he (or you) had the chance to retaliate.

“Holy shit,” the youngest woman said.

“Think we’ve got company,” you heard another woman say from down the hall. Was your hearing always this fucking detailed?

Looking back down the intersected hallway, you saw them. Captain America. Black Widow.The Avengers were actually here. Turning back quickly, you looked at the women again.

“Find the other girls,” you told them. “I’m gonna get us out of here.”

“And how should we find them? And how can we leave you by yourself?” The older woman asked, a concerned expression etched onto her face.

“I’m their favorite, you said it yourself,” you spoke softly rather than confidently. “Trust me on this one.”

They both nodded as they made their way down the corridor to your right, not before taking the fallen guard’s weapons as well.

There was a plan in the back of your mind, an escape. It was so close, but there was an inadmissible ache in your chest. Your freedom meant nothing if you left everyone else to suffer, to die. You couldn’t live with yourself if that were the case.

Once the women were gone, you moved to face them. Instinctively, you aimed your rifle, but neither of them moved into a defensive position. Their stares felt pitiful, but your grip on the rifle didn’t falter.

“We found her,” the redhead said, her hand on her ear. “Second floor, east wing.”

They were looking for you. Remaining somewhat unsure of their motives, you still didn’t drop your weapon, taking a step back each time they stepped toward you.

“We’re not gonna hurt you,” you heard the man say. Captain America. He looked a lot taller than in the pictures you were shown. “We’re here to help.”

“How are you gonna do that?” Your voice came out a lot shakier than intended.

“We’re gonna get you out of here,” the redhead spoke again, placing her hand on her chest. “I’m Natasha. This is Steve. Our friends Sam and Bucky are in the building too.”

They stepped toward you again, taking a few more when they realized you didn’t retreat. Lowering your rifle, you didn’t even realize you had tears in your eyes. “Just me?”

Their expressions turned into ones of confusion.

“You said you found me,” you elaborated. “To whoever you were talking to. I’m not the only one here.”

“Who else is here?” Steve asked. “Did they test on other people?”

“Y-yeah, other girls,” you wiped your eyes before the tears fell. “I sent two of them to go find the rest—you really thought it was only me in here? Aren’t you guys supposed to be the smart ones?”

Natasha chuckled. “She’s got a point.”

“Our intel was incomplete,” Steve retorted. “What’s your name?” After responding, Steve nodded. “Okay, Y/N, let’s find the girls and get you all out of here. Where are the girls now?”

You led them down the corridor where you’d sent the other two women. A couple of Hydra agents had found you, Natasha and Steve standing in front of you immediately as the chaos ensued.

Fighting was a lot easier than you anticipated it to be, feeling like muscle memory almost, even if your moves weren’t perfect. You used the butt of the rifle to hit most of the guards, not wanting to kill anyone. Even if they deserved it.

Your stamina was also clearly enhanced by whatever they injected into you. Steve and Natasha took note of it, sharing silent exchanges that they were unaware you had noticed. They still protected you by taking the brunt of the combat, your inexperience loud and clear from having your brain toyed with so often.

It had been roughly 45 minutes of fighting off guards and inspecting rooms before finally finding the girls, only there was no chance of saving them.

The two women from earlier had found you again, accompanied by a man you found out was Sam as Natasha mentioned earlier. Tear-filled eyes, drenched cheeks, and rapid breaths. Rambles of death and blood and fear for their own lives, apologizing profusely as if they’d failed to save everyone.

“They’re all gone?” Your voice barely above a whisper.

They nodded in shame, still crying with no signs of stopping. You looked toward the door as they said it was best not to see the destruction. Their hands gripped your shoulder in an attempt to stop you from going into the room, but you pushed through anyway. Bodies were scattered on the floor, some on top of each other. A single bullet hole in each of their heads, the crimson pool flooding beneath them making you feel sick.

“We have to go,” Sam said urgently to Natasha and Steve. “Got movement from out east, they called in backup. Bucky’s got the jet ready to go.”

Your feet felt like they were glued to the ground. You couldn’t look away from the massacre in front of you, studying it like an obligation. Thinking back to the guard telling you it was a ‘big day.’

They were going to kill all of them. All of them except you. They probably were gonna have you kill them yourself.

Steve pulled you out of your trance with a bit of force on his end, the tears falling down your face uncontrollably. The first memory you could keep that would haunt you forever.

Walking to the jet as one of three women left, you also couldn’t stop crying. The other women were as distraught as you, but the guilt wasn’t the same.

“But you are their favorite.”

You couldn’t get the words to stop repeating in your head, accompanied by the insolent migraine from tears mixed with dehydration. Their guilt came from surviving, and yours did, too. But you were always going to survive, while they got lucky. Hydra wanted you alive. Hydra wanted them dead with the rest of the girls. A shared survivor’s guilt separated by the politics of who was useful to their agenda.

Once you all made it to the jet, you saw him. He was unmistakable, leaving you to stop in your tracks while everyone continued. He made eye contact with you and sighed, almost like he knew of a possible conflict.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said, making the rest of the team turn around.

“I know,” you said softly. You had no idea why you felt so small, but you also couldn’t bring yourself to move.

“You have nothing to worry about, Y/N,” Natasha said. “You’re safe. We’ll get the three of you back to our headquarters and find your families.”

After a nod and a deep breath, you boarded the jet. You could feel Bucky’s eyes on you before he took a seat next to Sam.

You didn’t have it in your heart to say you weren’t sure if you had a family to go back to, but something about the look in Natasha’s eyes when she said it told you she knew already.

Sitting back in your seat, you closed your eyes and counted your graces.

Feeling a hand on your shoulder, you woke up with a startle. Natasha looked down at you, a friendly smile on her face. You looked to see everyone leaving the jet, Bucky giving you a quick glance before heading out.

“We’re here,” Natasha pulled your attention back to her.

After you stood, you followed Natasha off the jet. You saw the big ‘A’ for Avengers outside of the building, workers scattered around the hangar. Doctors tried to assess you, but Natasha assured them you were okay as she led you inside.

Taking you to a conference room, you sat at the big table. Natasha sat next to you.

“You saved those women, you know,” she set a file on the table, one you didn’t realize she had in her hands. “We were able to track down their loved ones. Couldn’t have done that without you.”

You decided to play with your fingers instead of saying anything. You didn’t feel like a savior or a hero; it was hard to feel such a way when so many others got killed. Those women had saved themselves, they could have gotten killed any moment after you’d sent them off.

“We couldn’t find—”

“I know,” you cut her off, clearing your throat. “I don’t remember much of them but I know they’re gone.”

Looking down, Natasha nodded without a word, opening the folder in front of her. “We’re giving you a choice. We do need to deprogram you from Hydra’s training, however long that might take. But afterwards… You can stay here, train, and join our team. If you don’t want to do that, we can help you rejoin civilian life.”

“You don’t have to make that choice now,” Bucky said as he walked into the room, placing a glass of water in front of you. You immediately took a sip. “You just got out of a horrible place, and this job isn’t easy. Take your time.”

“You could’ve let me finish, Barnes,” Natasha glared at him before looking at you once more. “Until we get everything figured out, you can stay here in the residential wing. Tony’s set up a room for you.”

“Tony?”

“Iron Man,” Natasha corrected. “Sorry, I forgot you don’t know all of us by name yet. You’ll meet everyone soon enough, though. Bucky will show you to your room and we’ll reconvene tomorrow. Okay?”

You nodded once. “Thank you.”

Natasha left the room and you finished drinking your water, looking at Bucky as he grabbed the glass for you, a friendly half-smile on his face. You’d wondered if they sent him for a reason, seeing as he was the one with the most Hydra history. He didn’t seem like a big conversationalist, which was comforting. There wasn’t much for you to say after all. Questions still ran through your mind, however, with wonders of finding out more about the man you were now following down the hall and across to another building on the land.

After entering and making a left, Bucky walked to the final door on the left side of the hallway, turning to look back at you.

“You’ll have everything you need in here,” he said as opened the door to your bedroom, letting you inside though he didn’t enter himself. “Nat left a ton of clothes she thinks will fit. The kitchen and the common area are down the hall and to the left; the fridge is fully stocked. Sam usually likes to do all the cooking when Wanda doesn’t beat him to it.”

You let out a chuckle. Bucky wasn’t even trying to be funny, but he was glad you weren’t feeling uncomfortable.

“Thank you,” you turned back to him. He was still standing in the doorway. “I, um… I don’t know how to repay you guys for all of this.”

Bucky shook his head. “No payment needed. I know what you’re going through.”

“I know,” you fiddled with your fingers, thinking that your suspicions may have been correct. “I’m sorry about earlier. On the jet. They told me a lot about you. I think I didn’t know how to react to actually… seeing you.”

He shook his head once more, offering you another half-smile. “No hard feelings. I’m around if you need me. Make yourself comfortable.”

He closed the door behind him after you nodded in response, leaving you alone.

You finally took in the environment around you. This was the first time you were alone since this morning, but it was a complete 180 from the situation you had found yourself in at the start of the day.

A full bed, an en-suite bathroom, a TV, and a desk. You couldn’t remember a time you had your own room in this way. Where you were kept in Hydra couldn’t be considered a room at all after seeing this in front of you.

It was a lot, perhaps too overwhelming to process all that transpired in the last 14 hours. But you allowed yourself to.

You were safe. You escaped. You were free.

First, you decided to shower. You stayed in there so long that the water went cold, but you were so relieved about being clean that you felt like you needed to savor it. After the water was too cold to tolerate anymore, you got dressed, putting on a t-shirt and sweats. All the clothes smelled like they had just been washed and dried.

You avoided every mirror, not wanting to look at yourself and whatever state you were in. You thought it was best to sleep, carefully getting under the covers. It felt nice to have an actual bed, but the mattress was too soft and uncomfortable. You could feel some of your muscles cramping up. Sighing to yourself, you settled on lying on the floor. Your exhaustion caught up to you quickly, falling into your first deep slumber in forever.

Your body was adjusted to not eating for prolonged periods of time, so hunger cues weren’t in store for you. Bucky assumed as much, knocking on your door to bring you a bowl of Sam’s famous gumbo when he hadn’t seen you come out for a few hours. Listening intently through your door, he picked up on your breathing, which sounded more erratic than rhythmic. Opening the door, he saw you lying on the floor, understanding why right away. He also saw tears on your face as your face contorted in fear.

Knowing all the signs of a nightmare, Bucky anxiously knelt down after setting the bowl on the desk in your room, shaking you gently. “Hey, Y/N,” he spoke softly. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

He repeated the words he’d heard so many times. His own nightmares weren’t as bad as they used to be, but he still got them often. Bucky comforted you, releasing the tension from your shoulders until your eyes shot open, your fists immediately up in defense.

“Woah, it’s me, hey,” Bucky spoke softly, grabbing your wrists tightly enough to stop you, but softly enough not to hurt you. He rubbed them with his thumbs, still trying to soothe you. “You’re okay, you were just having a nightmare. You’re not in any danger anymore. You’re safe.”

You looked up at Bucky, your expression unreadable to him as you were still catching your breath. He let go of your wrists before you sat up, wiping the tears off your face.

“I’m sorry,” you said in the same small voice you gave him outside of the jet. It made Bucky’s chest ache.

He barely knew you, but what Hydra did to people was something even he was unaware he could come back from. It felt like something worse than traumatizing, if that were even possible. He may not know much about your time there, as the information was little to none. Steve and Tony were still working on that. However, he knew more than anything that none of this could have been easy for you.

“You’ll never have anything to apologize for while you’re here,” he said sincerely, telling you the words he would tell a younger version of himself. “You’ve been through a lot, both mentally and physically. I’ve been there, and it’s not easy. But you’ll get better, day by day.”

All you did was look at him, a hint of gratitude in your eyes that only he would be able to make out. Instead of pushing you into a conversation, he got up and grabbed the bowl of gumbo with a spoon.

“I’m not sure if you’ll eat all of it, but I’m assuming you need to eat something,” he spoke lightly, his tone one of comfort as he passed you the bowl.

Immediately digging in, it was like you had forgotten what it was like to eat. Bucky knew that feeling. He stayed with you until you ate about two-thirds of it, looking at him as he sat next to you on the floor, passing him the bowl with a look of guilt on your face.

“Sorry,” you shook your head. “It’s really good, I’m just kinda full.”

“Nothing to be ashamed about, I’m just glad you got something in your system. I’m sure everyone else will be too,” Bucky smiled at you, taking the bowl and standing. “Get some rest. Nat will probably wanna talk in the morning. My room’s right across the hall if you need me.”

“Will you be there?” You asked so softly, Bucky almost missed it.

“Tomorrow? Do you want me to be?” He asked, not wanting to assume. You nodded twice. “Okay, alright. I’ll be there.”

“Thank you,” you said, pulling your knees to your chest. “For everything.”

“Anytime,” he gave you one last smile before leaving the room.

Bucky knew you would be okay.

part two of this should come in the next few days… i’ve been obsessed with developing lore lately. i hope you enjoyed!

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n #sebastian stan #bucky x you #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky buchanan barnes #winter soldier #the winter soldier #james buchanan barnes #bucky

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aquaholicsanonymousworld · 3 months ago

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High-Value Target

Pairing: Task force 141 x Soldier!Reader

The briefing room was buzzing with anticipation.

Task Force 141 rarely got new blood, and even when they did, it was usually some solid operator with passable skills—not the kind of legend they were about to meet. The dossier on the table was immaculate. Flawless mission execution, unrivaled hand-to-hand combat skills, top of her class in advanced recon and assassination. Even Ghost, who barely gave out praise, muttered a low, “Bloody hell.” when he skimmed through the stats.

Soap whistled, flipping through the pages. “Whoever this guy is, he’s a machine.”

“More like a ghost,” Gaz added. “Been attached to multiple high-profile operations, all with near-perfect outcomes.” He glanced at Price. “How the hell did we even land them?”

Price smirked, arms crossed. “Favors. Strings pulled. And a bit of luck.”

The door to the room opened, and all eyes flicked up—ready to meet the highly anticipated new operator.

And then she walked in.

Silence.

Ghost leaned back slightly in his chair. Soap sat up straighter. Gaz blinked like he’d been hit with a flashbang.

The guy they had all been hyping up? Not a guy at all.

She was American, too. That was the second shock.

She stood confidently, expression unreadable as her gaze swept the room, taking in each of them like she was assessing a threat. Her movements were deliberate, controlled, the kind of presence that told them all she was just as deadly as her file made her out to be.

Soap was the first to recover. “You’re… not what I was expectin’.”

She arched a brow. “What were you expecting?”

“Someone less… eh, distracting.” His grin was pure mischief.

Gaz scoffed. “He means someone ugly.”

Her lips curled slightly, but she didn’t entertain the joke. “Disappointed?”

“Far from it,” Ghost murmured.

Price cleared his throat, stepping forward. “You’re a long way from home, Sergeant.”

She turned her attention to him, offering a sharp salute. “Not the first time, sir.”

Price gave a nod of approval before the rest of the team jumped in.

“So, what do we call you?” Gaz asked. “Your file just has your last name.”

Soap rubbed his chin, eyeing her with a smirk. “I’m thinkin’… Yankee.”

Groans echoed around the table.

“That’s terrible.” Gaz shook his head.

“You’re terrible.”

“She’s from America, aye? It fits.”

She rolled her eyes. “Call me whatever you want, just don’t get in my way.”

Soap grinned. “Oh, I like her.”

Before anyone could throw out another nickname, Ghost leaned back in his seat and drawled, “Ace.”

A pause.

Gaz nodded. “That’s actually decent.”

Soap pouted but relented. “Alright, alright. Ace it is.”

The banter continued—multiple offers for drinks, jokes about whether she was single, and Soap loudly declaring that Ghost had competition for brooding dominance. It took Price stepping in to get them back in line.

“Enough,” he barked, glaring at his men. “You’re soldiers, not a damn welcome committee.”

A few chuckles. No real apologies.

Then, to her surprise, Price turned to her. “Ace, with me.”

She followed him out of the room, a bit curious as to why he wanted a private word. The second the door shut, he let out a slow breath and gave her a look she couldn’t quite read.

“You alright with all that?”

She smirked. “I’ve handled worse.”

“I don’t doubt it.” His gaze lingered for a moment before he straightened, voice dropping to something lower, quieter. “I’d tell you to ignore their flirting, but…” He exhaled. “That’d be hypocritical of me.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “…Sir?”

His jaw flexed, then a slow, knowing smirk tugged at his lips.

“Dinner. My treat.”

She tilted her head, considering him. “Is this an order?”

Price chuckled. “No, Ace. It’s an invitation.”

For the first time, she was the one caught off guard.

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purifiedclitoris69 · 18 days ago

Text

Some Place Safe

Natasha Romanoff x Supersoldier!R

Warnings: Angst, Alluded SA, Violence, ETC

Summary: You were raised to be a weapon. Loving her was the only thing they didn’t teach you to survive. She escaped. You let her. And you never planned to follow. (Heavily inspired by sinners LOL)

You were born in the shadow of war—an accident, a consequence of two operatives colliding in the chaos of a mission. Your mother didn’t live long enough to hold you. You never knew her name. You never knew your own.

They took you in—not out of mercy, but out of opportunity.

The Red Room didn’t raise children. It raised weapons. You were placed in a second-tier orphan program, a quieter project—off the books, away from the widows. They didn’t dress you in black leather or teach you seduction. They taught you obedience. Stillness. Fear.

You learned not to cry by the time you were three. Every moment of comfort was conditional. Every word of praise was a tool. You were nothing more than a blank slate with muscle and reflex. You were tested, shaped, punished, refined. They didn’t want loyalty. They wanted control.

By the time you were ten, you could speak five languages, disappear in any crowd, and kill with a pencil. But you still didn’t know your name. They made sure of that.

When the Red Room joined hands with HYDRA, they sent you away—one of a few deemed stable enough to be "enhanced." You remember the cold first. The facility buried beneath snow and silence. The needles came next. Then the pain. Then the darkness.

HYDRA took what the Red Room started and broke it open. They injected you with a serum they said would make you strong. Faster. Better. But all it did was blur the line between survival and violence.

Your body changed. So did your mind.

They didn’t need to train you anymore. They just conditioned you. Trigger words, electric shocks, hallucinations—it all became routine. Every memory was wiped clean. Every hesitation was punished. You weren’t supposed to feel anything. Just kill and return.

And you did.

Over and over, you painted the world red for masters who never told you why. They didn’t call you by a name. They called you Asset. Subject. Spectre.

Until one day—you met her.

You were sixteen. Back in the Red Room, temporarily removed from your HYDRA assignments. The widows in the 14–15 age bracket needed oversight. “Instruction,” they called it. But you knew what it really was. A test.

A test for them—and a reminder for you.

Your handlers said no one would be more efficient, more ruthless, more capable than you. Two rounds of serum had ensured it. Bones reinforced. Reflexes sharpened to an unnatural edge. Pain meant nothing to you anymore. And if it did—you never showed it.

Madam B led the drill, standing beside you with her arms folded and her voice like a knife. “The enemy is smarter. Stronger. Faster. You do not overpower them. You dismantle them.” You stood still, hands folded behind your back, eyes scanning the group. Ten girls. Uniforms crisp, eyes cold. And then one was escorted in late.

Her.

Natalia Alianovna Romanova.

You knew what she was before the handler said her name. The way she walked, the way her jaw tensed, the flicker of calculation behind her gaze. You knew where she’d come from. Who she’d been with. You could smell it on her—pain, gasoline, cheap cologne, blood.

You’d lived it.

Something flickered in your chest. Recognition? Disgust? Curiosity? It passed before you could name it.

“Let’s begin,” Madam B said sharply.

You moved to the center of the room on instinct, like muscle memory. You weren’t thinking. That wasn’t your job. You were the lesson. They were the students.

The first widow came fast—predictable, linear. You sidestepped her and slammed her into the mat with a single twist of your hip. The second tried to sweep your legs. You jumped, drove your heel into her shoulder, dislocating it. Another got bold, locking her legs around your neck in a textbook chokehold. You slipped out of it in half a breath, kicked her ribs hard enough to hear the crack. An elbow hit the back of your skull. Your knee buckled from a follow-up strike, drawing a grunt from your throat. You caught her arm anyway, flipped her clean over your shoulder, and knocked the wind from her lungs with the landing.

And then she stepped forward.

Romanova.

She moved like you. Fast. Controlled. Measured. The other girls fought with desperation, with something to prove. She fought like she already knew. Every motion had intention. No waste. No fear. No need for approval.

She didn’t just want to survive the match— She wanted to understand you.

Her strikes were sharp, almost elegant. You blocked the first two. She ducked the third. A feint, a sweep—you stumbled, just half a step, just enough for her to see it.

The room watched in silence.

She came again, faster this time. You grabbed her wrist mid-swing. Her foot connected with your side. It stung—she was good.

Not enough to beat you. But good.

When you slammed her into the mat, she landed like a cat, rolled back up, and turned toward you without blinking. The others were still catching their breath. Some were still lying on the floor.

Only she stood with you.

You stared at her, breathing evenly. She stared right back.

Madam B called the drill. The other girls were dismissed. But Romanova was told to stay.

You remained too.

That was the first time you saw her. Not just a file. Not just a name. Her.

And somewhere—beneath the layers of numbness, the serum, the training, the triggers—You felt something stir.

You weren’t supposed to feel anything.

But she would become the exception.

From that day forward, she was everywhere.

In every drill, every sparring match, every strategy debrief. You weren’t sure if it was coincidence, punishment, or a new kind of test. But wherever you were, Romanova followed.

At first, it was friction. She questioned everything. Why the techniques were outdated. Why the conditioning was flawed. Why she was expected to lose.

You watched her get punished for speaking out—watched her grit her teeth through each consequence. But she never broke. She never stopped fighting.

You hated her for that. And—if you were honest—you respected her for it too.

When you sparred, it was always different with her. She didn’t try to overpower you. She tried to figure you out—where you carried your weight, how you breathed before a strike, how your body reacted to pain. She learned fast. Too fast.

You kept putting her down. But never easily. And never the same way twice.

The others grew afraid of you. Romanova never did.

One night, after a brutal joint exercise, the two of you were left in the mat room longer than expected. Bloody. Breathless. Silent.

You sat on opposite sides of the mat, both pretending the other wasn’t there. But you felt her eyes on you.

“You don’t enjoy this,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t look at her. “It’s not about enjoyment.”

She didn’t push. Just nodded once, as if that confirmed something for her. As if she already knew.

You didn’t speak again that night, but the silence between you felt… less like an empty space, and more like something waiting to become a conversation.

Over the months, your dynamic evolved.

You were still stronger. Still faster. Still something… other. But she challenged you in ways your handlers never anticipated.

She made you think.

During field simulations, the two of you started working together without being told to. Covering each other’s blind spots. Moving in sync. Communicating without words.

She never praised you. You never praised her. But the trust was there—in the way she never flinched when you stepped behind her, in the way you didn’t hesitate to back her up when she made the call.

Still, tension burned beneath it all.

You’d snap at her when she questioned orders. She’d challenge your blind obedience. You fought. You bled. You pushed each other to the edge and back.

And somewhere in all that chaos—You started to need her there.

Not as a rival. Not even as a comrade. But as something quieter. Closer.

You’d catch yourself watching her longer than you should. The way she wrapped her hands before a mission. The way her brow furrowed when she was working through a problem. The way she touched people like it was foreign. Like it might shatter them.

She was learning how to care.

And you—You were just learning how to feel.

One night, during winter drills in the dead cold, she caught you shivering beneath your gear. The serum made your body hard, durable—but not immune to the cold.

Without a word, she peeled off her second layer and threw it to you.

You didn’t thank her. She didn’t ask for it. But for the first time in your life, a gesture wasn’t part of a test. Or a manipulation. Or control.

It was… kindness.

You didn’t know what to do with it.

That night, you couldn’t sleep. Her face kept appearing in your mind. Not as a fellow operative. Not as a threat.

Just her.

And it terrified you more than anything they’d ever done to you.

Because if you let that wall crack, if you let her in—She might see who you really are beneath it all.

And worse…You might start to remember too.

But that wasn't in there plans.

You weren’t supposed to leave. But no one asked you.

It happened after a routine infiltration exercise—standard, controlled. You weren’t even armed. One moment, you were walking back through the frostbitten corridor of the Red Room barracks. The next, a needle was in your neck.

Your body dropped before your mind could react.

You woke up somewhere far colder. Darker. Underground.

No windows. No clocks. No names.

Just HYDRA again.

Apparently, you still belonged to them. The Red Room had only been borrowing you.

They said you weren’t done. That your body was strong—but your mind, soft. That there were still layers to burn out of you. So they stripped you down to bone and nerve and rebuilt you again.

More injections. More surgeries. Weights so heavy they crushed the air from your lungs. Shock conditioning to suppress emotion—any residual hesitation, memory, or attachment. They filled your bloodstream with compounds that ate away at your warmth. And they watched. Measured. Adjusted.

Until the version of you that had once flinched at kindness, that had once felt something in Romanova’s gaze—Died.

When you came back—months later, or maybe years—you weren’t the same.

The Red Room barely recognized you.

Your body was bigger now. Broader shoulders, thicker arms, deeper definitions all around. More power behind every movement. Your hands no longer trembled, not even slightly.

But the real difference was in your eyes.

Nothing in them.

Not fury. Not pain. Not longing. Just silence.

The girls whispered when they saw you. Some wouldn’t meet your eyes. Even the instructors seemed uneasy.

But Natasha—She wasn’t there to see you return.

She was gone.

You found out later.

While you were underground being gutted and stitched back together, she’d grown too.

They started giving her solo missions. Black ops. Quiet eliminations. Intel retrieval. Sabotage. She was rising, fast.

Faster than anyone expected.

You saw her name on the mission logs once. Just a line. Romanova, N.A. — Status: Completed.

You should’ve felt something.

But you didn’t.

Not until the first time you saw her again.

It was in the training compound. You had just come from the lab—still sore, your muscles heavy from the new modifications.

She entered in full gear, fresh from a mission. Blood on her knuckles. Eyes hard.

She saw you. You saw her.

Something flickered behind her expression. Shock, maybe. Recognition. But then her face hardened too.

You were taller now. Bulked. You had a presence that filled the room like a storm waiting to break.

She took a step toward you. Stopped. Looked you over like a stranger. Then said quietly, “What did they do to you?”

You blinked at her. “What they always do.”

Her jaw clenched. She looked away first.

Something cracked between you then—subtle, but deep. Like a frozen lake underfoot. Silent. Invisible. Deadly.

She was sharper now. More guarded. No longer the girl trying to figure you out.She didn’t try to speak again. Didn’t reach out.

And for the first time… you didn’t want her to Because some part of you knew: If she touched you, she’d feel it.

How gone you really were.

Ironnically, they assigned you together without warning.

No briefing room. No courtesy. Just your names on the same mission order, stamped with urgency, marked “Classified – Joint Operation.”

You stood by the helipad in the cold, snow clinging to your gloves, staring at the file in your hand. You didn’t flinch when her footsteps approached behind you—but something inside you shifted.

“Is this a joke?” Her voice was sharp. Older. It cut different now—refined, precise. She was no longer a student. She was a weapon fully realized.

You turned to her. Nothing in your expression.

“No,” you said. “It’s an order.”

She looked you over again, as if still trying to reconcile the you in her memory with the one standing in front of her. The serum-enhanced bulk. The vacant eyes. The silence.

“You look like them now,” she muttered. “Like the guards. The machines.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Is that supposed to hurt my feelings?”

She didn’t respond. Just pulled on her gloves and boarded the chopper. You followed.

Neither of you spoke for the entire flight.

The mission was straightforward: sabotage a black-market weapons trade in Serbia. Silent entry. Quiet eliminations. No civilian casualties.

Easy.

Too easy.

You moved like a ghost—silent, brutal, efficient. Taking out guards before they even knew they were dead. She followed, handling the tech, bypassing locks, placing charges. Clean. Professional. Cold.

But the silence between you roared louder than the gunfire.

At one point, you cleared a stairwell while she set a timer on the explosives. You glanced back at her—the flicker of red hair under moonlight, the tight line of her jaw.

There used to be warmth in the way she looked at you. Now, it was calculation. And something worse—disappointment.

You met her gaze. She didn’t look away this time.

“You’re not the same,” she said quietly.

“I’m better.”

“No,” she said. “You’re just… gone.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have one.

The hallway lights flickered. Footsteps above.

You both moved without another word.

After the mission—successful, of course—you were debriefed and dismissed.

But that night, in the Red Room barracks, she came to your door.

You heard the knock. You almost didn’t answer.

But you opened it.

She stepped inside like she was walking into a war zone. Her eyes scanned the room, then locked on you.

“You didn’t flinch when that civilian was caught in the blast radius.”

“They weren’t the target.”

“That’s not the point,” she snapped. “You didn’t feel anything.”

You looked at her. At the way her chest rose and fell. At the fire in her eyes.

“What do you want from me?”

She stepped closer. “I want to know if you’re still in there.”

Your throat tightened.

Then—softly, bitterly—you said, “Why? So you can mourn me properly?”

Silence.

Her hand reached up before she could stop it—just barely grazing your shoulder, hesitant. Her fingertips trembled.

You didn’t move. But you felt it.

Something broke inside you.

And you whispered, “You shouldn't touch me, Romanova. You’ll get hurt.”

She didn’t pull away. “Maybe I already am.”

You didn’t kiss. You didn’t cry. But something in that moment laid itself bare between you—too fragile to speak aloud. Too dangerous to name.

She left without another word.

And for the first time in a long time…You wanted to be seen again.

The next few missions are different.

She stops flinching when you’re too close. You start pausing before pulling the trigger. You cover her flank instinctively. She watches your back like it’s second nature.

You still don’t speak much. But the silences become softer.

One night, while tending a wound, she says, “You never told me your real name.”

You stare at the floor. “I don’t remember it.”

“Then tell me something you do remember. Something real. Something yours.”

You’re quiet for a long time.

Then, finally: “I remember… humming. I think it was my mother. Before everything else. Just humming.”

She doesn’t say anything.

She just reaches for your hand. You let her.

And that’s the moment you know—Whatever they did to you… she might be the one thing they can’t erase.

t happened late one night, long after curfew.

You couldn't sleep. Not because of nightmares—those had dulled into something quieter—but because she hadn’t returned yet.

Her mission had run over. You knew it wasn’t your concern. You told yourself it didn’t matter. But when the door finally creaked open and she stepped inside, bruised and soaked with cold rain, your heart did something you didn’t recognize.

It lurched.

You rose from your bunk without a word. Met her halfway. She tried to walk past you like always.

But this time, you reached for her wrist.

She froze.

Then her eyes met yours. And for once, there was no mask. No cold front. No assignment.

Just two ghosts standing in a borrowed room pretending they weren’t drowning.

“You okay?” you asked, voice low.

She stared at you for a long time. Then shook her head, slow.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I think I forgot how to feel something and still survive.”

You didn’t speak. You just stepped closer.

She leaned her forehead against yours.

And when her hands came up to cradle your jaw—gentle, trembling—you let her. No drills. No orders. Just warmth. Just touch.

She moved her arms to your shoulders pulling you into a desperate hold. You held her back.

It was the first thing that had ever felt real.

You didn’t sleep that night. Not because of fear. Because for the first time—you didn’t want to close your eyes and miss it.

You were in the mess hall the next morning when the alarm rang.

Red lights. Sirens. Door locks snapping shut. You didn’t even have to guess.

They’d seen it.

The surveillance footage. The shared room. The closeness. The disobedience.

You were ripped from your seat. She was dragged from hers. Not allowed to speak. Not even look at each other.

They took you to separate rooms.

They didn’t ask questions. Just pain.

Electric pulses to the spine. Icy injections in your veins. A boot in your back and a handler shouting:

“You are not human. You are not lovers. You are assets. Tools. You do not belong to each other. You belong to us.”

You bit down until your teeth bled.

But they weren’t trying to break your body this time.

They were trying to break what you’d built.

It took days before they let you see each other again. Weeks before they assigned you to a new mission together.

But in the silence of your quarters one night—when they thought they’d burned the bond out of you—she turned to you and whispered:

“We can’t keep doing this.”

You didn’t answer. Not yet.

“We’re ghosts,” she said. “And maybe we always will be. But we don’t have to haunt this place.”

You watched her carefully.

She leaned in. “I have contacts. Quiet ones. People who owe me. We could make it out. Maybe not far. Maybe not long. But free. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

You looked at her.

For the first time in your life, someone was offering you a door.

And you wanted it.

You planned it. Mapped the blind spots. The shift changes. The weak points in surveillance.

But the night came… and you didn’t move.

You stood at the exit.

So did she.

Neither of you said it—but you both felt it: That pull. That tether. Not to each other—but to this.

To the bloodstained corridors. The silence. The structure. The certainty of it.

It was hell. But it was the only hell you understood.

And maybe—maybe—out there, the world would be worse. Colder. Empty.

You looked at her.

She looked at you.

And slowly, quietly… she shook her head.

“Not yet,” she said. “We’re not ready.”

You nodded.

Neither of you turned away from the exit right away.

But you didn’t step through it either.

That night, you held her again. Not in defiance, but in mourning.

Because love, in places like this, wasn’t a rebellion.

It was a wound. And you carried it like everything else they’d given you.

Deep. Quiet. Permanent.

The final mission came suddenly. Too clean. Too perfect.

Natasha was to infiltrate a U.S. intelligence outpost under the guise of a defector. Get inside, get the data, extract herself. But you’d seen too many missions. You knew the pattern. You knew the words they didn’t say.

This wasn’t an op.

It was an opportunity.

A door. A rare one.

And for the first time—you could open it for her.

You stood by the projector as the handler outlined the objective. Your face didn’t shift. You nodded when expected. Said “understood” at the appropriate moments.

But when the lights dimmed and the others filed out, you turned to her—just the two of you left in the briefing room.

You said her name—her name, not her codename.

She looked at you. Confused at first. Then slowly—terrified.

You walked closer. Pressed a small drive into her hand. The one with the real data—hers. Proof of HYDRA’s involvement. Enough to earn her a chance. Enough to buy her freedom.

“Take it,” you said, voice low. “When the window opens, you run. Don’t look back.”

She shook her head. “No—no, we said we’d go together.”

You gave a faint smile. It didn’t reach your eyes.

“I don’t exist out there.”

“You do to me.”

You swallowed hard. “That’s not enough. Not this time.”

Her hands shook.

You reached out, steadying her fingers around the drive.

“You’re better than this place,” you whispered. “You always were.”

Her eyes glistened, and your throat burned with everything you couldn’t afford to say.

You didn’t kiss her.

You just let your forehead rest against hers—one last time.

A silent goodbye wrapped in the shape of a moment.

She did exactly what you trained her to do.

She got out clean.

The data hit U.S. intelligence servers like a bomb. Names. Coordinates. Project logs. Red Room locations.

And her? She vanished into shadow.

It worked.

She lived.

You watched her defect from behind locked doors, cameras feeding you the grainy security footage of her slipping past the final perimeter. She turned once—looked back.

You knew she was thinking of you.

But she ran.

And you—You stayed.

They punished you, of course.

You’d disobeyed protocol. Leaked sensitive intel. Let an asset go.

But you were too valuable to kill.

So they hurt you instead.

They locked you away. Sedated you for weeks. Ran tests. Reconditioned you until the edges blurred again.

When they were done, they gave you a new mission.

You accepted it wordlessly.

Like always.

But something in you had shifted. Not broken—but buried. Because now, no matter how many memories they wiped, no matter how many shocks they ran through your spine…

They couldn’t take her from you.

Not where it mattered.

Natasha Romanoff didn’t waste what you gave her.

She used your sacrifice like a torch.

She lit the Red Room on fire from the inside out. Cracked it open piece by piece—its secrets, its science, its cruelty. She brought down handlers and directors. Saboteurs and scientists. Anyone who carved girls into weapons.

And when she was done with them, she turned to HYDRA.

Not all of it. Not yet. But enough to make the world tremble.

And through it all—every raid, every mission, every sleepless night—she searched for you.

Files. Photographs. Ghosts of you in surveillance clips: grainy footage of a tall figure, a shadow slipping in and out of black sites with blood on your hands.

She kept seeing you. But she never found you.

They said you were a myth. That maybe you'd died. That maybe you'd broken entirely, brainwashed past the point of no return.

But Natasha knew better.

She knew what it meant when your body flinched in the exact rhythm of danger. When your jaw ticked before a mission. When your eyes—those goddamn eyes—flicked to hers in a moment of clarity, even through pain.

You weren’t dead.

You were still in there.

Somewhere.

she pulls the footage alone.

She'd rewatch the frame by frames. Zoom in on your face.

You’ve changed.

There’s no warmth now. No hesitation.

But the way you move—the way you look at the camera right before it cuts out—it’s you.

And it’s not.

The ghost she loved.

Now a killer set loose in a world she tried to fix.

Years had continued to pass.

Until the intel finally came. It was clean. HYDRA remnants were relocating prototype tech—illegally acquired Stark-adjacent hardware. Avengers were dispatched for containment.

It should’ve been a simple in-and-out.

Until you showed up.

It begins with Sam.

He never sees it coming.

He’s airborne, covering Steve’s flank, when something clips his wing mid-flight. Not a bullet.

A blade.

You appear out of the smoke—fast, silent, brutal. A black blur against a backdrop of chaos. You hit the ground and scale the debris like a phantom. Sam goes down hard, suit sparking.

Steve calls out—but it's too late. You’re already on him.

He blocks your first strike with the shield. The second knocks the breath from his lungs. The third slams him into concrete. He tries to talk, to get through to you—

But you don’t speak.

You just fight.

And you win.

He’s unconscious before he hits the floor.

Then comes Stark.

“Who the hell—” he starts, suit flying into position.

But he doesn’t get to finish.

You use an EMP blade—short-range, custom—forged in the black budget corners of the world. You slam it into his arc reactor, right below the clavicle. The suit collapses like armor made of paper.

He stares at you from the floor, breathing heavy.

“Jesus,” Tony mutters. “Who trained you—?”

Your boot slams into his jaw. He blacks out.

The smoke clears.

And Natasha walks into the aftermath like she’s walking into a graveyard.

She sees them—Sam, unconscious. Steve bleeding. Tony barely breathing.

And then she sees you.

Standing there with your back to her, blade slick with Stark’s blood, eyes scanning the horizon for the next threat.

You don’t turn when you speak.

“I was wondering when you’d show.”

Her stomach turns. Your voice hasn’t changed.

Neither has the way it makes something in her ache.

“Stop,” she says, gun aimed at your spine. “This isn’t you.”

You finally turn.

And gods, you look calm. Too calm. Not brainwashed. Not drugged. Just still. Centered. Like the world finally makes sense to you—for all the wrong reasons.

She hesitates.

“Tell me they did this to you,” she says, desperate. “Tell me they put something in your head. I can help you.”

You shake your head. “No one put anything in my head, Natalia.”

You say her name like a knife and a kiss.

“I chose this.”

Her grip falters. “Why?”

You step closer.

“I gave you freedom. I never said I wanted it for myself.”

That hits harder than any punch.

“I’m not broken,” you go on. “I’m clear. The world you live in now? It’s naïve. It lets monsters breathe because it's scared to kill them.”

“And you’re not scared?” she whispers.

“No. I’m what comes after fear.”

Your blade raises.

Her gun doesn't move.

“I don't want to fight you,” she says.

You nod. “Then don’t.”

It’s vicious.

You move like muscle memory and instinct are the only gods you answer to.

She holds her own—barely. Blocks your knife with her forearm, kicks your knee to destabilize, sweeps your leg, only for you to flip back onto your feet like gravity’s a suggestion.

She pulls you in recklessly and you slam her against the wall.

You’ve both slowed.

Breathing ragged. Bruised. Bleeding.

She’s knocked the blade from your hand. Neither of you has the upper hand now.

And still—neither of you runs.

She stares at you, hair stuck to her face with sweat and blood. Eyes glassy. Jaw clenched.

And then, finally—she breaks.

You’re both on your knees in the rubble of the mission site.

Bruised. Bleeding. Exhausted.

Your knife is somewhere behind you. Her gun’s been kicked across the ground. There are no weapons left now—only words sharp enough to kill.

And hers cut deepest.

Her voice breaks the silence, trembling but strong enough to reach you.

“Why won’t you tell me the truth?” she pleads, eyes locking with yours, glistening. “I was young enough to believe we’d find each other again. That you wanted to.”

You say nothing.

Because if you do, something inside you might shatter.

“I waited,” she whispers, and it cracks something in your chest. “I waited a long time…”

You watch her swallow it down—those tears, that hope, that version of you she carried in her chest like a ghost.

“But I’m grown now,” she breathes, straighter spine, trembling chin. “I’m good. And I know you never planned to stay.”

She steps forward.

Just one step.

“So why can’t you just say that?”

And now it’s your turn to bleed.

You want to lie. It would be easier.

But your throat burns and the truth is louder than your silence.

“Say what, hmm?” you rasp, almost bitter. “That I love you?”

She flinches.

You press forward, voice low, shaking, every word costing you a piece of yourself.

“That I think about you every damn day? That I saw you run and told myself I’d done something good—for once. That maybe if you lived, if you became something better, then everything I did would’ve been worth it?”

You pause. Swallow. You can’t look at her.

“I just wanted to keep you someplace safe,” you whisper. “And that was never gonna be here.”

“And it was never gonna be with me. Never.”

And she stands there—tears slipping free.

But she doesn't collapse.

She burns. Quietly. The way she always has.

“So that’s it?” she asks. “I was a mission to you? Something to protect and abandon?”

“You were everything,” you say, barely above a breath.

And you mean it.

Which is why you turn and walk away.

Because staying? Would destroy the last thing you did right.

#marvel #natasha romanoff #marvel fanfic #enhanced!reader #black widow x reader #natasha romanov #angst oneshot #natasha angst #angst no happy ending #natasha romanoff fanart #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff imagine

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hitomisuzuya · 5 months ago

Note

The Balladeer always gives his Fav Fatui Agent praise and the most "special" tasks, then insulting the rest of the agents

harbinger!scaramouche x fem!reader. smut. cock warming. degradation. clit play. edging. creampie.

i really indulged myself writing this, ngl😳 the degradation get a little harsh in a couple spots but it's not consistent. purely for my own self indulgence.

the air between you and the rest of scaramouche's subordinates is very, very different. the contrast was quite grand to him. you, standing there with a shy but pleased smile on your face. while the rest of his squad lingered behind you looking frightened.

"to think i actually had the audacity to think that you lot would be at least a little coordinated enough to pull off such a simple mission," scaramouche scoffed, glaring at anyone who dared to even think about opening their mouth while he is talking.

he sighs in approval seeing the shy blush dusting your cheeks as he comes to stand in front of you. you radiate utter submission and adoration for him as you look up at him.

he reaches an elegant hand out and puts it on your head. "this little thing here has a bigger brain than the rest of you combined. all you had to do was steal some very important documents back from bottom feeding treasure hoarders," he smooths a hand through your hair, much like someone would a pet.

"not only did she steal back what i asked for, she wiped out every single one of them," he brought your head to rest against his chest, drinking in the sight of the rest of his squad cowering in fear.

"they dared to stand against you," you said, nuzzling your cheek on his chest, "i had to do something," you glance up at him for a only a moment, the fluttering in your heart causing you to look away shyly. "i wasn't gonna stand for it."

fuck, you made his cock ache like nothing else.

"the rest of you, take notes. this," he pets your hair again, "is what true subservience looks like. now scatter like the rats you are. now," he snarls before tilting your head up so you would look at him. "as for you, you are coming with me. i have a special task in mind for you."

nodding, you follow scaramouche back to his room in the fatui operated hotel. "what do you need me to do for you, sir?" you only want to please him and do whatever he asks.

your eyes follow scaramouche as he walks over to the bed, unbuttoning his shorts before lying on the bed. "be a good girl and strip for me," he commands, relishing in the way the blush on your cheeks darkens as he took out his cock.

"yes, sir," you reply shyly. one by one, your clothes fell away to the floor. you feel slightly embarrassed at how wet you got just from hearing a few words of praise from him outside.

scaramouche strokes his cock watching you undress. "i need to be kept warm for awhile," he smirks seeing you come to him without hesitation. "but who i am kidding, you'd spend all night with my cock stuffed inside you, wouldn't you, kitten?" he taunts as you crawl on the bed and straddle him.

here's the truth, he is absolutely right. you would. and he knows that. he wasn't above taking advantage of it. putting his hands on your hips, he prefers to lower your pussy onto his cock himself.

a soft moan sounds from you feeling his cock part your folds, grazing over your swelling clit. scaramouche groans as you needily grind your pussy on your cock, shivering with the anticipation of feeling even just the head start to stretch you apart.

"so wet from just a few words of praise and head pets. what a little slut," he smirks feeling how relaxed your body is, drunk on how much control you willingly let him have over you. your back arches as he slowly lowers you onto his cock. he knows it wouldn't take long for you to start moaning for him. always pathetically craving any form of attention from him.

"such a good girl, taking my cock so well," he praises, shivering as your pussy clenches around his cock. he took his time bottoming out, teasing his cock little by little to rest against your sweet spot.

"i..i only want to be a good girl for you, sir," you moan shakily. he could tell how badly you want to bounce yourself stupid on his cock, but he has other plans for you.

"you just continue to be a good girl and let me use you," he loops an arm around the small of your back as he sat up, bringing your chest to his mouth. his tongue flicks out to slowly swirl around your nipple. flattening his tongue, he licks until the nub hardens on his tongue.

scooping it into his mouth to suck on, his free hand found your clit. a string of louder moans spills from your mouth, your clit throbbing as he rubs circles with the pads of his fingers. your walls clutch tight like a glove on his cock, your body twitching and begging for friction on your sweet spot.

"well go on, spill those words of worship on your lips, slut. praise me. cry about how good my cock feels stretching you apart," he glares in command up at you, pinching your clit.

you let out a loud gasp of pleasure. he only got harder watching you struggle to stay still, his commanding tone sending a stronger jolt of pleasure hitting your clit. more wet pools onto your pussy. "nobody is more powerful than you, scara! no one stands a chance in the wake of your raw power!"

scaramouche chuckles as he switches to sucking your neglected nipple, rolling and rubbing your clit enticing you to continue. you are falling apart so fast and so well. "keep talking, whore," he moans, enjoying and indulging in your worshipping adoration.

"i worship you, scara! your cock feels so, so good. if i am a good enough girl, will you fuck me, please? i'm on my knees for you, scara! i only want you! please, please." you moan, tinged with whimpers. the way he is building up your orgasm is almost torturous.

"please, please, please," he mocks, rolling his hips teasingly, dangling the momentary promise that he would maybe give you what you want. he enjoys hearing you whimper, edging you relentlessly.

he leaves you hanging, indulging himself in sucking your nipples and playing with your clit. today has been stressful for him. your warm and pliable body, your tight, dripping pussy were both perfect ways for him to use to unwind.

you tremble as his beautiful fingers work your clit over. he couldn't get enough of looking up at you, watching the look in your eyes melt into further adoration for him the longer he edges you. he snickers hearing you whimper more consistently.

"now cum all over my cock, how pathetic you can barely hold it together," his taunt makes your pussy clench tighter. he rubs your clit just right, suddenly making the knot of your orgasm snap apart.

you nearly scream in pleasure as your orgasm hit you. he only continued to bully your clit, pinching your nipples through your orgasm. you are dazed and drooling by the time he lifts you off his cock and shoves you on your back on the bed.

"good girls deserve to be filled," his gaze softens for a moment seeing your fucked out eyes light up being called a good girl. pinning your wrists above your head, he pushed his cock inside you, bottoming out all at once.

scaramouche lost every modicum of control he had, mindlessly pumping his cock inside of you. thanks to your strong orgasm, his cock made the unholiest squelching noises, hitting your sweet spot with generous accuracy. you'd worshipped him and his cock so thoroughly, begging like a bitch in heat for him.

damn it you are being so good for him.

"what a good girl. the perfect slut. all for me," he groans as his cock empties inside of you. he didn't stop until he was satisfied, marvelling at the gift underneath him that was somehow dropped into his lap after getting fucked over by life no matter what he did.

pulling out of you, he fingers his cum back inside you, smearing leftover cum on your clit. you obediently lift your hips to grind your clit on his fingers.

scaramouche knows what he has to do. fucking marry you. you deserve to be the wife of the great balladeer.

#genshin impact #genshin smut #fem!reader #genshin imagines #scaramouche #scaramouche smut #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x y/n #scaramouche x you

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phossiii · 6 months ago

Text

｡𖦹°‧⭑ monsters: chapter one

synopsis: you are introduced as the arkham imported member of the creature commandos. and a certain irradiated skeleton can't seem to catch a hint.

cw: reader is a monster, mature themes, profanity, innuendos, phosphorus is phosphorus, tame chapter

"And I have this question, for all the woke feminists out there..." the man-child on the screen emphasized, turning toward the camera. "Why do only girls get such cool waterfalls?"

Flag cringed, brow raising with disappointment at the infantile argument.

The hell was the world coming to?

"All over the world, our rights as men are being denigrated—"

Having heard enough, Waller cut the feed, eyes slyly gliding over to the general for his response.

"What a bunch of clowns," Flag scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Dangerous clowns," Waller corrected, standing up from her office chair and moving toward the door. "Pokolistan is a friend of the U.S."

"Countries don't have friends."

"After your decades in the military, General Flag, I think you'd understand that true friendship is built on petroleum deposits. Especially un-mined ones in a backward-ass country that's never take advantage of its natural resources."

Leading him out the room, Waller started down the hall, exiting the corporate section of Belle Reve and entering an elevator that lead to the lower levels.

"Princess Ilana Rostovic, the heir apparent to Pokolistan, is already negotiating with the U.S for that oil," she continued, the digital screen showing that they had descended well past the basement. "And if she's overthrown by some nut-job in a witch's hat, all bets are off... We need to help Rostovic."

With a soft, digital ding, the elevator doors opened, revealing a heavily bolted and locked door with the words NON-HUMAN INTERNMENT DIVISION written in bold right above it.

Flag's brow nearly shot through the roof.

"I thought Congress put a stop to all Task Force X facilities since your daughter outed you?" he asked, suspicious.

"Technically, Congress said A.R.G.U.S can't use incarcerated human beings as mission operatives any longer," Waller corrected, typing in the password on the keypad before leaning in for the retina scan. "But what about beings that aren't human?"

"Huh?"

Entering the control room, the general was met by a multitude of screens and officers, along with a five-foot thick, Plexiglas window peering into the common area.

Warily, he approached it, and what he saw on the other side forced his eyes wide.

"What in the holy hell?"

Beyond the bolts, locks, and iron walls sat five different... creatures, each one more odd-looking than the last.

"This is Bell Reve Non-Human Internment Division," Waller introduced in a monotone. "For over fifty years, only those at the uppermost levels of security clearance are aware of its existence. By using these prisoners, I think we can arguably circumvent our new restrictions."

"Arguably?" Flag scoffed. "How?"

"Congress said we can't use human prisoners. These assholes aren't human."

"She's not a human?" he asked, nodding to the large, stitched up woman leaning against the wall.

"Is a corpse human?"

"Who is she?"

"We don't know," Waller shrugged. "We call her The Bride."

Nodding, the general turned his attention to the skeleton playing Jenga.

"Who's Jason and the Argonauts?"

"A sociopath who calls himself Dr. Phosphorus," she confirmed. "He has irradiated skin he can use to burn through people and objects."

"Well, how does that radiation affect the people around him?" Flag asked, concerned.

"If you don't sleep in the same room with him, the effects should be minimal."

"Minimal?"

"Consider it a free vasectomy."

Just then, the mutant-dog-thing sitting at the center of the room began to cough, violently, hacking up what looked to be leftovers of the day's lunch before licking it right back up.

"What is that thing?" Flag asked, disgusted.

"The Weasel," Waller answered. "It's one of the few soldiers still alive from Project Starfish in Corto Maltese. So we know it has what it takes to survive."

At the comment, he hushed up, looking off to the side with guilt.

"Sorry... I didn't mean to intimate about your son, Flag. When he died in Corto Maltese, he died a hero."

"That one looks like a discontinued dishwasher," he quickly changed the subject, pointing to the metal man sitting across from Dr. Phosphorus.

"That dishwasher killed over three-hundred Nazis in World War II. I would've dismantled it, but I thought it might come in use some day," Waller nodded. "It's known as G.I Robot."

Turning her head, her eyes trained on the meek girl sitting in the corner, who looked like both a woman and a fish.

"Next one is Nina Mazursky."

"What use is she walking around in a fishbowl?"

"Get her in water it's a different story," she answered. "She's the smartest and most reasonable of the bunch. She might be able to help you keep the rest of them in line."

Wearily, she let out a sigh, turning to one of the officers and sharing a knowing nod.

"Especially with the last one."

Raising a brow, Flag glanced back through the glass, confirming that he had been briefed on all the prisoners.

All the ones present, at least...

"There's more?" he asked.

"Imported fresh from Arkham Asylum," Waller nodded, typing in another passcode on the control panel in front of her before the door let out a resounding, harsh blare. "She passed the psych eval, though Batman was vehemently against her release."

Flag watched carefully as the doors slowly opened, two officers emerging from the shadows and revealing you, bound and gagged by a straight-jacket and bite restraint muzzle.

Instantly, his eyes shot wide, and he took an instinctual step back, disbelieving of the sight before him.

"Is that a...? She's a living, breathing—"

"Demon, for all intents an purposes," Waller finished, unbothered. "The product of a satanic sacrifice gone wrong. (y/n) (l/n) was born with the devil get-up, and an affinity for fire magic."

Below, sat you with long, (h/c) hair, bright red skin, equally bright horns, a pointed tail, and sharp, slitted, yellow eyes.

"I figured since we're up against a witch, why not fight sorcery with sorcery."

They forced you to sit on a dolly, feet chained to its surface, clasped so tight that it rendered you unable to move or struggle.

As if there wasn't a grenade in your brain-stem preventing you from going anywhere.

'Bastards...'

Lifting your head, you surveyed the area, taking note of each face within the freak show.

A Frankenstein rip-off...

A walking beam of cancer...

A man-dog...

A scrap heap...

And the Introvert from the Black Lagoon...

'Woulda done numbers in solitary.'

As Amanda Waller and General Rick Flag surfaced from behind you, Frankenstein, Cancer, and Man-Dog of the Ghoul Gang charged forward, launching an attack.

An attack... that was quickly thwarted with a good shock to the brain.

With loud shouts of pain, all of them, including you, stopped dead in your tracks, dropping to the ground in an instant.

Though, just as quick as it came, it left, by an act of somewhat mercy from your warden.

"This is your new task force, Flag," Waller stated, tossing him the detonation switch. "Let's call it... Task Force M. M for Monster."

"You bitch..." you growled, weakly lifting your head. "I wanna talk to the Bat... This was not part of the agreement..."

"I'm afraid Batman had no say in the matter," she stated, still completely unbothered. "You want back into your padded cell? You get this job done."

Sharply, she lifted your chin, your fiery eyes meeting hers, cold and unfeeling.

"Do I make myself clear?"

"So... you're really a—"

"Yes."

"Does that mean there's a—"

"Yes."

"Does that mean you've seen—"

"No."

"Did your mother... y'know... with a—"

"Are you fucking stupid?"

You turned to him sharply, brows furrowed and eyes blazing with annoyance and fury.

He had been at this since the goddamn helicopter took off...

"Whoa, there, doll face," Phosphorus raised his hands in defense. "Don't shoot the messenger. I'm just sayin' what we're all thinking."

Though, that was only half of it.

In actuality, Phosphorus hadn't been able to rid his thoughts of you since the COs rolled you into the facility.

He had never seen anyone like you before—devil-like, dripping in both beauty and danger—never felt so entranced, intrigued, or turned on, either.

Emphasis on the turn-on part.

Your battle-wear was a zip-up, black leather jumpsuit with the pant legs torn off, paired with finger-less gloves and thigh-high, multiple buckle boots.

The zipper perfectly exposed your cleavage, making your chest look large and perky while the shorts put your legs on delectable display, outlining the very grab-able flesh of your thighs.

That, along with your black aviators and the cigarette hanging out the corner of your mouth, made you something out of his best worst nightmare.

And someone he wanted to get to know significantly better.

"Keep it to yourself," you spat, sizing him up. "I'd rather listen to a stuck goat."

"'Cause of sacrifices or...?"

"Say one more word, cancer stick, I swear to God—"

"Can you even really do that? Y'know, 'cause of the whole demon thing..."

"Fucking moron!" you growled, igniting your fist with fire before sending a punch straight for his face.

"Hey! Knock it off!" Flag barked, forcing you to stop mid-way, the whole squad turning to him with slight surprise. "I know you all aren't exactly enthusiastic about this mission. But—"

With a roll of her eyes, Bride let out a groan, already checking herself out of the conversation.

"General, I believe you've read us wrong," Phosphorus corrected, acting as if your flaming hand wasn't inches away from his face. "We're delighted to be here, and delighted to serve our country."

"Okay... uh, great."

As the irradiated skeleton faced forward, you dropped your fist, sharing a confused look with the Bride.

"Are you smiling?" you asked him, raising a brow.

"Yes."

"Sarcastically?" she added.

"Mmm-hmm."

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest and leaning back in your seat, allowing your eyes to drift over to the man-dog.

He was harshly gnawing at his restraints, letting out whimpering noises of fear

"G.I Robot is detecting unease. Could he be, G.I Robot asks, in fear of being discovered as Nazi scum?" the scrap heap stated, retracting his hand and replacing it with a gun.

"No," Flag assured, pushing away the weapon. "Put your arm... Put your gun down. He's not a Nazi."

"Child killer, though," Phosphorus shook his head. "Not a great look."

"Supposedly, he had a bad experience the last trip he took on this Osprey, that's all."

Glancing out the window, the Bride's eyes widened slightly, before she turned to the general.

"Are we in goddamn Pokolistan?" her brows furrowed, arms crossed over her chest.

"You've been here before?" Nina asked with a smile.

Bride rolled her eyes with a sigh, leaning back in her seat, "Fucking hell..."

"So..." Phosphorus started up again as he turned to you, thankful his skeleton-ness hid his shit-eating grin. "Is everything red... or just what I'm looking at right now?"

SMACK!

"Ow!" he played off, his grin growing even wider as he rubbed his cheek.

Adorably, you turned away, flipping him off as your one leg crossed over the other.

Now he was really intrigued (and turned on).

You were feisty.

He liked that.

He liked that a lot.

#creature commandos #dc #dcu #creature commandos x reader #dc x reader #dcu x reader #dr phosphorus #dr phosphorus x reader #doctor phosphorus #phosphorus x reader #doctor phosphorus x reader

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sapphorror · 8 months ago

Text

The Narrator's perspective only gets more horrifying the longer you think about it. Like, imagine being an Echo of yourself—one of many, all made to serve a very particular purpose and knowingly living on borrowed time, if 'living' is even the right word for your current state of pseudo-existence.

You've inherited the mission of a dead man—it's literally the only thing left that you can do before fading, so you sure as hell better believe in it; the alternative would be unbearable. Only you keep failing. With every loop that you don't remember, your lack of agency in this situation becomes starker—you can influence small things, sure, but it becomes increasingly clear that you have no real power, no matter how personally invested you are in the events unfolding in front of you. You are, after all, only an Echo. You've forfeited the right to meaningfully engage with the world.

Worse—every loop you're made aware of is another time you've failed, with unimaginable consequences, though you had no control over these previous iterations of yourself and can't even learn from their mistakes. Everyone around you is operating on a shared perception of reality that you are not part of, will never be part of. After a few repetitions, you are, ironically, the least informed person in the room. All you have left to go on is an evidently outdated script. At the same time, everyone else is experiencing a contiguous version of you, comprised of parts that are, in some sense, also you, while at the same time existing at a complete remove from your current perception of self. Whatever you don't know you did—that's you now. You are, after all, only an Echo. You've forfeited the right to define your own identity, never mind know what it is.

Even worse—this has trapped you within a stagnant hell of your own creation. Nothing you say or do really matters in terms of your own self (the rest of the world is a separate issue entirely). Anything you've come to believe—say, for totally hypothetical example, that you were wrong actually and your envisioned paradise is really a hell beyond any you had the capacity to envision—has about as much permanence as a drawing in the sand. 'You' will continue, exactly as you were, no matter how much you might like to change your behavior. Every possible future has already been set in stone. You are, after all, only an Echo. You've forfeited the right to say anything you haven't already said.

For some reason, no part of any of this has made you feel more comfortable and at peace with the general concept of finality.

The really, truly absolute worst part, though?

There is no one for you to blame but yourself. And that's exactly what turns your story into such a tragedy.

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midnight-shadow-cafe · 3 months ago

Note

Hii, I was wondering if you could do poly141! with a crush on administrator!reader? Like how they would all be having a crush on her and eventually bringing her into the relationship? No worries if not, I love your work and you’re one of my fave accounts. Have a good day💗

At Their Mercy

Pairing: Poly!141 x Reader

Warnings: Tension, suggestive flirting, possessiveness, military setting, mutual pining, rumor mill drama, reader described as professional/feminine-coded, slow burn with romantic payoff

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy! I absolutely love this idea!! This is a fantastic idea and I hope I captured what you imagined! I’m so glad you love my writing as well!

Summary: You run the tightest operation Task Force 141 has ever seen. But even the sharpest minds can be unraveled when four elite soldiers set their sights on you.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

You ran a tight ship.

The kind of ship that never hit rocks, never leaked, and never allowed room for error. As the lead administrative liaison for Task Force 141, you were the bridge between elite chaos and tight military structure. Every mission roster, clearance request, requisition form, and post-op report came through you first. You were the force behind the front lines—silent, efficient, untouchable.

You dealt with mission logistics, debriefs, diplomatic correspondence, and more red tape than any human being should have to suffer. Every supply chain was calculated to the second. Every form filed precisely. Even if it meant chasing men with blood on their boots down the hall to get them to sign a single line.

It was a high-stress job.

But you thrived on control. On being the one fixed point in a volatile world.

Until they came along.

Captain John Price. Simon “Ghost” Riley. Johnny “Soap” MacTavish. Kyle “Gaz” Garrick.

The 141.

They were a storm wrapped in Kevlar—brilliant, lethal, insubordinate, and damn near impossible to manage. They were the embodiment of beautiful chaos. The opposite of everything you stood for.

And your undoing.

John was the first to notice you—not just for your mind or precision, but for your calm. You were a lighthouse in the combat fog. You never flinched when brass raised their voice. You never cracked under pressure. He respected it. Then he admired it. And before long, that admiration curled into something deeper. Something more.

Simon came next. You didn’t shrink away from him like others did. You handed him mission packets without hesitation. Spoke to him like he was just another man, not the reaper in a skull mask. That grounded him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.

Johnny flirted from the start. Relentlessly. At first, it was just to get a rise out of you. But when all he got was sarcasm and the occasional unimpressed glance? That made it personal. A challenge. And Johnny loved a challenge. Especially when the prize was someone like you.

And Kyle… Kyle never pushed. He observed. He noticed how you rubbed your temples when no one was looking. How you tucked your mug into the same corner of your desk every morning. How you softened—just a touch—when it was only them in the room. He didn’t flirt. He *saw* you. And that made it worse. Because it made it real.

You tried not to encourage them.

You dressed sharp. Stayed professional. Avoided lingering. You didn’t meet their eyes when they looked too long.

But they knew.

They noticed when your shoulders relaxed in the privacy of your office. When you started teasing Johnny back under your breath. When you called Simon “brooding” and made him *smirk*. When you caught Kyle watching you and actually *smiled*. When you told John to stop looming like a disappointed father, and he laughed.

They saw the cracks forming.

And then the rumors started.

You heard them in the mess hall, murmured by soldiers with too much time and too little respect. That you were sleeping with the 141. That Kyle got special treatment. That Johnny kissed you behind the armory. One lunatic even swore he saw you sneaking out of Simon’s quarters—which was laughable, considering no one knew where Simon actually slept.

None of it was true.

Yet.

It got back to you fast. You called a meeting with HR. Filed two formal complaints. Nearly took a corporal’s head off when he winked at you in the hallway.

You thought maybe the 141 hadn’t heard.

But one day, you stepped into your office to find John seated at your desk.

“Close the door,” he said quietly.

You did.

“We heard the rumors.”

You crossed your arms, jaw tight. “They’re lies.”

“Don’t doubt that,” he said. “But they’re still hurting you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to us.”

You looked at him, and something shifted in the air between you. “Why?”

Simon stepped in from the side room. “Because we care.”

Kyle leaned in the doorway. “Because we’re tired of pretending.”

Johnny entered last, his face softer than you’d ever seen it. “Because it’s true. Maybe not yet—but we want it to be.”

Your heart hammered in your chest.

John stood and came closer. “We’re not asking you to throw away your job. We’re not going to parade anything. But the four of us… we’ve talked. We want you. All of us.”

Simon added, “You make us better. Tighter. Calmer.”

Johnny smirked, just a little. “You even make Ghost smile. That’s a miracle, love.”

Kyle’s voice was gentle. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

You looked at all of them—John’s fierce steadiness, Simon’s burning silence, Johnny’s relentless affection, Kyle’s quiet care—and something in you broke open.

You didn’t speak. Just moved.

You stepped forward and curled your hand into John’s shirt, tugging him down. You kissed him. Soft. Certain.

Then turned and kissed Kyle—slow and sweet. Simon stepped closer and pressed a palm to your waist like he was anchoring you, and you turned and kissed him, too, his mask barely lifted, lips warm and wanting.

Johnny grinned when you reached for him. “Knew you liked me,” he whispered against your mouth.

“I like all of you, but you’re all still insufferable.” you whispered back.

Their touches were careful after that. Reverent. John cupped the back of your head. Kyle rubbed slow circles into your back. Simon rested his hand at your hip, solid. Johnny leaned his forehead against yours like he never wanted to leave.

It wasn’t perfect. It wouldn’t be easy.

But it was yours.

And for once, you let yourself fall.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

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orellazalonia · 8 days ago

Text

Unexpected Outlook

Summary: The Avengers launch a mission to raid a known base of the organization you now work with and discuss over what they found.

Word Count: 1.7k+

A/N: A little shorter since it’s Father’s Day, but I also wanted to add more weight to the previous chapter and progress the story.

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

Preparations moved fast. Too fast, maybe.

Steve didn’t like that they were running with incomplete information, but the longer they waited, the deeper this organization could dig itself into global systems. And the more time you had to assist them, whether willingly or not.

Still, it didn’t sit right. None of it did.

Bruce pulled the files. Natasha studied known locations. Sam monitored chatter. Bucky cleaned his weapons with a look in his eyes like he wanted answers he didn’t have the right to ask.

Yet no one brought up your name again. At least, not directly. But it hovered beneath everything.

The way Bucky checked each plan twice. The way Natasha’s jaw twitched when she reviewed footage. Even the way Steve hesitated before calling it an official mission.

The woman Bucky liked didn’t voice objections anymore. She simply kept a kind, quiet distance, like someone watching friends argue over a lost cause.

And within a week, the op was set.

Steve gave the greenlight with his jaw tight and eyes harder than usual. The mission was clear: infiltrate a suspected communications hub. A nondescript, rural compound masked as a grain storage facility. Satellite data showed encrypted signals routing through it over the last month, signals that matched ones the Avengers used internally.

Which meant either someone was watching. Or someone had been taught how.

They went in with a small team. Just Steve, Sam, Natasha, and Bucky. No need for Hulk or Thor; this wasn’t a battering ram job. It was a retrieval and disrupt operation. Quiet and clean.

Or so they thought.

The quinjet landed half a mile out, under cover of dense fog rolling over the hills. The forest beyond the compound was eerily still like it had been holding its breath since before dawn.

“They want us to find this,” Natasha muttered, brushing a branch aside as they crept through the trees.

Steve didn’t argue. His shield was strapped to his arm, but he hadn’t raised it once.

They reached the clearing. The compound was just as expected. Gray concrete, flat roof, minimal security fencing, and a gravel path leading to two entrances. No guards. No movement. Even the air felt… hollow.

Sam scanned the building with a handheld sensor. “No heat signatures. Not even a rat.”

“Too clean,” Bucky said, voice low.

They breached the back door.

Inside, it was dark but not ruined. Every surface was wiped. Consoles powered down. Not destroyed, removed. Carefully like a move-out rather than an attack. Upon investigating further, files had been cleared, drawers emptied, and chairs pushed in with bland desks.

Whoever had been here knew exactly when to leave.

Steve turned in a slow circle, taking it in.

“This was active,” He said. “Days ago.”

“Hours, maybe,” Natasha said, crouching beside a desk. She tapped the edge, there was a faint spot where something electronic had been sitting. Someone had worked here… and then vanished.

Sam stepped into the central control room. There was only one thing left behind: a monitor left switched on, flickering a soft blue light in the dimness.

A single message scrolled across the screen.

Too late, Captain.

That was it. There wasn’t any long monologues. No other mocking comments. Not even a signature or sign-off present. Just a cold fact. Steve stared at it like he could will it to change. Bucky stood a step behind him, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“I don’t like this,” Sam muttered.

Natasha approached a wall panel and pried it open effortlessly. Inside, wires had been sliced. Intentionally. However, there were no explosives. No traps could be seen anywhere either. It was all just… closure.

“They stripped this place surgically,” She said. “No fingerprints, no traces. It’s like they wanted us to know they were here… but not who they are.”

Steve closed the monitor with a clenched jaw. “This wasn’t a base. It was a decoy.”

“No,” Bucky said suddenly. His voice was soft but steady. “It was a base. It just outlived its usefulness.”

They all turned toward him. He looked at the empty room, the missing equipment, and the quiet hallways. Then, to the message. And for a moment, something shifted in his eyes. Guilt, maybe or something deeper.

“They planned for this,” He murmured. “Someone told them exactly how we’d come.”

No one responded, but no one needed to. Because they were all thinking it.

The debrief room was thick with a heavy silence, the kind that pressed down harder than shouting. Ghost-blue blueprints and photos of the abandoned compound still flickered on the monitors, reminders of how quickly their plan had unraveled. Notes about the missing equipment and the chilling message on the screen scrolled slowly, marking everything they should have anticipated.

Steve hadn’t sat once since they returned. He stood rigid at the head of the table, hands braced on his hips, and a deep furrow like it was etched there permanently. Sam had stopped pacing but his leg bounced nervously, jaw clenched tight. Natasha’s fingers tapped against her thigh in a rhythm so steady it barely seemed voluntary.

Only Bucky remained perfectly still, arms crossed, and eyes locked on the screen across the room. He said very little since they’d left the empty compound since that message haunted him.

Too late, Captain.

The words weren’t just text; they carried a weight, a deliberate coldness that dug into Bucky’s mind. Whoever had left it knew him. Not just the soldier, but his moves, his instincts. And worse, their enemy had used the knowledge you once held to outmaneuver them.

The memory played on loop in his mind. Not just the words but the feel of them. The calculation in them. Whoever was behind that terminal… knew him. Not just facts. His patterns.

And maybe worse than that, they’d used your knowledge to do it. They probably used you to do it.

The door hissed open.

She stepped in with her usual soft elegance, cradling a fresh cup of tea between her hands like she had no idea anything had gone wrong. Dressed casual, warm, and comfortable. Like she belonged. Like she didn’t feel the same tension that pulled everyone else taut. The one you used to be jealous of had sat out for the mission after all.

“Oh,” She said lightly. “You’re all back already.”

Her tone wasn’t mocking. If anything, it was gently surprised, as if she’d simply walked into a meeting that ended early. Steve didn’t answer right away. Neither did the others.

She blinked, smile sweet and expectant, like someone unaware they were intruding. “Was it a short mission?”

“We were too late,” Steve said flatly, straightening.

Her brows lifted, and she crossed to the table, setting the tea down. “Really? That’s unfortunate. I thought it was just one of those cleanup things. You all make those look so easy.”

Sam looked over, jaw tight. “They cleaned up, alright. Took every last trace of themselves. Left us a polite message, too.”

“They knew how we’d approach,” Natasha added with her arms crossed now. “Like they knew our pattern. Our flow. They stripped the place within hours of our arrival window.”

“Hmm.” She tapped a fingernail against the ceramic. “That’s strange. Maybe they had inside intel?”

“No,” Steve spoke, narrowing his eyes. “Not unless someone studied us long before they left.”

“Oh.” She blinked, tilting her head. “So… do you think your old administrator friend told them?”

Bucky stiffened.

Natasha’s voice was sharper now, eyes narrowing. “She’s not our anything.”

That seemed to amuse her. She let out a light laugh, the kind meant to dissolve tension, not that anyone was asking for it. “Well, you’re not wrong,” She smiled. “ She didn’t really fit in here anyways, did she?”

Bruce, who had been mostly quiet, looked up sharply. “She worked here for over two years.”

She didn’t seem phased. There was no malice on her face actually. Just soft confidence.

“I guess I didn’t think she’d be important,” She sighed simply. “Kind of kept to herself. I always assumed she’d move on.”

Sam stood, voice tight. “She did. Straight into the hands of the people trying to tear us apart.”

Her smile faltered just a touch. “I didn’t mean—look, I’m sure she was… sweet. I just don’t see how it helps to chase after someone who clearly didn’t want to be here. Don’t you think she made her choice?”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t know that yet.”

“I mean, sure,” She said gently, “But if she’s really that dangerous, wouldn’t you have noticed before she left? You didn’t even realize she was gone until weeks later, right?”

Bucky shifted slightly. The burn in his chest deepened. Not from her words exactly, but from how true they rang.

They hadn’t noticed. They hadn’t looked.

The woman moved closer to Bucky, noticing his subtle distress as she rested her hand lightly on Bucky’s shoulder.

“I just worry about you,” She confessed softly, smiling up at him. “You’re all stretched so thin already. I’d hate to see you waste energy chasing ghosts.”

Her hand lingered. But Bucky’s jaw clenched, and for once, he didn’t lean into her touch.

“She’s not a ghost,” He muttered. “She’s a mirror. Of everything we missed.”

Her expression flickered for barely a moment. Then the sweet smile returned.

“Well, if you have to go after her,” She brushed her hand away, her expression turning more solemn. A hint of pity evident, “I hope you’re prepared for what you find. Sometimes people change… and not always in ways you can fix. I don’t want you to be hurt.”

She reached for her tea again, her fingers wrapping around the cup like it was an anchor.

“And if you do decide to keep going after her, well.” She gave a gentle little laugh, looking around with open, innocent eyes. “I hope it goes well. I really mean that. And if you need my help at all… just let me know. I’m always happy to support the team.”

The door hissed softly behind her as she walked out, quiet heels tapping against the floor in steady, graceful rhythm.

The rest of the team stood in silence for a few long seconds, each lost in their own storm of thoughts.

Steve broke it first.

“We move forward. We stop that organization before it spreads deeper.”

“And if she’s helping them willingly?” Sam asked, his voice low.

Steve hesitated.

So, Bucky answered instead.

“Then we stop her, too.”

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal @winchestert101 @greatenthusiasttidalwave

#The One You Don’t See #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #marvel x reader #marvel fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky x you #avengers fic #chapter 5

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13tinysocks · 25 days ago

Text

My Dead Girlfriend

The GDA's golden boy isn't so golden anymore. You make a trip into a trap.

REF! REF, *TWEEET TWEEEETTT* THAT'S A RED CARD! REF! NSFW

[Invincible Variants X Reader]

[Part one] [Ao3] [18] [20] [Cum Jar] [Full Piece Here - It's Mine!]

19 * Comeuppance [10.2k]

"I'm on probation for a trillion years,

There's nothin' to do but get drunk and get fucked,

an' start mailin' out the bombs, ya hear?

Hell yeah!"

Eat 5678 - Go Hang

"Why did you make me do this?"

He can't scream. Can't move a muscle beyond the involuntary breaths his lungs are forced to take, stuttering and wet but enough to keep him conscious. Burning all the way up and down his crushed windpipe. His throat was open, exposed to the cool, gentle breeze that sent shocks of pain along every pulsing nerve. He felt the icy chill on the nodules of his spine, on his detached vocal cords. He felt his head mostly away from his body, snapped hard to the side. The only thing keeping him alive was the tenuous connection of his exposed spine to his brain, screaming for him to move.

Above him, Dad was on his haunches. Fists hot with his blood. Gesturing wildly though both his eyes were swollen shut. "You're fighting so you can watch everyone around you die!" If he were a normal human boy, he'd be gratefully dead- still by your side after Dad tore you apart. You were a distraction he let make him weak. He tried proving Dad wrong, to get revenge on your behalf but Dad was right- the fight didn't last long.

"Think Grayson, think!" It's a taunt, one that stings as badly as his nonexistent throat. He'd become so well known and trusted within the GDA people called him by his last name- after he'd joked Mr. Grayson was his Dad. It became a second name, only said within the halls of the GDA or by you or through his earpiece by Cecil, who he considered a friend. The whole team treated him well. He liked them all. Liked being a hero, making a difference.

"You'll outlast every fragile, insignificant being on this planet!"

Dad thought it was a hobby. Something he'd drop once he learned their real purpose. He didn't. How could he when he loved this planet and its people so much? Earth was home, Earth had his friends. It had Cecil and Donald who had a cake waiting for him in the command room on his eighteenth birthday after he returned from a hard fought mission- forgetting his own birthday just like Dad had. Then he went to you, vanilla cake on his breath, the rest of it saved in Tupperware. You had your own cake waiting for him, your hands covered in frosting as you hastily tried to write 'Happy Birthday' across the top in a blue gel.

"You'll live to see this world crumble to dust and blow away!" Nolan didn't care about his reminiscing. Was so lost in his rambling he didn't sense the fleet coming.

Grayson made love to you on the messy countertop. Your fingers curling blue, sticky icing streaks into his hair. You showered together, laughing at things he couldn't remember. You curled up in his arms, watching the trailer for the animated Seance Dog show coming next spring. A spring you would never see.

"Everyone and everything you know will be gone!" Dad made sure of that. Got rid of that 'distraction' that he thought made his son such a wimpy bleeding heart. Got rid of his own distraction, that woman he called his wife- marriage was such a pathetic Earthly concept- with you both out of the way, nothing would stop them.

"What will you have after five-hundred years!?"

Not you. It was all he could think about half-buried into the side of the mountain- You. The planet's safety didn't matter. You. His father's betrayal didn't matter. You. You. You. Dead. Nothing mattered. You were dead. You. You. You. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Cecil watched the fleet from the control room. Drone operated, housing experimental quantum bombs. Grayson willingly gave samples of his DNA for research purposes, anything they could think of or want. His blood, his skin, a mucosal swab, a muscle biopsy. He never considered saying no, thinking the GDA would use it to come up with new armor or as a control to test against viruses. He didn't think they would use it to make defenses against Viltrumites, when there were only two of them on the planet, when they didn't know about the invasion plans. But Cecil had known Nolan a long time. Long enough to not trust him.

He knew Nolan was hiding something after the Guardians were murdered. They both did, but Grayson was so adamant Nolan wasn't in the wrong. He thought his Father was scared of a greater threat, something he was afraid to share, and he just had to figure it out. Cecil knew otherwise and that's why he was prepared.

Nolan wasn't slow. He shot up, throwing the first few drones into the atmosphere. They were dummies anyways. Used so medical could teleport to Grayson, get him off the mountain and into GDA care. Only when he was safe did the bombs rain.

Cecil would come to feel bad for Grayson in the weeks after the attack. Kid lost his girlfriend and his mom in one fell swoop. Lost the dad he thought he had, a hero and thought to be a mild, stoic man. Now he was kept hundreds of miles underground, limbs trapped in individual cuffs, each double the size of his body. Nolan had plenty of visitors in his new prison. Cecil and his interrogation team mostly. Grayson never came. Didn't even blink when Cecil told him Nolan was still alive. Not even when he divulged that the only reason they could contain him was because of Grayson's cooperation, all of the DNA and data he gave in good faith.

Grayson was never cold or callous, not a killer the way his father wanted him to be. But something changed in Grayson. Maybe it was getting nearly decapitated, breaking every bone in his body. Maybe it was all the people that died as collateral. Maybe it was his mom's death, you.

He hated knowing Dad would be proud when he said to Cecil with his new, broken, entirely wrong voice, "Kill him."

Cecil expected anger. Expected Mark to choke him out or do something stupidly rash, but he stayed eerily calm. "You know I can't do that, kid."

Grayson leveled him with a cold, blue-eyed stare. Cecil had never seen that look on his face, never wanted to again. "Do it or I will."

***

After the attack, Phantom's neck was in a thick metal brace for weeks. He couldn't move most of his body, couldn't speak. Despite their extensive testing of Viltrumite DNA and its healing compounds, the doctors were unsure his vocal cords would ever re-string. They did their best putting him back together, but it wasn't right. His voice was forever stretched and scratchy after the incident, much like his mind.

The muscles in his neck stiffly groaned as he lifted his head to look at you, you, you, alive, alive, alive. Framed in what little light curved into his tomb. You were heaving with anger at the very sight of him- but you were breathing. Eyes shining beadily with malice- but you were blinking. Teeth grinding in your snarl- but you were moving. Alive. You were still alive. He'd been so worried.

Gray had brought him water, scraps of food. Never enough to satisfy, but enough for his body to work with the accelerator. If there had been enough water in his system, he'd be crying at the sight of you. But there wasn't, so he dryly heaved with cracked, wobbly lips. Words tumbled out his throat, feeling and sounding like broken glass, "You're okay."

"Okay?" You said, brain still catching up like the past few minutes hadn't happened. "Okay!?"

The isolation, the paranoia, the broken leg, the death, the dick sucked out of desperation and need just to be in front of Phantom. Here he was, served up on a silver platter. Smiling up at you despite his bloodless face and missing limbs. Woozy with pain and acute dehydration, but somehow his eyes gleamed like he'd won. Like he had also wanted to be in front of you- no matter the situation.

You kicked him in the stomach, doing nothing but send a jolt of pain up your once broken leg. You reeled back, hissing.

"Called Invincible for a reason." Mohawk said unhelpfully behind you. Truthfully, you'd forgotten he was there. When you saw Phantom the whole world fell away, the same for him.

But he could ignore Mohawk even if he was talking. He'd been blocking out Scars and Lensless's presence for weeks. Only really aware of them when they pulled the meat off his bones. Your kick felt like nothing, but the brief contact, even through your boot was precious. He replayed the moment over and over, hoped for another because it was better than weeks of nothing- worrying that mentally unstable freak had hurt you.

"It's okay, I understand." He said because something, he didn't know what, had hurt you, because, "I wasn't fast enough. I'm sorry."

You kicked him with your other foot and got the same reaction. A smile because you touched him. He'd prefer a hug, a few sobbing kisses but he could take this for now- it was better than you dead.

"He almost killed me!" Your brain rewound the tape and played it at hyper-speed. When it was done and you were freshly re-traumatized, the tape played again. "He went crazy! You knew he would!" Mark was right. You had told him to stop talking about Phantom, how he'd betrayed you both but you could feel it in your gut, Mark was right. "You fucking knew!"

You kicked him again because you wanted him to hurt and you wanted it to be from you, but the only person you were hurting was yourself.

A hand came to your shoulder. Gray. "Stop. You'll hurt yourself."

You shoved at him. "Don't fucking touch me!"

He hovered back, a notch in his brow. He thought this was what you wanted, so why were you crying? Why were you so angry?

Phantom needed your attention back on him. He'd gone longer without water than he had without you, but he needed more of your attention than he needed to breathe.

"You shouldn't of had to deal with that." His words are slow, labored. Some part of him knew he shouldn't say it, that it'd ruin his chances with you, but the part of him that thought about such things had shriveled with torture and food deprivation. "I would've-" His throat spasmed, he swallowed the pain, "I would've done it for you before things got that bad."

You called Mark crazy. You couldn't believe you called Mark crazy when Phantom existed.

You balled your fists, feel acid in your stomach. You wanted him dead as badly as you needed to breathe. You could only give him an appropriate death if you knew the full scope of things, if your fears, his fears, were confirmed. "What was your plan?"

The rambling began in broken, shambling sentences. Unrelated at first, but slowly inching together as his voice started to blip and crack out. His twisted ideas just kept going and going like tied rags out of a magician's mouth. He wanted Mark to go crazy. Wanted Mark to ruin things. Was going to listen in and swoop in like Seance Dog in the nick of time. Let you lean on his shoulder to cry on. Be your one and only rock. Live in the dark together forever, where he could always keep you safe. Where nobody could ever hurt you again. Not like Dad had. Not like Scars and Lensless had.

Then you made him tell you what went wrong. Everything that could've backfired did. It should've been more satisfying hearing his comeuppance, but you weren't there to enact it. To see it. To order it. To watch his eyes glaze over with agony, whereas now they were riverbed stones. If he died right now, he'd die happy.

"You're fucking crazy." Not Mark. But he was Mark. They were all Mark. "It wouldn't have worked. He was onto you. I would've known. I would've hated you." You played out the fantasy. You and Mark killing him. You eating his body instead of your precious bug family that was now all gone. He would've felt less paranoid, would've let you dig a way into the sun so he could heal. But it hadn't happened that way. "I would've never loved you." You said it like it'd ward it away. Like it'd erase the fact that could have been your reality if he played his cards right. You hadn't suspected him at all, defended him, now look at you.

Phantom had the audacity to shake his head, "We would've been happy."

He didn't say it, but he knew how much trauma could remold a person. In the wake of Mark's death, he would've remolded you. Pressed in his thumbs and left the indent of his fingerprints forever on your soul. His version of the story would solidify with every passing moment. You would have loved him.

You turned to Mohawk who'd been watching your back with baited breath. "Hit him."

Your control was more a gentle push to his back than anything. You hadn't needed to tell him, he already wanted the rat dead.

He lunged forward, grabbed him by the beard, yanked him forward and slammed his head back into the wall. Crack. Again. Crack. Again. Crack! Despite everything, Phantom was still smiling. This was nothing compared to the torture he'd gone through. Mohawk needed to go harder, break him through the wall, rip him in half, skull to taint.

It wasn't that Mohawk didn't want to protect you in a similar way. Or that Phantom wanted you to himself, because Mohawk did too. It was that the weakest in the pack thought he had any claim on you. That he almost got you killed again and left you with that other freak. That he led you into his arms and not Mohawk's instead.

He reeled his foot back to punt him through the rock. Gray grabbed his shin. "We're being too loud."

Mohawk turned to bark at him but you beat him to it. "Fuck being too loud! They're weak! Let them find us."

You were out for blood. Scars and Lensless initiated the cave collapse. They weren't as much to blame but you needed more blood on your hands than Phantom had in his body.

God, Mohawk could drool at how hot you were right now.

"I agree," Gray said, "They are likely weakened by now, but don't you want to savor killing him? They'll get in the way."

Viltrumites killed efficiently, without feeling, though plenty of them, like his mentor, enjoyed it very much. Gray enjoyed a hard fought battle, didn't mind blood on his hands. He understood blood lust. Though he didn't feel it, he wanted you to feel that passion his mentor had to the fullest. Isn't that what you'd want?

Mohawk yanked his leg from Gray's grip. "I'll kill 'em before they can."

Gray kept his annoyance in check. How on Earth was Mohawk Emperor of anything with such little decorum?

"Noted." He turned to you, "I need answers first."

You frowned at him, tone dangerous, "What could you possibly need from him?"

Gray stepped forward, standing by your side now instead of some guard dog goon. He looked down at Phantom, who only had puppy eyes for you. He honestly thought Phantom's plan wasn't a bad one. It was smart to expose an enemy's weakness, smart to get you away from danger, to use both of those things to his advantage. He could almost respect him, but he wouldn't tell you that.

Since obtaining Phantom, Gray had returned to Scars and Lensless residence. Maybe to kill them, maybe just to see what they were up to- he didn't know. He found rubble. Couldn't find them in the wastes.

"Where did they go during the day?" He asked both Phantom and Mohawk. Both of them didn't know, only one of them would answer. You had to use your powers on Phantom, which in his weak, blissed out state was easy. Phantom was unconscious most of the time. Mohawk was scared to not have something to hide behind.

"Did they ever speak of any other hideouts?"

Again you had to step in. Control going around his soft brain like a fist holding jello. Phantom didn't know. They were gone in the wind. Gray doesn't like not knowing where they are.

Gray is pulled out of his thoughts by your voice, "You done?"

He stepped back in quiet confirmation.

He watched the way you stared at Phantom. Could almost hear your gears turning, wondering what would be the best punishment for his crimes.

He stared back. Lips moving but no sound came out. You knew you shouldn't help him, but a morbid part of you wanted to hear what he had to say.

"Gray." It's all you have to say for the man to move in, hold Phantom's jaw, and pour water from a basin down his throat. Most of it dribbled wasted down his chin.

Gray settled behind you as you watched Phantom's throat work. You waited, waited. Until.

"I accept whatever comes next, and I forgive you." He says, not meaning it. He wanted to live, to be with you, he didn't want to die here, but the only way to live was to appeal to your human nature. The one he knew you had because his version of you did.

In his haze, he forgot how different you were.

Wasn't expecting red rage to cross your face. "Mohawk. Kill him."

Mohawk was in front of him. Fist pumped back, ready to piston forward and put a hole in his head. It'd be quicker than he deserved. That's why Gray stopped him. Stood in front of Phantom, Mohawk's fist in his hands. Muscles straining to keep Mohawk from landing the blow.

"What are you doing?" You snarled, head pulsing as Mohawk tried to push through Gray's grip.

"You'll regret doing it this way," Gray said.

Seconds ago, you were thinking torture, now you just wanted him dead. For all of this to be over. No more Jesus-y 'I forgive thee, Judas' bullshit.

"No, I won't. Move." Your focus is like a shove to the brain, teeters him off balance. His heels gave, sliding back and pressing into Phantom's leg.

"Mark suffered for years in prison, correct?"

"I don't care. Move." Another shove. You were stronger when you were mad. He tucked that information under 'problems for another day'.

"He effectively put Mark in prison again. Don't you want him to suffer the same?" Gray did not revel in pain but he knew you did to an extent. You needed Phantom's pain like you needed codeine to feel better. Good for awhile, then best if it was gone.

Gray was right. He should-

"I should suffer." Phantom's voice scratched out, "It's my fault you got hurt. I'm so sorry, (Y/n)."

Hearing those words was like a fist to the chest, grabbing at your heart. You just wanted this to be over. Just wanted him dead so there'd be no more genuine platitudes from him. His sympathy burned like acid.

"Kill him." You said hoarsely, "Just kill him."

"Sorry dude," Mohawk jerked his head back to deliver a blow to Gray, intending to knock him out. Gray regretted having to use such desperate actions, but he believed this was for the best. His knee came up to Mohawk's crotch. Mohawk crumpled, groaning before a blow to both his ears knocked him out entirely. Gray caught him before he hit the ground.

You bared your teeth. "What are you doing!?"

"Helping." Gray lifted a limp Mohawk onto his shoulder.

"No you're-" You were off the ground, held to Gray's chest with his free arm. One of his legs kicked back, delivering a heel to Phantom's jaw and sending him easy into unconsciousness. "Hey!"

Gray floated out of the makeshift prison. "You need time to think."

"Put me down!" The strongest shove yet, his grip loosened before he came back to himself. Seeing the flash of terror on your face at the idea of being dropped mid-flight again. Still, you fought. Beat useless fists against his chest, "I don't need to think, he needs to die!" But the more you fought him, the more your anger and wrath flared, the more he knew he was right.

***

"It's cold, come sit." Markus lifted his cape for you to perch under. You didn't look at him. Don't look at anybody as you paced in circles, feeling like a caged lion. The bitter night bit at your skin but you didn't care. You couldn't look at any of their faces without seeing Phantom, Mark, Gray. Feeling sad and angry all over again.

Gray shifted up from his seat. Far from a very awake, very pissed off Mohawk, who was considering if he should fuck this whole alliance bullshit and take you for himself.

"I'll go." Gray said.

You spun on your heels, catching the back of his stupid skirt before he left through one of the many exits. "Don't pull that kicked puppy shit!"

He paused. "Kicked puppy what?" He was still very unused to human turns of phrase.

"Shut up and get back in here." You snapped. He hovered back inside, confused. "Said it yourself big guy, desert's too dangerous to violently kill a guy in, gotta be waaay too dangerous to be flying around at night- right?"

"I thought this was what you wanted." He said it softly, meaning more than just him leaving. Wondering where he went wrong, why you hadn't kissed him with those pretty lips in thanks when you had asked him for this.

Your jaw flexed, unflexed. Because you did want this, but now that Phantom was within reach, weak, killable, it was a whole other story. The worst part was you didn't even get the satisfaction of him being scared to see you again, to see him crying while he confessed. He wasn't sorry, not really, he was sorry he got caught, sorry he was an amputee. You don't know how to feel or what to say and the longer Gray looked at you with those sad puppy dog eyes the more muddled your feelings got.

So you leaned into instinct, snapping, "Whatever."

You let go of him and went to the darkest, most isolated corner of the camp. The corner Gray had shoved the bag of Mark. Now two-thirds full, he'd been rationed well. You sat against the sack, not feeling any of Mark's warmth. Feeling only a stiff hardness poking into you in pieces where you were used to a solid mass. It wasn't enough to sit beside it. Soon you were half sitting on it, hugging it, sniffing it, crying quietly into the rough fabric. It felt and smelled nothing like Mark but it was him.

"Are you alright?" Markus.

"Go away."

You heard his boots come down behind you. His suit groaned as he sat, one shoulder pressed to your back. You clutched the bag tighter, finding a stick of dead meat to hold onto through it. Not a hand pulsing warm with blood. You pressed your face into it, let the tears soak through. Markus said nothing as you worked through a knee-deep muck of emotions. He just silently rubbed your lower back in slow circles. The touch real, living, grounding through your tank top.

He was there for you, even if you didn't want him to be. Had been the whole time you were stuck here. Just waiting for you to reach out, offering comfort you needed but wouldn't take.

You say it without thinking, "I don't know why I'm always so mean to you."

Because he'd been kind, charitable, annoyingly uptight, and dad-ish, but not a bad guy. You'd pushed him away at every turn or pulled him in just to try and use him. He knew it, let it happen, and kept crawling back to you anyway. The way you wished Mark had after Machine Head. The gentle comfortableness he represented scared you, threw you and your assassin persona off balance. You always felt like the other shoe was going to drop. Waiting for him to accept you weren't his darling wife and finally leave you alone. But he never did.

Arms snaked around your middle. Gently goading you off the meat sack, turning you away from it and its garish body. You let him, turning into his chest as he pulled you onto his lap.

"I know." His voice rumbled in his chest. "It's okay." There was no resentment in his voice. No Mark-ish disdain for what a shitty person you were. You fisted the material of his suit, pressing your face into him, listening to his heartbeat, breathing in the smell of stale sweat. Gross but alive.

Why were you holding onto Mark when he hurt you? When Markus was alive and right here and had only been kind of a douchebag who never apologized for being a douchebag. You had been worse, had never apologized for being such a flippant ass. "I'm sorry."

The circling hand came again to your back. "I just want you to be okay." His other hand came up to cradle your head, rubbing his thumb into your (hair/scalp).

You gritted your teeth, trying not to sob like a baby into him. Nobody had cared for you like this in so long. No expectations, no paranoia. You shuddered at the smokey smell still in your nose, "I don't think I can ever be okay out here."

"I know." He says again, slowly rocking you both back and forth now. Lulling you into calm with his husky voice and warm touch. "I'm sorry I can't make it better."

You laugh, because it was such an odd thing to say, "You do." Your walls completely crumbled around you.

Markus smiled into your forehead as he kissed it.

***

You slept in his arms for the first time in over a week. You were an unmoving rock while he stayed awake. Hyper aware of your breathing, your weight on his legs. Markus didn't sleep much before the desert, slept less now. Exhaustion always nipping at his heels but it didn't matter how tired he was. As long as you were safe.

Eventually, the dream was over. You woke up, dazed and confused, slow and sweet with lingering sleep. He savored the unguarded look on your face before the shield fell back down. You excused yourself off his lap, muttering an apology for falling asleep.

"No apology necessary." He said as he watched you walk away. Feeling airy with affection.

Crying and sleep had shaken off some of the anger. You knew you needed to fix things before it returned in a violent wave, the way it always did. You walked up to Gray who was silently assessing the damage of the storage box that'd collapsed in the night again. He could've fixed it by now but he always waited for you to help- even if, "I was an asshole yesterday."

He said nothing but kneeled down to hold up two of the sides at a corner. You bent down and found the spike of metal you'd used to slot one side in with the other. You picked it up, continuing, "I appreciate what you did." You slide the piece in. "A lot. I uhm-" God, why was being accountable for your emotions so hard? Oh yeah, you repressed them so you wouldn't speak out of turn and be murdered by Machine Head! "I get why you brought him instead of bringing me to the crazy person jailhouse."

The metal slid home. Gray moved his hands, testing to see if the sides would hold. They did but bowed out awkwardly. He plucked a piece of aluminum from the storage and worked it around the corner as a reinforcement.

"You gonna talk to me?"

Gray blinked. "I didn't want to speak over you."

"Oh." You laugh awkwardly. "Right, yeah." You grabbed some slips of metal and held the aluminum to the wall while Gray hammered the spikes in to keep it there.

He didn't speak while he worked. Trying hard to gather up his emotions. He was severely disappointed by your reaction last night, but it should've been par for the course. Mother was always surprising Father with her strange human outbursts and social customs. Still, despite being raised by a human, he understood little of their emotions. In truth, he'd always spent more time with Father. Was always off training or on a mission around other Viltrumites, too long to truly understand his mother's human tendencies.

He didn't know what would be the right thing to say so he could only hope what came out of his mouth wouldn't push you away. "I want him dead, but I think if it's too fast, you'll regret it."

You frowned as the wall stood sturdier.

"The more he talks, the worse things get for me." You said quietly, hoping the others wouldn't hear as they went about their morning business, but they do. There was no real privacy in here, not that it mattered but it was still embarrassing. Bearing your heart to everyone at once.

"Gag him." Together you move to the next corner and repeat the process.

"Won't he bite through it? Strong jaw?"

"Tell him not to. He's weak, he'll obey."

You punch the side of his knee, which confused him greatly. "I get it, you're super strong and hard to control, he's not." You smiled but your eyes were misty. Gray was even more confused. "I just don't get why he did it. I didn't have a problem with him. We could've been friends, ya'know?"

Gray doesn't 'ya'know'. Gray always thought there was something off-kilter about Phantom. He'd made this mistake of ignoring him in lieu of paying attention to Scars and Lensless.

"But what I really don't understand is why Mark? Like, if you were going to make me hate someone else, why Mark? He was so sweet and fucked up yeah but-" You looked at the wall, blinking back tears. Remembering the snap inside your leg. The pain, the terror. "Out of all the people he had to ruin for me, it had to be him." Nowhere near innocent, but the closest to it. You'd burn the fucking world down too if you went though shit like that.

"You didn't trust him." Gray used the flat of his hand to sink metal into the wall. "He chose someone you trusted to get close to you." And now Mark's dead and dinner.

You bit your cheek. "I want to hurt him so bad but I don't know how." The tears are heavy on your lids now. "I want to kill him so bad it hurts, but you're right." You turn back to him as they fall, "If I don't make him suffer, I'm failing Mark."

Gray didn't think. Just reached forward and cupped your cheek, thumb wiping the tear away. The others watched, shoulders locked and loaded. On one hand, there was jealousy. On the other, they knew if they ruined this moment, you'd be angry, their standing with you would wither.

"More amputation is possible." Gray said soft, caressing your face, "I've enough agent fourteen to keep him going awhile."

"No." You reach up and grab his wrist, needing to feel a body, "Don't waste anymore on him."

Gray smiled, hoping you'd say that. He had many more options, "Viltrumites can withstand partial gutting."

"Really?" Your eyes gleamed, your hand tightening around his wrist and he felt a stir in his cock. He really needed to get that reaction under control.

"Are you serious?" His voice made you both stiffen. Maskless didn't move from his seat on a low rock. Eyeing you both like you were garbage.

"Got a suggestion?" You snapped as Gray shifted next to you, looking like a puma about to pounce.

Maskless's face twitched. "He loves you." He hissed, "No matter what you do to him, he's going to love you." The words come out like a curse. "Just kill him already. He'd gone through enough."

"Enough?" You barked out a laugh. "He ruined-"

"His plan backfired, sure, but he did it for you. Can't you see that? Or are you too self-centered to realize everything he's done out here was for your own good?"

Seb lifted his head from the hammock hung in the corner. "Whoa dude, that's like a crazy fucking thing to say."

"It's not!" Maskless lifted his arms, "I would've done the same thing!" For William. Anything, everything for William. Who he didn't even get to see again. This was all for nothing.

"You'd die for it too," Gray said.

Maskless's muscles tighten but he stayed put. "I'm just saying. Guy's suffered enough with how much you fuck around."

Seb's jaw dropped, "Jesus Dude! That's not cool!" He felt a little hurt, considering how he'd told Maskless extensively about his laundry list of flings. Had his friend been judging him the whole time?

Markus crossed the room, "You're being childish."

"Me childish?" Maskless huffed. "Look at yourself." Markus was unbothered. Anything Maskless could say about him, he'd already gone through a thousand times worse. "I can't stand you people."

Yet he made no move to leave. If he left now, he'd be out. Easy pickings. The next meal.

You stood, the storage box mostly fixed. Gray immediately grieves the loss of your touch.

"You know what? Just cuz you said that?" You turn to, "Mohawk, wanna hit something?"

Mohawk was already up and on his feet. Long since stewing in angst seeing you snuggle up with Markus and get all close with Gray. Plans tumbling around his head on how to be the last one standing. All that fell to the wayside with your attention. "Yes, ma'am."

You locked eyes with Maskless as Mohawk hauled you into his arms.

***

You didn't let Mohawk get the first lick. You knew you couldn't hurt Phantom but seeing him light up when you walked in made you sick. You stooped down, hovering where his left leg would be if he had it anymore. "I fucking hate you."

"I understand." Phantom could live with you thinking that. As long as he lived, he had time to prove you wrong. To prove he was right in doing what he did. Those people were animals.

You scowled before your fist cracked into his cheek. Pain shot electric up your forearm. You pulled your fist back, finding blood on his cheek that wasn't his. Your knuckles had busted open.

"Fuck's-" You reeled your head back, knowing it was a bad idea but needing to get across to Phantom you'd hurt yourself just for the chance to hurt him, "-sake!" Foreheads collided. You saw stars as you fell back on your ass. Violently dizzy, head throbbing, warmth trickling down your forehead and around your nose.

"Shit!" Mohawk steadied you before you fell further back. "You okay, babe?"

You didn't look at him. Just at Phantom who brought his hand to his cheek, feeling the warmth of your blood under his remaining fingers. Fingers that could still move. "Break his hand."

Mohawk smiled and lifted his brows, "No powers on me? Ya think I'm that whipped?"

"Do you want me to tell you what to do?"

He pretended to weigh the idea. "Ehhh."

You raise a brow, "Do I need to get someone else or-" He moved so fast he nearly sent you sideways. A sickening crack-ack-ack-ack-ack filled the room followed by Phantom's broken gasping.

Mohawk grinned as Phantom's face contorted. "Good enough for you?"

You watched as Phantom tried to move his hand. Now a too-squished together mess of red and purpling bruises, fingers twisted in all the wrong ways. The sight made you happy.

"You seem awfully proud of yourself for only doing that one lil thing. Why not hit himmmmm-" You pointed, finger circling until you decided, "there." Right where his kidney would be.

"Yes, ma'am!" His fist landed in the same spot. Causing Phantom to double over, groaning.

It became a game from there. You spinning your finger, seeing where it landed, Mohawk hitting or breaking something like a good guard dog should. Together, you were splatter artists. Canvas Phantom's pale exposed skin, painted with green and purple bruises. Blood dribbling out of his lips to add a little more color.

The more he hurt. The happier you were. Almost electrified by Mohawk's cruelty. You shared jokes at Phantom's expense back and forth. Getting meaner and louder the longer it went on.

Eventually, Phantom stopped groaning. "Shit, is he dead?" You rocked forward on your heels.

"Nah," Mohawk cracked his bloodied knuckles, "I can still hear 'im breathing, he's just knocked out."

You huffed as your high started to wane. You were having so much fun, now it was over. "I thought he'd last longer."

Mohawk flopped next to you, "He'll be fine."

You were quiet awhile, watching Phantom's bruised chest slowly rise and fall. Getting some lingering thrill out of seeing the pain you'd helped cause.

It was Mohawk who broke the silence. "You know... You're pretty hot when you're mad."

You take it as a joke. Unable to image yourself as sexy, not with the sweat and the half-congealed blood that'd run from your forehead to your chin. "Yeah right."

His hand came to your chin, pulling you to face him and his hard-set expression. "I mean it." His eyes dropped as his thumb spread the blood across your skin. "Fuuuuck." He didn't think, just leaned forward and dragged his tongue from your jaw to your cheek. Sending shivers as his hot mouth passed your lips.

"That's nasty." You hissed at him as he pulled back, not far, just enough to admire the look on your face. Flushed but not angry, not hating it. You must feel it to, the pull that started in his gut and went straight to his cock.

His gloved fingers gently squeeze your jaw, "Could tell me to stop."

"Your stupid ass wouldn't listen."

"Not unless you made me, which you totally aren't right now."

You glared. "You're annoying as fuck you know that?"

He grins. "You like it. You like when I push.” He could feel himself getting harder the longer you looked at him like that. Could feel his blood boil, body start to coil. He could hear your heart racing, apexing from its earlier plateau. You wanted it but played so coy.

“If you keep pushing, I’ll hurt you.”

“Yeah baby?” His voice was low, gloved finger swiping along your bottom lip. He was right, you could push him away, say the word and have him across the cave.

You shivered, “I’m serious.”

He hums, distracted by the way you were leaning into him, the way your voice shook.

"If you ever do what he did to me, I'll make you hurt yourself so bad you'll shit blood." You hissed, breath on his lips, getting closer now.

"God, you're hot."

Heated lips rushed forward, overcoming yours in a fast flash of spitty kissing and lip biting. Piercings shove into your chin, coolly scrape against your lips as you both move, growling into the kiss. He climbed on top of you, holding your jaw in place while you tugged hard at his mohawk. Less kissing more trying to eat each other alive at the mouth. Violence's pull overtook you again. You needed more blood, more pain, so you bit the inside of his lip as hard as you could trying to make him bleed.

He groaned, "God you're such a-" You shut him up by shoving your tongue into his mouth. He accepted it greedily. His hands left your chin, you expected them to go to your pants but instead he's zipping his suit down. Exposing sweat-slicked muscle, pierced nipples and collarbones. He grabbed your wrist and forced it to a peck. Fingers splayed around a nipple.

"Come on," he murmured into your mouth when your fingers didn't move, "touch me."

That move was... unexpectedly desperate. You thought he'd be a little more Seb-y, confident and cocky, but the little jerk just wanted some attention. Fine. You could do something for the work he'd done on Phantom.

Your knuckles pinched around his peaked nipple. Rolling and twisting the flesh, making him pant into your mouth.

"Fuck," his hips bucked into the air, "yes," he shuddered when you started toying with the bar, "yes."

Mohawk shuffled around your kiss and tangled bodies. Hastily shucking off his suit from the shoulders down. Exposing more of his skin. Nude from the waist up, hard-on trapped in the blue of his suit.

"More." He growled into your lips. "Fuck, I need you." He pressed your head down, kissing you, pressing the back of your skull to the ground like he was trying to eat your face.

You let it happen. Lost yourself in the heat. Hands full of his pecs, twisting and squeezing. His hands were everywhere. Groping your sides and hips. Recalling the memory of your body under him. You still felt the same. He needed more.

You didn't feel a chill as he ripped the tank top up and over your head, falling to the wayside. Desert heat pressed into your skin, but not as hot as his lathed tongue over your nipple. Sucking and nipping before you could object. You were gasping before a single word of protest could pass your lips. He knew just how to pull those sounds he missed out of you. He'd waited long enough. Had endless wet dreams about touching you again. He needed to hear everything, feel everything.

You were arching into him. Hands gripping his shoulders the way you used to before you fucking betrayed him. You squeaked as he bit your nipple, drew blood in his flash of anger. He made it better, sucking it up as he held your hips. Grinding your clothed heats together. Needing that pre-fuck friction. Watching how your mouth fell open and eyes rolled back so slutty before he'd even gotten to the real thing.

"Fuck," his mouth came away from your breast, connected by a trail of spit, "fuck, I missed you." Your lips met again. He was in a better position to grind into you, so he did, rough, fingers bruising your sides. But that was fine, you needed some pain after inflicting so much.

You felt the heat of his hand slip under your pants, under your boxers. Thick fingers slipped down your slick. He shook, coating his fingertips. "God." He sounded close to tears.

You weren't one for emotional intelligence during sex but you had to ask, "Are you-"

His mouth moved to your neck, pressing lips and teeth to your skin, "Can I finger you? Please say I can finger you."

You weren't going to turn that down. "Go right ah-hhhhheeeeeeeeeehd."

You melted, as two fingers were forced into your slippery cunt. No foreplay preamble, just all the way to the knuckles. Pumping in and out, slapping his palm against you from the get go. He watched you writhe like you were a live art show. Watching you moan and gasp made him want to cry. He couldn't believe he killed you. Couldn't believe he'd missed this for so long.

He was so in his head he didn't realize you were close until you were cumming on his fingers. Moan echoing rough in the cavern. He snaps back to himself, muttering a, "Good job, good girl, yes baby," as he milks your cunt into submission. You go slack and soft against the floor but he's not done. Nowhere near. Your pants and boots are thrown away before you can blink. He's over you watching your face, moaning as he sucks your taste off his fingers. You can't say anything before he's spreading your thighs, his lips coming down on your cunt with a muffled, "Need this."

His fingers are back inside you, his tongue pressing harshly into your clit. He nearly cums when you pull at his hair, shrieking, kicking at his back like the nasty bitch you were.

You cum again, heels dug into his shoulder blades. His fingers leave purple-ish impressions on the insides of your thighs, he wanted to bite them, to make them a permanent part of your body. Instead he lunged forward as soon as orgasm subsided, kissing you, mixing your spit and juices with his like you always used to. Your hands scratch at his back, make him mewl much less domineeringly into you than he'd like, "Can I fuck you? Please, please can I fuck you?"

"Just do it alr-" A gust of wind slaps your heated skin as he throws off the rest of his suit. Jumping back on you, cock sprung free. Piercings glinting up and down the bottom of his head and shaft as he started to desperately rub himself against the outside of your core, murmuring praises. Tiny balls of metal catch and roll past your entrance, making you gasp. It's too much, too hot, he can't do this foreplay bullshit anymore. Without warning, he realigns and fills you to the hilt. You go stiff, suddenly achingly, deliciously full, eyes rolled all the way back, a slut possessed.

Mohawk doesn't think of your body needing to adjust, he just moves. Not slow, not steady, but snapping. Making your skin harshly slap together, making your tits bounce. Forcing himself in and out of the tight, twitching hole made just for him. Thumb rubbing rough circles on your clit as he pounded into you. Battering your g-spot, bruising your walls.

Beneath him you are wild. Nearly shrieking and drooling. Whatever you can grab onto him, you do, nails digging in. Gasping, "Fuck- yes-" in the few moments he allowed you to breathe before punching the air out of your lungs. It wasn't enough that his balls were slapped against your ass, he needed to be deeper.

Mohawk forced your hips up, shoved your thighs close to your shoulders. Growling as he forced that extra inch of himself inside that much deeper. Cockhead kissing your cervix.

He growled, rough and uneven as he sped up, "Fuck you used to love this, tell me you love it."

You can't tell him anything, because with three thrusts in this position you were cumming again. Massaging his cock, coaxing it to fill with cum but he withholds, needing this moment to go on forever. He swallows and slows a few seconds just to last a little longer.

Phantom isn't aware he's awake. For awhile he thinks he's in a dream. That same one he always had, dad beating him into the side of that mountain. Feeling the cold air on the insides of his throat. Except he's hot and dad's not yelling about what's going to happen in five hundred years. Someone is yelling- screaming.

His eyes are swollen mostly shut but he can see- even if it's blurry with his fractured cornea. He isn't sure what he's seeing first. Two jerking blobs. One lean atop the other that is oddly shaped like you. A memory, stirring and distant, tells him that's something you tried together one time. But it was so intense he couldn't handle it long. Ended up cumming inside you and dealing with a pregnancy scare.

But that's not- No- You wouldn't be doing that here?

"Mmm-mmmphh-mm!" It sounded so real, your moans.

"Come on, baby- you can still talk, can't you? Say it." And that wasn't his voice- but it was- whole and unbroken, raspy with sex.

"Mmm-mm-Mark!"

He blinked, once, twice. Mind coming to him all at once. This wasn't a dream or a hallucination or a delusion because in his world, in throws of passion you called him Grayson. He only ever imagined it as such.

"Fuuuck!" That growling voice, he recognized it at the one that taunted him as he cracked his ribs with a kick. That slap, slap, slap was real. Along with your cried, "I'm gonna-"

"That's it- Good girl cum on my cock- come on- yeeaahhh- good fucking job."

Phantom watched as your bodies moved. Mohawk so much faster and stronger, using yours while you let him. Taking it all with a sick, fucked-out grin. He remembers every snap of bone and peel of flesh from his body. Remembers what it felt like to lose his arm then leg, pieces of him gone forever. But this was worse.

"Oh fuck- fuck!" Mohawk threw his head back, announcing to the world, "I'm gonna fucking-!"

Phantom watched as his body stuttered. As Mohawk forced himself into you two more times before stopping, crying out, filling you with seed that wouldn't take. You both lay there a moment, panting, glowing with sweat. The scent of sex burned Phantom's nose. Worse than the smell of his body as his wounds festered for days.

"Holy shit," Mohawk said. "I can't believe I get to cum in you. That's fucking awesome."

He was joking but his eyes are full of tears because you don't just feel the same- you felt better than he remembered. He was trying not to think about the feeling of your guts bursting in between his fingers, how it was the last time he felt you before this.

You scoffed, hitting his arm as you moved out from under him. Hands searching for your clothes. "Don't be gross."

"Me gross?" Mohawk took your hand, stopping you from grabbing your shirt, he wanted to revel in this, to make up for what he did to you. "You just came like a gazillion times, babe, don't you wanna chill out a bit maybbeee cuddle?"

You stare up at him slack-jawed, his cum leaking between your legs. "You wanna cuddle?"

Mohawk dove down to lay his head between your breasts. "Yeah." He nuzzled his growing-out side shave into your chest.

Phantom felt sick. He had never wanted to kill somebody more than his father, but there Mohawk was. Happy and content and having just fucked you into agreeing to cuddle. He was broken in every way but he wouldn't accept this. He moves slow, choppy but eventually he is hovering centimeters above the ground. Broken fist twitching.

You catch the movement, look at him horrified like you hadn't just done what you did. "Holy shit?"

Mohawk looked lazily up. Eyes going wide.

"Fuck!" He moved faster than Phantom could process. Shoved a fist into his chest, shoved him back to sitting. He didn't have the strength to get back up, even as Mohawk stood over him. Victorious with your juices still wet on his dick. "You scared the shit outta me, dude."

Phantom's muscles contracted useless under his torn suit. Mohawk needed to die, now. But he couldn't move again. Body broken. Defeated like he'd been all those years ago.

You scrambled to get dressed. Unbelieving that you forgot that he was there, forgot where you were. Mohawk turned to you, watching your ass bounce as you hopped into the pants.

"Aw, come on babe, don't be embarrassed, you're hot." He turned to Phantom, grinning sly as a fox, "You see any of that shit, bro? Hot as fuck, am I right?"

He hated him. He needed to die.

"Stop taunting him and get dressed," Mohawk caught his suit as you threw it at him, "you dickhead." Your words have no venom, it'd been fucked out of you.

"Yes, ma'am."

You catch Phantom's bleary eye then. Shining purple with bruise and something deeper. Darker. A chasm that opened in the blue of his pupil and the blood staining his white. There was a promise there, burning quietly into your naked skin you rushed to cover up. Still, you felt the sear. A promise, a brand painful as it was for him to see you fucking Mohawk so happily.

Your grin is shaky with exhaust and unease. You don't know why you have such a hollow pit in your stomach when you should be feeling on top of the world, because you finally found a way for him to hate you. That's what you think that look is- hate- defeat. It's not but you don't know that so you regather yourself. Spit at him, "Still forgive me now?"

His voice is far outside himself when he says in a haze, "Yes."

You don't believe him.

You leave with Mohawk. Glowing with orgasm, hand lazily squeezing Mohawk's ass as he picks you up. You are embarrassed but gleeful because you think you finally found a way to make Phantom hate you. And you were going to let him stew it in for days before you visit him again. It was fucked up yeah, but just the cruelty he deserved.

Phantom thinks you need to be restrained. Thinks you need to be away from Mohawk and put under control. His anger is a swirling mess in his chest but no darling, he didn't love you any less. Because he was still alive to fix things and he would. In the end, you wouldn't miss the others, you'd weep into his arms about how sorry you were for how you acted today. He'd kiss the tears away and make you feel so good you forgot what it was to fuck another man. You wouldn't even remember what you were sorry for. Wouldn't remember the rest after he killed them all.

***

They all heard. Gray almost left to save you but Seb and Markus stopped him. Having to regrettably explain you were getting fucked within an inch of your life. Both wishing it was them. Both jealous. Markus was pissed beyond belief. Gray was very confused why you were doing it near the prisoner- some human disrespect custom perhaps? Either way- he wished it was him.

You were both in the doghouse when you returned. Everyone was mad- more so at Mohawk who Markus thought of pummeling on sight. Markus pointedly had nothing to say to you.

You forced away guilt by taunting Maskless, "Well, he definitely doesn't love me anymore."

Maskless bristled. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He doesn't care about who goes in and out of your legs, not really. He just saw William in your place- sees himself in Phantom in how far he'd go. It's not fair that you're playing the others like this. Not fair that you're not William and he jsut gets to watch as everyone fights tooth and nail over some numb bitch.

"A little of this, a little of that, a little of he fucking ruined everything, remember?"

Maskless rose from his chair, "So he could keep you safe!"

"I don't think he wants to do that anymore." You looked so smug, he needed to wipe that grin off your face.

Mohawk was glued to your side, arm perpetually slung around your waist to the chagrin of the others. "Aww, babe, you're so cute when you act like an evil mastermind." He affectionately flicked your nose, "We both know you totally forgot he was there."

You flushed, "Shut up!"

Seb couldn't believe the messy shit he was hearing today. "For real, bro!?" He caught up to himself when Markus's glare, "Wait. You should like- stop talking."

Mohawk nodded, uncaring, "She didn't remember he existed till after we were done. Wait, babe, how many times did you cum? Three? Four?"

"Holy shit." Seb wishes he could talk to Mohawk about how good it felt to fuck you except he was pretty sure Mohawk would rip his head off. Maybe one day. But for now, he says, "Don't fuckin' say that right now dude." He watched Markus uneasily. Sure he's about to witness a murder.

Maskless sneered, coming closer, fists twitching. "You're both disgusting."

Markus only cared if, "Did she cry after?" Said to Mohawk because you needed to know how upset he was right now.

"Plenty of whimpering while I fucked 'er but no tears. We'll get 'em next time." Mohawk squeezed your side. Markus looked murderous but part of him was relieved. No crying post sex meant you were healing. Soon you'd be ready to make real love to him again, untied to your rebellious phase. He'd make you forget Mohawk. Make you cry on his cock and kiss away your tears that tasted of victroy.

You whack Mohawk's side, "Shut up!"

Mohawk snickered, "You love it."

Maskless was ready to pummel you both. "Are you fucking-"

Gray moved into the space between you two, crackling with tension. "We're almost out of water."

Maskless paused, thrown off, "What does that have to do with anything?"

Gray looked at him evenly, "As punishment for reckless behavior which could've gotten them both killed-"

Mohawk scoffed, "His freak ass could barely move."

Gray ignored him, "-I say you both, with me as chaperone," he added, eyeing, Markus who looked very unhappy at the idea of you being anywhere near Mohawk, "are in charge of getting more." He needed to make sure there were no more dalliances. No more pleasure of yours without him involved. Maybe if he went along and watched you and Mohawk flirt, he could get a better idea how to come onto you.

It was agreed.

Markus and Maskless needed time to cool off without you two around anyway. Water was also important.

You three leave as a party. Gray made a case to hold you as punishment for Mohawk, but Mohawk was too fast, flying ahead of him saying, "Last one to the cave dies a virgin!" He also 'forgot' the vases so Gray had to carry all of them.

Mohawk annoyingly felt you up mid-flight while Gray cast chiding warnings about the dangers of distracted flying. All the while taking in how Mohawk pulled squeaks and gasps out your lips. Gray was certain he had room to be distracted. None of you had heard Scars or Lensless for some time now. Honestly, Gray thought they must have killed each other by now, with no trace of them in the desert for days. He half expected to see their bodies in the sand as they flew.

You reached the cave, now just a wide uneven hole in the middle of the desert. As you descended, you felt the air shift, going from hot to cool, dry to humid. Mohawk watched your face change from relaxed to tight. His feet touched down on the sand, the sun a spotlight on you both. "Don't worry, I got you."

Gray hovered beside him, opening his mouth to provide his most human-friendly consolation, when he heard it- the snap of a cape on the move. He turned just in time to block Scars first punch.

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