#file: team comms

[antipersonal]

✱[SMS:] @sisterstill sent:

Y. Belova 🗓 20 JUN 202█ | 10:35

» [sms] : We have all we need and you want to complain about a pool??

J. Walker 🗓 20 JUN 202█ | 19:59

» [sms] : Maybe tell your dad to stop adding "BANYA" (??) to the reno requests every week and get back to me » [sms] : Who's using a sauna in fucking June man

[circadiansummer]

“Well, bushman? How do I look?”

[buckyseternaldoll]

eighteen hours.

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Weeks apart on separate missions leave you and Bucky Barnes aching, desperate, and one heartbeat away from unraveling. The reunion? Eighteen hours of pure, breathless release.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, multiple rounds, overstimulation, edging, mutual desperation, shower sex, window sex, kitchen counter sex, use of restraints (soft), masturbation mention, lingerie tease, squirting (f), super soldier stamina, mild teasing from tb* members

It started like any other assignment.

A sharp morning. Polished boots. Steel chairs arranged around the Watchtower’s mission table. The kind of day where even the light felt clinical—too white, too bright, too final.

Valentina entered with a clipboard in hand and that usual glint in her eye, the one that said she already knew something you didn’t want to hear.

“Barnes, Yelena, Alexei, Bob—Bucharest first. Bogotá by week three. Rotating safehouses. No crossovers.”

You stiffened.

“Walker, Ava, and…”

She looked straight at you.

“You—Algeria. Then east through Istanbul. Targets on the move. You’re expected to stay mobile and out of range.”

The silence afterward said everything.

That pause before your name wasn’t a slip.

It was surgical.

Across the table, Bucky’s jaw tensed. He didn’t look at you, but his shoulders rolled tight. His metal hand flexed once, resting flat on the table like he was physically grounding himself.

This wasn’t routine.

This was designed.

The room shifted. Teams gathered their gear. Orders confirmed.

But neither of you moved.

Bucky brushed your fingers beneath the table—the kind of small, hidden touch that wasn’t meant to say goodbye. It was a promise.

We’ll find each other.

However we can.

—

Packing was mechanical.

Weapons, suits, coordinates, clearances.

Everyone was buzzing around the hangar level, focused on countdowns and jet fuel. But Bucky caught your wrist with a glance that made your breath hitch—then gently steered you down a side corridor.

He didn’t stop until you ducked into a quiet auxiliary room—once used for archive storage, now mostly forgotten. The lights were dim. A narrow bench ran along the wall. A few old mission files sat boxed in the corner.

He shut the door behind you.

“Just for a minute,” he said, voice low. “Just wanna be where you are.”

You barely nodded before he pulled you into his chest. He held you like he needed it—not tight or desperate, but complete. His warmth poured into you as you buried your face into the space between his neck and shoulder.

You ended up straddling his lap on the bench, both of you half-armored, half-undressed—hands roaming like you were trying to memorize every line, every scar, every breath.

“I hate this,” you muttered into his neck.

“I know.” His voice was steady. Anchoring. “But we’ll be okay.”

His mouth found the slope of your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then lower—teeth grazing before lips closed around your skin and sucked.

You gasped—part surprise, part pure heat.

“Bucky—”

“Gonna leave a few. Let ‘em wonder how many more are where they can’t see.”

He left another. And another. The bruises bloomed warm beneath your skin—high enough that your tactical suit wouldn’t cover all of them.

When he pulled back to look at you, his pupils were blown wide, lips kiss-bitten and breath ragged.

“You’re mine,” he murmured. “Even if they split us across the damn planet.”

You ran your hands up under his shirt, nails scratching lightly across his ribs—grounding yourself in the solidity of him.

“You’ll text me when you can?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if it’s just one word?”

“Even if it’s just a photo.”

You smirked. “Of what?”

He grinned, leaning back like he had all the time in the world—even though you both knew better.

“I’m waiting for boob pics, love. Minimum one per timezone.”

You laughed into his neck and kissed his jaw, soft and smiling.

“You’re such a menace.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

When the comm finally buzzed for final departure prep, you lingered another moment, forehead pressed to his.

“We’re good?”

“Always.”

And then you slipped out—his warmth still clinging to your skin, and his hickeys hidden beneath your collar like the loudest secret in the world.

—

The first few days weren’t unbearable.

Busy hours blurred the worst of it—briefings, drone recon, field scans. The kind of missions that demanded your hands stay full and your focus sharp. You told yourself it helped. That staying in motion kept the ache at bay.

But the nights were something else entirely.

By the third night, sleep wouldn’t come. The cot beneath you was too narrow, too cold. You rolled over instinctively and reached for the other side—empty. Your palm flattened against the mattress like it could summon him there.

It didn’t.

You’d already stripped out of your tactical suit, skin flushed from a lukewarm shower and a restlessness that refused to settle. The mirror over the sink caught your reflection just as the last of the sun dipped beneath the window—warm dusk light casting gold across your damp collarbone, your bare shoulder.

You grabbed your comm. Lifted your phone.

Pulled down your undershirt just enough to let the neckline dip low—sweat clinging to the curve of your breasts, a faint bruise from his mouth peeking out beneath the edge of the fabric.

The angle was deliberate.

Head tilted back. Lips parted. Not a full reveal. But it said everything.

Still thinking about the way your hands fit around my waist.

Bet you’d wreck me if you were here.

You hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.

—

His reply came six hours later. No text. Just an image.

The lighting was shit—whatever rooftop he was on barely lit by the glow of city spill—but it didn’t matter.

He was shirtless.

Dog tags heavy and low over his chest.

Hair a little messier than usual, as if he’d just run a hand through it before taking the shot.

But the part that made your thighs press together?

His sweatpants.

Slung low. Way too low. Obscene, really—the waistband clinging just above the vee of his hips, and beneath it? A thick, unmistakable bulge pressing upward. Not subtle. Not suggestive.

Hard. Veined. Heavy. Angry.

Like he’d taken the photo mid-thought, right before palming himself. Like maybe he had.

Your name was probably still on his tongue when he snapped it.

You sucked in a breath, cheeks hot, and held the screen to your chest like it could warm the parts of you he was supposed to be touching.

This was manageable, you told yourself.

Just teasing. Just playing.

It would pass.

—

It got worse.

What started as playful—just a little edge, a little fun—turned into something raw. Unbearable. Every picture, every breathy message only twisted the knife deeper.

Bucky cracked first.

The signal finally held long enough for him to send a voice note.

You were mid-gear check when it came through, tucked into a corner of the safehouse with your earbuds in.

“Woke up with my hand around my cock,” he rasped, voice low, wrecked. “Thought it was you at first. Swear to God, I could feel you there. Your breath on my neck, your legs wrapped around me. Then I realized I was alone again.”

A pause. A harsh exhale.

“And fuck, baby… I nearly lost it.”

You played it three times.

Nearly dropped your comm on the third.

—

You didn’t just tease back. You retaliated.

The next photo was a mirror shot—deliberately filthy. You stood in the dim light of your bunk, chest bare, your breasts fully visible this time, no shame. One hand was sunk into your panties, fingers clearly pressing against the soaked fabric. The other held your phone steady, angled to catch the full view: your messy hair, parted lips, heavy-lidded eyes, and the slick glint of sweat on your chest. No caption. Just raw hunger in pixels.

This help you sleep tonight? Or should I take more?

He didn’t respond immediately. But when he did, it was short.

You’re not playing fair.

My cock’s been hard since sunrise. Haven’t touched it. Saving every second of this for you.

You sent a quick clip later—just a few seconds long. You didn’t even speak in it.

Just six seconds. The camera angled low—your hand slipping beneath the blanket between your thighs. No real view, just the movement. The blanket shifted slightly with every circle you traced over your clit. Soft moans escaped—broken, breathy, like you were trying to stay quiet. Then a whimper—his name, trembling from your lips. No skin shown. No climax caught. Just the sound and the hint and the promise of you falling apart.

Bucky watched it on repeat like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

—

Then came Ava.

You’d crashed hard that night—exhausted, sweaty, and stripped down to just your lingerie. The maroon lace set he liked. The same one he’d picked out. It had become a habit—wearing it when you missed him. A reminder. A tether.

Ava had been reviewing footage by the window for perimeter movement when she caught it.

The camera was focused outward. But the mic had picked up your sleep sounds in the background.

She wasn’t trying to be cruel when she played it back.

She just raised an eyebrow and pressed play—a grin tugging at her lips as the soft moans filled the air. You were murmuring his name. Restless. Breathless. Like you were dreaming of him—no, feeling him.

“Mmh… Bucky—please… inside me… deeper—oh god… please—”

Your voice cracked on the last word, a sharp gasp like you were right on the edge.

You could’ve died.

“Jesus,” Ava had laughed, not unkind. “Want me to send it to him? Y’know, for motivation?”

You didn’t answer fast enough. She already hit send.

—

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even text back. Just disappeared for a few hours.

Locked himself in the bathroom of the Bogotá safehouse, palms braced on the sink, sweat dripping from his temple to his jaw. The floor was cold. His cock throbbed painfully in the tight grip of his tactical jeans, already slick with precum from the sound of your voice in his ear—played over and over again like a goddamn drug.

He groaned low, forehead resting against the mirror as he finally undid his fly—reached in and freed himself with a hissed curse.

Hard. Angry. Red at the tip and twitching. His hand flexed uselessly beside him, trembling from restraint.

He closed his eyes and whispered, “Fuck, baby… what are you doing to me…”

But he didn’t stroke.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Not without your hands.

Not without your thighs tight around his hips.

Not without your voice whispering that he could let go.

So he tucked himself away again—biting down hard on the side of his fist until it bruised, his pulse roaring like a storm.

Later, when the signal held again, he finally texted:

This was supposed to help.

All these videos. These fucking pictures.

It’s making everything worse, doll.

I need you so bad, I swear I’m gonna lose my mind.

—

He stopped sleeping properly.

The circles under his eyes were darker now, sharp enough to draw questions if anyone had the nerve. His mouth was constantly pressed into a tight, agitated line. The usual post-mission calm he carried—that calculated, steady presence of command—was cracking.

Every time he sat down to write up route plans, his hands twitched. His left hand—the metal one—wouldn’t stop flexing. Clenching. Releasing. Like he was trying to ground himself in anything that wasn’t your voice moaning his name.

The last time he tried to issue orders midbriefing, he nearly snapped a comm tablet in half.

“Safehouse Delta’s too close to the highway,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ll reroute south. Four klicks. We’ll—”

He trailed off.

Everyone stared at the map table, then at Bucky—who was clearly no longer looking at anything but the wall. Or rather, through it.

His jaw clenched again. He tried to redirect.

“We’ll send Bob first to—”

But Bob was already looking sideways at him.

“You gonna pass out?”

“No.”

“You look like your brain’s buffering.”

“I said I’m fine.”

But his voice had cracked. Just slightly.

Yelena leaned back in her seat with a dramatic sigh, chewing on the end of a protein bar like this was better than Netflix.

“Alright,” she announced loudly, “I’m just gonna say what everyone else is thinking.”

Bucky didn’t even turn his head.

She kept going.

“You’re clearly about three days from spontaneously combusting from blue balls. You’ve been staring at walls, misreading maps, and grinding your teeth like it’s a fetish. Which—respectfully—gross.”

Alexei smothered a laugh. Bob coughed loudly into his fist.

“You need to jerk off or jump off a building,” Yelena finished, deadpan. “Pick one.”

Bucky finally looked up.

His eyes were bloodshot. His voice was tight when he replied.

“I’m not jerking off.”

That shut them up.

Yelena blinked. “…Okay. That’s not where I thought that was going.”

“I’m saving it. All of it.” His hand twitched again. “She deserves every goddamn second of it.”

A pause. The silence stretched—not awkward, just charged.

Even Alexei nodded solemnly, as if that was the only acceptable answer.

Yelena rolled her eyes but muttered, “Romantic. Disgusting. Continue suffering, I guess.”

—

Later that night, Bucky paced the rooftop alone. Fingers twitching. Breath uneven.

He pulled up your last photo again.

Your hand between your thighs. Lips parted. That little text below it:

I’d spread for you right here on this cot if you were with me.

He groaned into his palm.

Pressed the heel of his hand against the painful bulge in his pants.

Didn’t move. Didn’t stroke. Just gritted his teeth and endured.

“You better be ready for what I’m gonna do to you,” he muttered into the dark.

—

It was just after 7:00PM when the jet touched down.

The sky above the Watchtower was bruised in golds and fading gray, clouds curling low like dusk had rolled in too early. Your shoulders ached. Muscles stiff from too many hours strapped in gear, too many days sleeping with one eye open.

Your boots hit the floor with more weight than usual—the kind that didn’t come from exhaustion alone. It was something else. Something thick in your chest, pressing behind your ribs.

Inside the compound, it was unusually quiet.

Operatives passed by in pairs. Brief nods. No chatter.

Ava veered off toward medical, threw a wink over her shoulder, and mouthed, “Go get your man.”

You didn’t smile. Not yet.

Not until your fingers brushed the key panel of your shared room, and the door clicked open beneath your touch.

Something shifted the moment you stepped inside.

The air smelled like candle wax, clean linens, and something warmer underneath—musk and sandalwood, with a trace of vanilla. The room glowed gold in low light. Flickering candles burned on the desk, by the bed, and one small one beside the bathroom mirror.

It was quiet. But not empty.

He was there.

And the second he saw you, his face lit up.

“Hey,” Bucky breathed, already halfway to his feet. His voice was low but clear, as if speaking pulled breath right back into his lungs. “You’re home.”

That ache—the one locked in your chest—snapped clean open.

You dropped your duffel just as he reached you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, your cheek pressed against his collarbone. He smelled like soap and steel and something distinctly him—warm skin, freshly showered, a hint of cologne that clung to his shirt.

He didn’t devour you. Didn’t grope, didn’t rush.

He just held you.

One arm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head. His lips brushed the top of your hair.

You clung back like it might hold you together.

His hand ran slowly down your spine. You could feel the control in it—the way his chest rose hard against yours, like he was barely keeping the rest of him contained.

“I changed the sheets,” he murmured softly. “Lit a few candles. Put your shampoo out. Thought maybe you’d want a hot shower first.”

Your heart cracked, melted, rebuilt itself.

You nodded against him, cheek brushing the curve of his neck.

“You remembered.”

“Of course I did.” His smile touched his voice, even as his hand lingered low on your back. “You always say you wanna feel clean before we get dirty.”

That earned a small laugh from you—quiet, but real.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, cupping your cheek in one hand. His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye, like he was checking you for damage.

“I missed you,” he said. “Like breathing stopped.”

You kissed him, soft and slow—lips barely parting, just enough to feel the warmth of him beneath the quiet.

“Missed you more.”

He didn’t rush you when you stepped out of your gear. Just watched with quiet reverence, helping peel the layers off your shoulders and arms. He kissed your shoulder once—right over the old bruise he left weeks ago—and whispered:

“I’ve been thinking about this moment for 36 days. But I’m not rushing it. Not until you’re ready.”

Then he took your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and nodded toward the bathroom.

“Go on. I’ll be right here.”

—

You hadn’t even closed the door behind you.

The steam was already thick, curling from the shower where hot water slammed against tile. You peeled your clothes off slowly, shaking the last of the travel dust from your skin, limbs heavy from the mission—but your chest felt lighter. He was here. You were home.

You stepped into the spray and let it hit you.

Heat flooded your shoulders. Rolled down your spine.

The ache you’d ignored for weeks cracked wide open across your bones.

You arched slightly under the pressure of the water, fingers dragging slowly down your stomach. Your thighs pressed together at the memory of his voice—his lips on your neck, his hands gripping your hips like they belonged there.

You knelt briefly to grab a bottle you knocked over. Bent forward. Stretched.

And then—

“Mmh…”

Just a sound. A breath.

But it came from somewhere deep—unconscious, raw, and aching. It slipped from your throat like his name was caught beneath it.

The floor creaked.

You turned, startled—and everything inside you tightened.

He was there.

Bucky Barnes. Standing in the doorway of the bathroom like something ancient and carved from firelight. His chest rose fast, hard, like he’d sprinted across the room. Hair damp with sweat, not water. Shoulders tight. Fists clenched at his sides.

And he was naked.

Completely.

You hadn’t even heard him undress. But there he stood—broad, solid, his cock achingly hard and already slick with precum, flushed dark and twitching with every strained breath he took.

His eyes drank you in.

Steam wrapped around his body, clinging to every line of him. You watched his jaw twitch, chest heave. His cock twitched again—another thick drop of precum beading at the tip.

“Baby…”

His voice cracked. A breath. A prayer. Hoarse and wrecked.

“Please…”

“Please stop torturing me.”

But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Like he was waiting for your permission—even now, even while unraveling at the seams.

You reached for him.

One hand. Simple. Open. You pressed your palm to the center of his chest—felt the hammering heartbeat beneath it, the way his breath hitched.

He whimpered.

The sound broke from his lips like it had been fighting its way out for days. He stepped forward, cupped your waist, then your jaw, thumb trembling against your cheek.

“You’re real,” he whispered. “Fuck—you’re here.”

You smiled softly. Nodded.

He stepped into the shower with you—no hesitation this time.

The water soaked him instantly, but he didn’t care. He was already soaked in you. The scent. The need.

His hands were everywhere. One warm, the other metal, both reverent. They dragged up your spine, gripped your hips, held your face like it was holy.

“Missed you,” he rasped between frantic kisses.

“Missed your mouth. Your voice. Your thighs. The way you sound when I’m inside you—fuck, baby, I’ve been dying.”

Your back hit the tile with a dull thud. His body pressed into yours, all solid heat and desperation.

His cock bumped against your stomach—hot, heavy, leaking.

He gasped. “Touch me… please, just—let me feel you.”

You did more than touch.

Your hand curled around the base of him, felt him throb in your palm. He swore low against your neck, forehead pressing to yours as his hands skimmed lower, between your thighs.

“Jesus, sweetheart—”

His fingers slid through the slick between your legs.

“You’re soaked…”

He groaned. Slid two fingers inside you.

You gasped, walls clenching hard around the intrusion.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Tight… tighter than I remember. You really waited for me?”

You bit his jaw. “I didn’t even let myself finish, Bucky. You ruined me.”

That was all it took.

He gripped your thighs, lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing, and pinned you to the shower wall. You wrapped your legs around his waist, arms around his neck.

“Hold on to me,” he breathed. “That’s it… Good girl.”

He lined himself up. Slick head pressed against your entrance. And then—

He sank in.

One thrust. Deep. Full.

You both cried out—voices echoing in the tile and steam.

The stretch. The heat. The sudden, perfect fullness.

He fucked into you with short, desperate thrusts—buried all the way, hips snapping with precision. You met him every time, nails clawing his back, gasping against his mouth.

Your orgasm ripped through you without warning—sharp, wet, loud.

“James, I—I’m coming!”

“I’ve got you. Let go. Soak me, baby.”

You did. You clenched so hard around him he almost collapsed.

He followed seconds after—buried deep, groaning your name as he came hard inside you, hips jerking, forehead pressed to your shoulder. His body trembled with the force of it. He held you there, still wrapped around him, his cock twitching inside your pulsing heat.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Not letting you out of this room for days.”

You kissed him through the fog, smiling against his lips.

“Good. I’m not going anywhere.”

—

Your legs were still shaking when he carried you out of the bathroom.

No towel. No words. Just the heat of his arms around you, the steady thump of his heart against your ribs, and the way the air between you still crackled like static. You smelled like him. He smelled like you. It wasn’t over. It had only begun.

He laid you on the bed like something sacred.

Candles glowed around the room, casting golden halos over damp sheets and flushed skin. The maroon lace slip sat untouched where he’d left it—delicate, sheer, wicked.

You reached for it with trembling fingers.

But Bucky caught your wrist gently. “Let me,” he said.

His voice was lower now. Hoarse. Reverent.

He lifted the slip over your head slowly, letting the lace fall like a whisper down your body. It hugged your hips, clung to your breasts just enough to tease—translucent and sinful. His lips brushed your spine as he adjusted the straps, hands shaking.

“I thought about this every night,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder.

“Fantasized about it. About you, straddling me in this. Had to lie there with my fists clenched, cock aching, just—breathing through it. Didn’t touch myself. Not once.”

His voice cracked. “Didn’t want to waste a single drop that wasn’t for you.”

You whimpered.

He hovered above you now—fully naked, flushed, his cock already hard again. Veined and glistening, twitching with the pulse of how badly he needed to be inside you.

But he didn’t rush.

Didn’t even move until you cupped his jaw and pulled him down into a kiss.

Mouths met softly, then harder.

Tongues sliding slow.

His body sinking into yours, heat to heat, heartbeat to heartbeat.

You grabbed the back of his neck and whispered against his lips, “Come here. Let me ruin you.”

He groaned, deep in his throat, and you flipped him onto his back, straddling his hips with shaking thighs. The lace slip rode up your thighs, leaving nothing in the way when his cock pressed hot and heavy against your dripping heat.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped. “You’re soaked through.”

You leaned down, your breasts brushing his chest, and ground your hips against his length. “You did this,” you whispered. “With every text. Every picture. Every breath.”

He was gone. Let you take full control.

You gathered the hem of the lace slip, just enough to bare yourself to him, and guided him in—sinking down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

Both of you moaned, raw and open, mouths slack with need.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, head thrown back, fists clenched in the sheets.

“Still so tight, baby. Still fucking perfect.”

You started to move—slow at first, grinding your hips in deep, lazy circles that dragged the tip of his cock right against your most sensitive spot. His hands clamped hard on your thighs, trying to keep his control, but you didn’t make it easy.

“You gonna come again just from riding me?” he asked, breathless.

You nodded. “Already close.”

He groaned, slipping one hand between your bodies to rub firm, precise circles over your clit.

“There you go… let me feel you. Let go for me.”

And you did.

Your second orgasm hit like a goddamn wave—crashing through your spine, stealing your breath, squeezing around his cock so tight he choked on a moan.

He didn’t last much longer.

You kept grinding, whispering filth into his ear—how full he made you feel, how wrecked you were for him, how you still weren’t done.

That tipped him.

He came hard with a strangled moan, cock pulsing deep inside you, hips jerking as he flooded you for the second time. His arms locked around your waist as he gasped into the crook of your neck, trembling from the force of it.

You stayed like that, slumped against his chest, bodies stuck together with sweat and slick and heat.

“You alright?” he asked, voice scratchy.

“I’m feral,” you whispered back. “And I’m not finished.”

He chuckled, still panting. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not tapping out anytime soon.”

—

Later.

The wine sat untouched on the desk.

The lace slip lay discarded in a crumpled pile on the floor.

The candles had burned halfway down, wax pooling thick at the base.

And you?

You were flushed. Sweaty. Trembling.

Knees sinking into the mattress as you straddled his thighs once more, this time with your back to him—hips hovering, your whole body tingling.

He leaned against the headboard, sweat shining on his chest, watching you like a man possessed.

“You sure?” he rasped, voice ragged and frayed.

You didn’t answer.

You just reached back, gripped his cock at the base, and lowered yourself onto him slowly—inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt inside you.

Both of you moaned. Loud.

Deep.

Almost pained.

Your hands braced against his shins behind you for leverage, thighs spread wide as you rode him hard—your ass slapping against his hips, slick and flushed with every bounce.

“Oh, fuck—”

His hands gripped your waist like he was anchoring himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart—you’re still so fuckin’ tight…”

You started to move—slow, heavy grinds, rolling your hips like you needed every inch of him rooted inside you. Bucky gasped behind you, his hands traveling from your hips to your thighs to your breasts, groping, squeezing, completely feral.

“You ride me like it’s the only thing keeping you alive,” he growled.

“Look at that ass—fuck, I can see it bounce every time you fucking slam down.”

You moaned—head tilted back, chest rising and falling—sweat glistening between your breasts.

And then—his fingers slid between your thighs from behind. Two of them, circling your clit with ruthless precision.

“I wanna feel you come again, baby. Let me feel you fucking gush on my cock.”

Your thighs trembled. Muscles locked. Your core started to spasm.

“Bucky, I—I think I—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Do it. Come on, baby. You’re dripping, you’re so fucking close—let it happen.”

You broke with a cry.

Legs shaking. Hands digging into his thighs.

Your pussy clamped down hard, and then it hit—

You squirted.

Hard.

Hot wetness sprayed between your thighs, down over his cock, soaking the sheets. Bucky let out a strangled moan, clutching your waist like he was going to lose his mind.

“Goddamn—fuck, look at you. You’re gonna make a fucking mess, aren’t you, baby?”

He didn’t stop.

He snapped his hips up into you, relentless now—grinding deep as your soaked cunt fluttered around him, so overstimulated your vision blurred.

“Still want more?” he panted, thrusting up again, angling perfectly.

“I can feel how much you need it. So greedy for me—so fucking full of my cum, and still not satisfied.”

You couldn’t answer. You just moaned, nodding wildly, nails dragging down his thighs, thighs shaking uncontrollably.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his breath hot on your shoulder as he leaned forward, one hand now wrapped tight around your throat.

“You gonna come for me again? Gonna make a mess on my cock one more time?”

“Yes—James, please—”

And you did.

A second wave slammed into you.

You screamed, back arching, body locking as you squirted again—wetter this time, gushing down over his balls, onto the sheets, soaking everything beneath you.

Bucky lost it.

“Shitshitshit— I’m coming—fuck, baby—I’m—”

He grunted, jerking up into you with three final brutal thrusts as his cock pulsed deep inside you, filling you again, so hot you felt it flood your walls.

You collapsed forward onto the mattress, his arms catching you just before you slumped completely. He held you tight from behind, your body still twitching, both of you covered in sweat, slick, and release.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, voice dazed, completely gone.

“You just… soaked me, baby.”

You half-laughed, half-whimpered. “I couldn’t help it. You broke me.”

“Good,” he growled, kissing your neck. “You can break me next.”

—

You should’ve been done.

You should’ve been shaking, satisfied, breathless from three rounds and nothing left to give.

But you weren’t.

The ache still lived in your bones.

The emptiness still throbbed between your legs.

And when Bucky’s lips brushed your temple—slow, tender, trembling—you felt it in him too.

He needed more.

You both did.

The sheets beneath you were damp. Your thighs were slick. Your chest rose with every sharp breath, nipples flushed and sensitive, body still twitching from your last orgasm. And still… the hunger hadn’t dulled.

“You okay?” he whispered against your throat.

“No,” you rasped, voice cracking.

“I need you again. Right fucking now.”

Bucky exhaled a shaky breath. His cock twitched against your thigh—already stiffening again.

“Jesus, doll… you’re insatiable.”

He kissed your jaw. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Then he shifted—slow but deliberate—and suddenly, your wrists were gathered above your head. You gasped at the motion, but his grip was careful, tender. He reached for the discarded shirt at the foot of the bed and looped it around your wrists—soft, warm, not tight.

“Just wanna keep you here,” he murmured, kissing your palms one at a time.

“Let me take care of you.”

Your stomach fluttered. Your thighs clenched.

And when he dropped between your legs, your breath hitched so hard your back arched off the bed.

“James—”

“Shhh,” he purred, brushing his stubble along the inside of your thigh.

“Gonna keep you right here, sweetheart. Gonna make you come until your body forgets what rest feels like.”

His tongue dragged through your folds—slow, warm, filthy.

The first flick over your clit sent your hips off the bed—but he was already holding you down, fingers firm, spreading you open like he was fucking home.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he growled into your cunt, voice rough with disbelief.

“Jesus, baby, you taste like both of us… fuck. You’re perfect.”

He devoured you.

Long, slow licks that lapped up his own cum still leaking from you. Wet, obscene noises filled the room—every slurp, every moan against your pussy like it was the only thing that ever mattered.

You whined. Cried out. Legs trembling.

His mouth worked faster, tongue flicking your clit with maddening precision—soft then hard, gentle then firm, always changing, always knowing exactly how to ruin you.

“Bucky—fuck—baby I—”

Your voice broke.

Your hips bucked.

You were so close again, already, already—

He pulled back.

“Not yet,” he rasped, lips wet and eyes dark.

“Not until you beg for it.”

You sobbed—from the overstimulation, from the ache, from how badly you needed to fall apart.

“Please—please, baby, I can’t—just let me—let me come, please—!”

That broke him.

He groaned, deep and guttural, and latched onto your clit with his mouth wide and relentless—tongue flat, dragging fast and rough, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs.

You exploded.

A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm hit like a strike of lightning—your whole body shook, fists clenched, toes curled, thighs trembling. You gasped so hard your ribs ached. The headboard thudded behind you.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice soaked in reverence.

“One more, baby. Just one more for me.”

You didn’t even get to respond.

Didn’t even breathe.

Because his tongue never stopped.

He kept sucking—soft at first, then harder—until another wave curled sharp behind your ribs. You sobbed his name, pulled at the binds, tried to run but couldn’t move.

You came again.

Harder.

Legs seizing, slick gushing between your thighs, soaking his face, your body curling from the sheer force of it.

He kissed your trembling thighs through the aftershocks.

Pressed his forehead to your belly.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“I don’t even know where I am,” you panted.

“And I think I like it.”

—

Later—

Maybe thirty minutes.

Maybe five.

Time had stopped meaning anything.

It warped, curled, bled together beneath the hum of overstimulation and breathless ache.

You lay curled on your side, one leg bent, sheets tangled around your calves. Sweat cooled on your skin in sticky rivulets. Your breathing had started to even out, but your body still pulsed from the inside—too full, too stretched, too tender to be still.

And then—

The mattress dipped behind you.

You felt his warmth before you felt his hands.

He slid in close—chest to your back, thighs pressed to yours, breath curling against your neck.

His lips brushed your shoulder.

“Still want me?” he asked, voice soft as fog.

You answered with a sigh. Reached back without looking, your palm wrapping around the hard length of him, thick and hot and already twitching against your fingers.

“Always.”

You rocked your hips back, slotting yourself perfectly into him.

He kissed your spine.

Tucked his face into the crook of your neck, and whispered like a man undone.

“I’ll never stop wanting you.”

One hand lifted your top leg, just slightly—fingers gliding over your thigh. His other arm wrapped low around your waist. You felt the weight of him, the warm press of his tip teasing at your entrance—slow, so fucking slow—until he finally pushed inside.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, as if the heat of you had burned him.

“You’re still tight. Still fluttering around me.”

You whimpered.

He thrust deep.

Steady. Gentle.

Every movement an unspoken prayer.

No rhythm. No pace. Just a rolling, molten motion—his cock dragging deep and slow, slick with everything you��d already shared, stroking right against the spot that still trembled.

“I could live here,” he breathed. “I want to live here.”

Your hand gripped his forearm where it wrapped across your middle. He pulled you back against him with every gentle thrust, grounding you in the heat of his body, his breath stuttering where it ghosted along your neck.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmured. “So fucking good.”

“Still feels like a dream,” you whispered.

“Then don’t wake up. Just… stay right here. Let me have you like this.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. Tears stung, soft and sudden. It wasn’t pain—it was too much pleasure. Too much love. The way he moved inside you like your body was a temple. Like every inch of you was his.

“Tell me you’re mine again,” he whispered, voice breaking.

You choked on a moan.

“I’m yours, James. Always.”

You came first—slow and quiet. A gentle quake that rippled from your core outward, your body trembling against him as your inner walls clamped down tight. You gasped softly, a sob in your throat, your hands fisting in the sheets.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder.

“Let go, doll. Let me feel you.”

He wasn’t far behind.

He buried himself deep, groaning low into your hair, his whole body taut as his release surged inside you again—slow and warm, his cock pulsing deep as he held still, hips locked to yours.

You lay there, body slack and soft, his cock still inside you.

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

His fingers traced lazy shapes on your belly, his lips pressing soft, almost absent kisses to your damp shoulder, your neck, your cheekbone.

“You okay?” he asked eventually, voice quiet.

You nodded.

“I think I’m in love with you again.”

He smiled against your skin. “Good. I never stopped.”

—

Your body was trembling again.

Not with the sharp, writhing spasms of climax—but the deeper, low-grade tremor of exhaustion.

The kind that came after too many orgasms and too little rest.

Muscles fluttering, breath short, limbs weak. You felt boneless and heavy, like your body had melted halfway into the mattress.

And yet—

Your core still throbbed.

Your nipples still ached.

Your cunt still ached for him.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Bucky sat back on his heels beside you, eyes trailing over your form with something like worship—something like worry.

His hand reached out slowly. Brushed your sweat-slicked hair off your forehead. Pressed a soft kiss there.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice gentling. “You with me, sweetheart?”

You nodded once, eyes glassy. Your throat was too dry to speak right away.

“Breathe for me. C’mon.”

His thumb stroked your cheek.

“You look wrecked.”

“I am…”

Your voice came out hoarse.

“I’m so tired.”

That broke his heart a little—you could see it in the way his brows creased. His jaw clenched like he was trying to talk himself down from his own feral hunger.

“Then let’s stop, okay?” he offered softly. “Let me clean you up, hold you for a bit. You need rest.”

But your hand was already moving.

Shaky, slow—but determined.

You reached between his legs and wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock.

Still hard.

Still thick and flushed and leaking at the tip like he’d never finished.

His breath caught.

“Baby—”

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, tears suddenly springing to your lashes.

“Please, don’t stop. I need you.”

He looked stricken.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he murmured. “I don’t wanna take too much.”

“Then be gentle,” you gasped, stroking him slowly.

“But don’t pull away. I need more. I want you again. I want you.”

His restraint cracked like glass.

With a low, ragged sound, Bucky leaned down to kiss you—soft, shaky, like a prayer being answered. He whispered against your lips.

“Tell me when to stop, baby. Or I won’t.”

You nodded.

Wrapped your arms around his neck.

Pulled him into you.

He guided your legs open with reverent hands—watching your face the entire time, watching for any flinch or hesitation. You were sensitive. Sore. Spent.

But not done.

“I love you,” he said quietly, kissing the inside of your thigh.

“So much it hurts.”

You barely had breath left to answer.

“Then have me,” you whispered. “Take what’s already yours.”

His cock slid into you slow—so slow—inch by inch, the stretch deep and aching, but your body welcomed him like he’d never left.

He moaned into your throat.

“Fuck, baby… still so tight. I can feel your pulse around me.”

He moved gently. Just the slow grind of his hips, the full drag of his cock over soaked, sensitive walls. His hand slid under your back, pulling you flush to his chest.

“You tell me when to stop. You hear me?”

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered. “Just keep giving me all of you.”

And so he did.

With every thrust, he kissed you. With every shift of his hips, he whispered your name. His fingers stroked your side, your hip, your waist—every inch of skin he could reach. You shook beneath him, moaning soft and high each time he bottomed out.

“You’re incredible,” he rasped. “You’re still taking me like it’s the first time. My perfect girl.”

Your orgasm crept in like fog, soft and wet and overwhelming.

You came with a shuddered cry, barely able to hold him, but your body squeezed around him tight—fluttering, spasming, claiming him all over again.

“That's my girl,” he whispered, voice shaking. “So fucking good for me.”

And then he followed—hips stuttering, forehead pressed to yours as he groaned your name like a benediction. His cock throbbed deep inside, spilling more warmth into the mess already flooding between your legs.

He collapsed next to you, immediately pulling you into his arms. Your body was trembling. His thumb stroked your cheek.

“No more unless you ask,” he murmured against your hair.

“I’ll only give you what you want.”

—

The sky was beginning to lighten.

A dusky indigo bled into grey, softening the skyline behind the Watchtower’s windows. But inside the room, time was a blur of candlelight, heat, and the thick, dizzying scent of sweat and sex.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d fully caught your breath.

Your whole body felt glass-thin. Shivering. Sensitive. The sheets clung to your skin with sweat, and your legs barely worked. But the ache was still there. Nestled low. Pulsing. It didn’t fade.

Bucky’s palm slid over your thigh—soft, slow, as if testing your response.

His voice came a moment later, raspy and hesitant. “Sweetheart… we can stop. You need rest. I can wait.”

But you turned to him, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. Your fingers found his, laced through them.

“I want more,” you whispered. “Please… take me there.”

He exhaled like you’d just saved his life.

Guiding you gently toward the windows—your legs shaky, but moving—he kissed your shoulder and whispered, “I’ll be gentle. Just let me see you.”

The whole room swam around you, golden in candlelight and glimmering sweat.

The skyline stretched before you. Towering buildings, distant lights. No eyes. Just your reflection—flushed, ruined, hair damp and tangled across your shoulders.

“Fuck,” Bucky exhaled when he saw you.

“Look at yourself, baby. Look what I’ve done to you.”

You braced your palms against the cool glass, breasts pressing to it as your body arched. The contrast of heat and chill made you gasp. Bucky moved in behind you, spreading your thighs with his knee. One hand on your hip. The other wrapped around his cock, dragging the head through your soaked folds.

“Still dripping,” he muttered. “Even now. Jesus, you never stop, do you?”

“I need it,” you whispered. “Still need you.”

He didn’t make you wait.

Not this time.

He slid into you with one deep, brutal thrust—your bodies colliding with a smack so loud it echoed off the glass. Your moan fogged the window instantly, your hands flattening harder against it.

“Bucky—fuck—”

He set a hard rhythm, pulling your hips back to meet every thrust, the wet sound of your bodies filling the room. You could barely stand, legs shaking, forehead pressed to the glass.

“That’s it. Just like that,” he groaned. “So fucking perfect like this. My girl. My pussy.”

His hand slid around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, grounding. His mouth hovered by your ear.

“You were made for me,” he said. “Fucking built for this.”

“Harder,” you begged. “Please—please don’t stop.”

“Look at your reflection,” he rasped. “Look how good you look. Look how you’re taking me.”

You opened your eyes—and the sight of yourself, cock-stuffed, sweat-slick, wild-eyed, flushed and wrecked against the window, nearly sent you over the edge.

He thrust harder. Faster. Your thighs trembled violently.

“Gonna come,” you sobbed. “Can’t—Bucky—I can’t hold it—”

“Then don’t,” he growled. “Come for me, baby. Come with the whole fucking city watching.”

You shattered.

Legs giving out.

A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm slammed through you like lightning. Your vision blurred. Your body buckled. Bucky caught you before you hit the ground—arm locking around your waist as he kept moving, groaning into your neck.

“Fuck—fuck—gonna fill you again—”

His hips snapped hard, once, twice—and then he came with a guttural sound, spilling inside you with a heat that pushed out around the edges. His head dropped to your shoulder, body shuddering as he emptied himself again.

You stood there for a long time—pressed to the glass, panting, twitching. Your hands limp against the windowpane. Bucky held you like you were breakable.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded faintly.

“Good. ‘Cause we’re not done.”

—

The sun was climbing now.

Pale gold spilled across the Watchtower skyline, casting long streaks of light onto the floor like it was forgiving the sins you were still committing.

Your whole body ached—but not in the way that begged for rest.

It was a deep, needy pulse. Faint, but still there. A hunger that wouldn’t let go.

You stumbled barefoot into the kitchenette, still bare, still slick between your thighs, wearing nothing but Bucky’s hickeys. Your hair was tangled. Your lips were swollen. Your legs trembled with every step.

Your hand landed on a protein bar. You peeled it open with shaking fingers and leaned on the counter for support.

“You better be looking for food,” you said over your shoulder, breathless and hoarse.

You heard the footsteps.

But they didn’t head for the fridge.

Bucky’s body pressed into you from behind—solid, burning hot, and still hard. He slid one arm around your waist, the other reaching up to gently move your hair aside so he could press a kiss to your neck.

“I am hungry,” he rasped, his voice low and feral.

“Just not for that.”

“Bucky,” you groaned, half-laughing, half-destroyed. “I can’t even feel my legs—”

“Good,” he whispered. “You don’t need ‘em.”

Before you could blink, he bent you over the kitchen island.

Your palms slapped down on the cold countertop, and you gasped as your bare nipples brushed the smooth marble.

You didn’t even get the chance to speak.

He lined himself up and pushed in fast—no prep, no warning, just the slick glide of his cock stretching you open again, sliding back into your wrecked body like it was home.

“Fuck, Bucky—!”

“Still so wet,” he growled behind you.

“Still squeezing me like you want more.”

His hands slid to your hips, gripping tight, pulling you back against him with every hard thrust.

This wasn’t slow.

This wasn’t tender.

It was filthy, frantic, barely-in-control fucking. Not because he didn’t care—but because he still needed you that badly.

The sound of skin slapping echoed in the tiny space. The sticky squelch of your soaked cunt taking him again and again filled the air. Your moans bounced off stainless steel and tiled walls.

You dropped your head onto your forearm.

“We… already did this—eight times,” you whimpered.

“I know,” he growled, fucking into you deeper.

“And you’re still fuckin’ perfect. Still taking it all.”

“You’re gonna kill me—”

“Then what a fucking way to go, sweetheart.”

He slid a hand around your front, fingers seeking out your clit, stroking with maddening precision. The way he touched you was still worshipful—even in this chaos.

Your whole body clenched.

“You want one more?” he asked, voice thick, rough, hungry.

“You got one more in you for me, doll?”

“Yes—yes—please—just one more—!”

You came hard. Your scream was ragged, echoing through the kitchen, and your knees nearly gave out from the force of it. The overstimulation blurred your vision with white-hot static, but your body still took every inch of him.

Bucky groaned deep and low, hips jerking as he spilled inside you one last time—his cock pulsing, his chest pressed to your back as he moaned your name like a blessing.

He didn’t sag against you. Didn’t drop.

He stayed upright, body still buzzing, cock still twitching inside you. You could feel him—full, ready again. You were the one shaking. Not him.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered. “You’re still hard.”

“Told you,” he murmured, breath warm against your ear.

“I could do this for days.”

“James…”

He slid his arms around your waist from behind and pulled you upright, holding you there with his cock still buried deep.

“I’ll stop if you need me to,” he whispered.

“Just say the word.”

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, heart thudding weakly.

“…I think my soul already came twice.”

Bucky laughed softly. Kissed the crown of your head.

“Rest, baby. I’ll still be here when you wake up. Hard as a fucking rock.”

—

You didn’t know what time it was when you finally woke.

Only that the light outside was warmer. Honey-gold, slipping through the windows in slow streaks. The world felt distant. Blurry. But the weight behind you wasn’t.

Bucky’s arm was still around your waist, his chest pressed along your back. Warm. Steady. His breath ghosted over the back of your neck in a soft, familiar rhythm.

Your body ached in the best ways—sore thighs, puffy lips, bruised hips—but it was the ache in your chest that hummed the loudest.

You blinked. Shifted slowly.

He stirred.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice still sleep-rough.

“You okay?”

You turned to face him—carefully, slowly—and found his eyes already open, watching you.

“Mhm. Everything hurts,” you whispered. “In a good way.”

Bucky smiled. Just a little. One of those soft, private smiles he saved for no one but you.

“Told you I’d wreck you.”

“You did. Multiple times.”

He chuckled, then leaned forward to kiss you.

No tongue. No hunger. Just warmth. Lips brushing yours with slow reverence, like he was re-learning your taste now that the storm had passed.

You melted into it.

Pressed your forehead to his.

His fingers traced lazy lines across your spine, slow and aimless.

“Missed this,” he whispered. “Missed you.”

You whispered it back. Quiet. Honest.

Then let the silence settle over you both for a while—safe, sacred, slow.

Eventually, after a second nap and a shower where no one tried to fuck anyone against the tiles (God bless you), you both managed to drag yourselves into clothes and make your way toward the common area.

Bucky wore a black tee and gray sweatpants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. You were in a loose hoodie and biker shorts—though judging by the soreness between your thighs, sitting might be a challenge.

His arm was around your waist the whole walk.

Your legs still wobbled slightly, and he adjusted his pace to match yours. Not a word about it. Just his warm palm pressing steady against your hipbone like a grounding wire.

—

The squad was already gathered around the Watchtower’s long dining table.

It was pasta night.

Yelena sat at the end, spooning pesto onto her plate with war-like intensity. Ava nursed a glass of wine. Bob looked half-asleep. Alexei was double-fisting garlic bread.

John Walker looked up the moment you stepped into view.

“Oh look,” he said dryly. “It lives.”

You flipped him off without stopping.

“Someone got their back blown out,” Ava added sweetly, raising her glass.

“We heard everything,” Alexei boomed. “Whole floor shook.”

“I had to wear my noise-canceling headphones,” Bob mumbled, half amused, half scarred.

Yelena didn’t even look up from her plate.

“I placed eight rounds in the pool. I win. Pay up, losers.”

You covered your face with your hands.

Bucky didn’t blink.

Just leaned in close, mouth brushing your ear, voice low and smug.

“We could’ve made it nine.”

You choked on your wine, burst out laughing, and slapped his chest as he grinned like the devil himself.

And when his hand slipped onto your thigh under the table—warm, firm, possessive—you didn’t move it.

You just smiled.

And yeah…

You weren’t done.

💜 @iamthatonefangirl @sonja-blayde

[beloveds-embrace]

(Poly 141 x medic reader, where you might as well be the sun to them)

The phrase started as a whisper.

It drifted through the base like smoke curling around corners, impossible to pin down but impossible to ignore.

“Here comes the sun.”

It bounced off walls, passing lips in hushed tones, slipping into conversations as a half-joke, half-omen. At first, the 141 didn’t pay it much attention. Soldiers had their quirks, their superstitions- rituals to keep them sane when missions dragged too long and they smelled more blood than earth. But this one stuck.

Price furrowed his brow the first time he heard it. Ghost only tilted his head slightly, filing it away. Gaz grimaced and muttered something about troops getting weird ideas. Soap, though- he took notice.

He’d caught it more than once before a mission, said like a prayer or maybe a warning. He’d asked around, but answers were vague. “You’ll know when you see it.” That’s all they’d tell him. It irritated him to no end.

Then the mission happened.

It was supposed to be a clean extraction. A quick in-and-out, but things went sideways fast. Soap had been covering the team’s six when the ambush hit. A sharp crack split the air, followed by the searing pain in his side. He hit the ground hard, blood soaking into the dirt, a familiar, burning ache travelling through his body.

“Soap’s hit!” Gaz’s voice barked through comms, panic threading through the static.

“Pull him out!” Price ordered.

But the line fizzled and died. Soap’s world narrowed- gunfire, shouts, and the taste of copper in his mouth. He couldn’t hear the others anymore. The ground felt colder than it should have. He pressed his hand against the wound, but it was bad. Really bad.

This is it, he thought. This is where I die.

The edges of his vision blurred. He barely noticed the figure sprinting toward him until a flash of bright red and orange, a blazing fire, pierced through the smoke and haze.

Like the sun.

You hit the ground beside him, all motion and precision, your gear unlike anything he’d ever seen. Bright red and orange covered your tactical vest and helmet- colors that didn’t belong in a war zone. Colors that should’ve made you a target, a dead woman walking.

But instead, you looked like salvation.

“Stay with me, Sargeant.” You said, voice sharp and steady. You weren’t panicked- not even a little. It was comforting.

Soap stared, wide-eyed, as your hands worked quickly to stop the bleeding. He should’ve been paying attention to the pain, to the gunfire, to anything else- but he couldn’t stop looking at you.

“What the hell are ya wearing?” he rasped, because that was apparently the only thought his brain could form.

You didn’t look up. “Bright colors make it easier to spot me. Medics don’t have the luxury of hiding- we have to be seen when it counts.”

“It’s bloody ridiculous.” he muttered- and then sucked in a sharp breath as you tightened the bandage.

“Maybe,” you said, finally glancing at him. “But it got me here, didn’t it?”

Soap’s heart stumbled. Your eyes were sharp, focused- but there was something else there too, something warm. Something steady.

Here comes the sun.

It hit him all at once. That’s what the others meant. It wasn’t just the colors. It was you. The way you moved, the way your voice cut through the noise, the way you didn’t hesitate for a second.

“Stay awake, Sargeant.” You ordered, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t have a single smart remark.

Much later, he woke up in the med tent, groggy but alive, and immediately found himself staring at you again.

You were restocking supplies nearby, your bright gear an almost comical contrast to the sterile white walls. The moment you noticed him looking, you crossed the room.

“You’re awake,” you said, checking his vitals. Your voice was softer now, calm and patient. He felt like he could melt. “Good.”

“You’re real.” He blurted out before he could stop himself.

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head. “What?”

“Thought I was hallucinating.” He gestured vaguely at your vest, a grin cracking on his lips. “I mean, look at ya.” Lovely. The sun has never looked better.

Your lips twitched, like you were holding back a smile. “I get that a lot.”

Before he could come up with anything else to say- anything remotely smooth- the tent flap opened.

Price, Ghost, and Gaz stepped in, their eyes immediately landing on you. And for once, Soap wasn’t the only one caught off guard.

Gaz blinked. “You’re… bright.”

“Easy to spot.” You said, beaming.

Ghost stared at you for a few seconds longer, peering, before he spoke. “…You’re the sun.”

Price studied you for a long moment as well, then nodded like something clicked into place with a sigh. “Makes sense.”

You, on the other hand, looked confused and unsure, tilting your head once more in the way kittens do.

Soap couldn’t stop staring. He barely even heard the others talking, answering your confusion. All he could think about was how you’d shown up when he thought he was done for- and how you’d looked like a fiery star in the vast expanse of a cold, dark sky.

You glanced at him again, eyes sharp and warm all at once, lips quirking in a delicate smile while Gaz talked with you.

Here comes the sun, he thought.

(… would it be possible to cradle the sun, such warmth, in his hands?)

Part Two

[galaxy-stardust]

Simon Ghost Riley x you

He teaches you the language of his work

You sat cross-legged on the bed, watching as Simon cleaned his gear with practiced precision. The way his hands moved—effortless, efficient, lethal—had always fascinated you. Tonight, though, you wanted more than just to watch.

“Teach me,” you said suddenly.

Simon glanced up from his work, an eyebrow raised. “Teach you what, love?”

You gestured toward the radio earpiece resting on the nightstand. “Your language. The stuff you and the team say during missions. It sounds like code, but I want to understand.”

Simon leaned back slightly, arms crossing over his chest as he studied you. “Why?”

You shrugged. “Because it’s part of you. And I want to know every part of you.”

His expression softened just a little before he shook his head, smirking. “Alright. Let’s see what you can handle.”

He picked up his radio, flicking a switch before tapping the side of it. “First thing—comms check. We always confirm we’re on the same channel before anything else. So if I say, ‘Check, one-two,’ you say…?”

“Uh… Check, three-four?” you guessed, grinning.

Simon huffed a laugh. “Smartass. You’d say, ‘Loud and clear.’”

You nodded, filing that away. “Got it. What else?”

He set the radio down, eyes glinting. “Breach and clear?”

You thought for a moment. “Going in and making sure the area’s safe?”

“Good girl.”

The praise sent a shiver down your spine, but you bit your lip, staying focused. “What about ‘Oscar Mike’? I’ve heard you say that one.”

Simon smirked. “Means ‘on the move.’”

“Okay,” you nodded. “And what about ‘RTB’?”

“Return to base.”

Your eyes lit up. “See? I’m getting it.”

He hummed, clearly amused. “You are. Alright, one more. ‘Sitrep.’”

You tilted your head. “That’s like… an update on the situation, right?”

Simon’s smirk widened. “Look at you, pickin’ things up quick.”

You felt a warm flutter of pride in your chest. “Maybe I should join your team.”

Simon’s expression darkened instantly. “No.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument.

You blinked. “I was joking, Simon.”

His jaw clenched, and he exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “I know. But I don’t like hearin’ it. Don’t want you anywhere near that life.”

The intensity in his voice sent a different kind of shiver through you—not fear, but something deeper. Possessiveness. Protection.

You reached out, fingers tracing his forearm. “I just want to understand you better. That’s all.”

Simon’s eyes softened, his fingers curling over yours. “You already do.”

There was a pause, thick with tension, before his smirk returned. “But since you’re so keen on learnin’, let’s see how well you follow orders.”

You arched a brow. “Orders?”

Simon leaned in, voice dropping to a low, teasing rasp. “How about this, love—‘assume the position.’”

Your breath hitched, heat rushing through you. “And what exactly does that mean?”

Simon smirked, his hands sliding to your waist as he flipped you onto your stomach in one swift motion. He leaned over you, his lips brushing your ear.

“Means you listen, you obey… and you don’t ask questions.”

Lesson learned.

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

idea for joaquin:

i see alot of sushine x grumpy reader when ppl r writing joaquin fics but pls i need more sunshine x sunshine and its joaquin and reader being literal comedic geniuses on missions and flirting over comms 😫

"Ray Of Sunshine"

[Joaquin Torres x fem!reader]

Masterlist

Summary: You and Joaquin are pains in Sam and Bucky's ass.

Warnings: Mild action violence, relentless flirting, and Sam Wilson contemplating a career change

Word Count: 831 words

A/N: I think we can all agree that bucky and sam are officially parents.

"We should get a team dog," you said, thinking out loud.

Three voices answered you at once through the comms. Two were a chorus of "NO!" The other, "YES!" You decided to focus on the latter.

"A small golden one…" you continued, ducking behind a concrete pillar as gunfire sprayed the warehouse wall behind you.

"We could name it Ray," Joaquin suggested. You could hear his grin.

"Ooh, like a Ray of sunshine!"

Sam's groan was so loud it nearly drowned out the sound of Bucky vaulting over a shipping container to your left. "Focus, both of you," Sam barked, his wings slicing through the air as he disarmed a guard. "We're in the middle of a mission!"

"And we are not getting a dog," Bucky added, firing at a henchman sprinting toward you.

"But imagine the morale boost!" you argued, popping up to toss a smoke grenade. The room flooded with gray haze, and you darted toward the server room, Joaquin's laughter in your ear.

"Picture it, Buck—little Ray, tiny vest, teeny goggles," Joaquin said. You could practically see him miming the dog's outfit with his hands, even though he was three rooms away, hacking into the security system. "He'd be the best at fetch. And espionage."

"Espionage?!" Bucky snapped. A grunt, a thud—probably him body-slamming someone into a wall. "It's a dog."

"Exactly! No one suspects the dog!" you chirped, sliding into the server room and slamming the door shut. "Quin, how's that hack coming?"

"Already in," Joaquin said, smug. "You're welcome."

"Show-off."

"Admit it, that's why you love me."

Your cheeks warmed.

"Less flirting, more focusing," Sam cut in. The Captain America voice dialled up to 'I'm two seconds from drowning you both in a lake.' "Torres, any alarms?"

"Nope. Smooth as butter. Also, you do love me, right sunshine?" He didn't need to ask, he already knew the answer.

You rolled your eyes, typing rapidly on the server's interface. "Keep dreaming, flyboy."

"Oh, I will. Vividly. With plot."

Bucky made a sound like a feral cat. "I'm begging you two to take this seriously."

"We are!" you and Joaquin said in unison, then burst into laughter.

The two of you had turned into an art form really: you'd crack a joke, he'd retort back, and somewhere between the banter and the bullets, the bad guys ended up in a pile, thoroughly confused about how they'd been beaten by a duo who argued about pizza toppings during a car chase.

"Got the files!" you announced, yanking the hard drive free.

"Great! Now get out before backup shows up," Joaquin said. "Also, duck."

You dropped to the floor just as a guard burst through the door, his weapon whirring over your head. Joaquin's voice turned sharp, all playfulness gone. "Three o'clock. Disarm and go."

You spun, sweeping the guard's legs out from under him and snatching his gun. "Thanks."

"Anytime. Now when do we get this dog?"

"NO DOG!" Sam and Bucky shouted in unison.

The second you spotted the scruffy golden retriever trotting through the lot on the way back to the quinjet, you froze. "Uh. Joaquin. Look."

He looked over to where you were pointing. "Is that…?"

"A literal ray of sunshine," you whispered, clutching your chest. The dog wagged its tail.

"No," Sam hissed.

"Yes," you and Joaquin breathed.

"Not a chance!" Bucky said.

But the dog padded toward you, cocking its head, and dropped a muddy stick at your boots. You gasped. "It's fate."

"Sam. SAM. They're adopting a street dog," Bucky deadpanned. "This is your problem now."

Joaquin scooped the retriever into his arms. "C'mon, Cap! Look at…his eyes. He's got the heart of a soldier!"

"Leave. The. Dog." Sam said.

"Too late!" you said cheerfully. "Ray's one of us now!"

By the time they got back to the quinjet, with the dog, Sam's eye twitch had reached apocalyptic levels. Bucky stared at the retriever, now sitting happily on your lap, and muttered, "If it pees on my gear, I'm shaving it bald."

Joaquin bounded down the jet's ramp, helmet off and hair adorably windblown. "He’s so cute, look at him!"

"He looks like a menace," Sam said, though the corner of his mouth quirked up as the dog lolled its tongue at him.

You scratched Ray's ears, batting your lashes at Sam. "C'mon, Cap. Every team needs a mascot. We'll train him! He can fetch grenades!"

"He'll fetch lawsuits," Bucky grumbled.

Joaquin plopped beside you, shoulder brushing yours. "Admit it. You love him."

Sam looked at the dog. At Bucky. At the two of you, grinning like idiots.

"...He's not getting a rank."

You and Joaquin whooped, high-fiving as Ray barked as if in victory.

"But he is writing the mission report," Bucky added, his amusement showing.

Joaquin leaned toward you, whispering, "Worth it."

"Next step: matching outfits," You whispered back.

His smile could've powered a city. "Already designing them."

[endofthelinegang]

terms and conditions (apply)

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  bob reynolds  x  stark!fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  you storm back into Avengers Tower when Valentina de Fontaine dares to relaunch the team—with Bob Reynolds, the unstable Sentry, at its core. Old secrets, god-like power, and a name that still echoes through the halls collide in a confrontation that could tear everything apart—again.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ none besides bad words

You didn’t knock.

You kicked open the reinforced side entrance of Avengers Tower like you owned the place—and technically, part of you still did. The guards didn’t even have time to react. Two shouted, one reached for his comm, and the last instinctively stepped back when your eyes locked on him with that signature Stark glare that could curdle milk. You were a storm in designer boots and a vintage Stark Industries jacket. You felt vintage walking in and seeing things being torn apart and redone. 

“Where is she?” you barked standing in the middle of the entry way. “Where the hell is Valentina Allegra de Fontaine?” You looked around as all eyes made contact with you, no one sure how or when they should speak. Your eyebrows raised as you finally picked one person to hone in on. Clearly an intern, not dressed in the same attire as everyone else, looking at you like you were the most amazing thing to step into this place, and breathing so heavy 

The nervous intern muttered something about the 40th floor, and you were already moving—your heels a steady clack-clack-clack of fury across polished glass floors. The elevator doors tried to close politely. You shoved them open and punched the panel like it owed you money. By the time you reached the conference floor, you were practically vibrating.

Valentina turned at the sound of your footsteps. She was standing just outside the boardroom with her arms folded, talking to a man you didn’t recognize. Her eyes narrowed the moment she saw you.

“Not now,” she said coldly, turning back to talk to the man that was staring at you in horror. 

“Too damn bad,” you snapped, storming toward her shooeing away the man that she was talking to.. “You don’t get to relaunch the Avengers without telling me. What the hell are you doing?”

Valentina sighed and turned back toward the glass doors. “I don’t have time for one of your little episodes, sweetheart.”

“Oh, you don’t have time?” You followed her, voice sharp as broken glass. “That’s rich, considering you just revived a ticking time bomb and called it a team. You think Bob Reynolds is a good idea? Are you out of your mind?” You pulled one of your many devices from your pocket and began to pull up his file that included The Void and the idea of The Sentry as the only time the world had seen that was in the mountains. 

Valentina kept walking, ignoring you. You followed her into the long hallway that led toward the upper-level strategy rooms.

“I’m not here for permission,” she said without looking at you, pictures and videos of Robert Reynolds surrounded the two of you as you kept up with her more than furious. Yes all of them were a bad idea, but they at least knew what they were doing. This new guy was seriously going to be an issue. 

“You should be,” you growled. “Because I know what happens when people start playing gods again. You can put a fresh coat of paint on this place, call it a new era, but this is the same old Tower, the same old risks, and you’re walking around like you’re not dragging the entire world back into a void—literally.”

That stopped her. She did not know that anyone had yet connected Bob and The Void. Then she saw the file you were building around her head and  Valentina turned, her expression flat and unreadable. “You done?”

You stared at her, seething. “If it’s so safe, if you’re so sure of this, then explain this.”

You hit buttons on the flat screen to zoom in on the video. The panel lit up: chaos. A newsreel — from before the Tower fell the first time. Footage of the Void, wild and unfathomable, rippling through air like a tear in reality itself. Streets swallowed. Sky blackened. Heroes screaming in the comms. Tony’s voice, briefly, trying to redirect the fight before the feed cuts out.

Valentina didn’t blink. She simply sighed and started walking again, “We’ve accounted for that.”

You scoffed. “You don’t account for a black hole wearing a man’s skin. You bury it.”

Valentina’s voice dropped, razor-sharp. “You don’t get to lecture me. You vanished when Tony died. You let the tower rot. Now we’re rebuilding it with people who show up.”

The blow landed. You had truly been MIA, you mostly spent time with Morgan teaching her things, and helping out your mother. Valentina had reached out to you previously to help her with projects in Malaysia to which you declined.  You stiffened. Then you smiled bitterly. “You really think Reynolds is gonna stay Reynolds?”

“I think Bob deserves a chance. Just like your father did.” You inhaled sharply, before you could say anything the double doors to the strategy room opened. Voices echoed—low, measured. You could hear the faint whir of holograms booting up. The meeting had begun.

“Fine,” you muttered. “Let’s meet your new golden boys.”

Valentina’s voice cut the air like a scalpel as she stood staring at you putting her hands on the door, “Don’t go in there.”

You turned slowly. “Watch me.”

“This briefing is classified,” she said, now fully stepping in front of the doors like she actually thought she could stop you.

“That’s cute,” you snapped. “You think I haven’t had full access to every inch of this place since I was old enough to spell ‘repulsor.’ Classified doesn’t mean jack when my last name’s still on the damn tower.”

“(Y/N), I’m warning you.” She tried pulling one of her classic faces as a warning, that maybe a little flash of her possible power would ward you off. 

“Oh please. What are you going to do? Threaten to uninvite me to the apocalypse you just reignited?” You pushed past her.

The double doors flew open before she could reach for your arm, and the room full of mismatched government-chosen Avengers froze mid-brief. They looked like an HR violation waiting to happen.

Your voice cut through them as you slammed your hands down onto the table, “Which one of you geniuses is gonna stand in the way of me talking to Mr. Reynolds?”

Confused glances bounced around the room like startled birds. Bucky Barnes was leaning back in a chair with his arms folded, a half-eaten protein bar forgotten in his hand. He stared at you like you’d just crashed a funeral with a flamethrower.

“Who the hell—” the one nearest to you, the agent with the misshappen shield whispered looking around the table. 

Bucky squinted. “...Stark.”

A pause. That landed. Now the attention was sharper—measured. Heavy with names they couldn’t say out loud. All of them were just staring at you unsure of what to say, other than Alexei who was genuinely just confused. 

Bob Reynolds straightened slowly from where he sat near the end of the long, curved table. His hands, folded neatly just a moment before, opened like he wanted to surrender before the war even started. Your eyes locked with his. Unflinching. There was no way you were letting him sit through this meeting like some hero.

You jabbed a finger toward the door behind you, Val had walked away from the doors with a phone up to her ear. “Come with me.”

He blinked taking in a big deep breath. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Now, Reynolds.” You spoke over him not really caring what all he had to say.

The air shifted. Awkward silence blanketed the room. Bob looked to Bucky considering he was the only one brave enough to point you out, not to mention the only one who knew who you were. He didn’t say a word—just pressed her lips together and sighed. Then Bob looked back at you.

And you didn’t move. You weren’t bluffing. You weren’t going to leave. He saw it in your stance, in your eyes, in the electric coil of tension behind your expression like you were two seconds from dragging him out by the collar if he hesitated.

Bob rose from his seat and walk around to where you took your hands off the table patting them off of John Walker’s back before holding the door open for Mr. Reynolds to walk out of.  Everyone watched him leave with you like he was being taken to his own execution. Which—honestly—wasn’t that far from the truth.

The walk to his quarters was silent. Uncomfortably so. The corridor stretched long and sterile, fluorescent lights humming softly overhead. His footsteps were muted, measured — each step echoing faintly against the polished floor. He led the way, careful to keep his gaze fixed somewhere ahead, but every few seconds, a flicker of tension made him glance back at you, as if you might vanish—or worse, explode—between steps. His jaw clenched tightly, lips pressed thin.

When you stepped inside the room the government had decided was good enough for Bob Reynolds, a bitter laugh threatened to escape. It was a sterile prison masquerading as accommodation: walls washed in cold white, the kind of lighting that felt more interrogative than comforting. The bed was untouched—linen pristine, corners sharp—like a shrine that no one dared disturb. No personal touches softened the space. No photos smiled back at you from the nightstand. Not even a half-empty glass of water perched on its surface.

He hovered near the desk, awkward and unsure, fiddling nervously with the hem of his sleeve. His movements were small, controlled, like a man carefully trying to keep the weight of the world from bursting free through his skin. Shoulders hunched in a protective arc.

You crossed your arms, the silence thick between you.

He turned slowly, eyes hesitant, voice low. “You can sit if you want.”

You didn’t. You stayed rooted, standing tall.

Bob’s gaze flicked to the chair—then back to you—before he lowered himself stiffly onto it, as if sitting too quickly might trigger some catastrophic event. The chair creaked under his weight, breaking the stillness like a single gunshot in an empty hall.

Your eyes swept the room again. This wasn’t a room. It was a holding cell dressed up with throw pillows. Stainless steel walls closed in coldly. A lone, thin bed with sheets pulled tight. An armchair that had never cradled a living soul. The light was harsh, unforgiving, casting shadows sharp enough to slice through the tension.

“I didn’t think anyone would come,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, swallowed almost entirely by the silence.

“You think I had a choice?” Your words cut sharp, voice cracking the quiet like a whip. You crossed your arms and stared him down. 

He tilted his head, surprised by the fire in your tone. You gestured at the stark walls, your voice rising. “You do realize people died, right? That you blacked out Manhattan. No tech, no backup generators, no communications. For six hours. Do you even know what that did to hospital patients? To air traffic? To kids stuck in elevators?!”

Bob flinched, shoulders jerking slightly, hands clenching tighter until his knuckles blanched.

“They’re calling it a freak grid failure on the news,” you pressed, voice sharp with accusation. “But I’ve seen the files. That wasn’t a blackout. That was you. The Void.” You had not told anyone but you had accessed what records you were given access to when she first invited you to the projects and kept up with them, you knew this would happen. 

His breath hitched audibly. His gaze fell hard to the floor, as if it might somehow carry the weight of his shame. He looked dead, like he wasn’t even breathing as he shifted his weight around in his chair. You didn’t relent.

“You turned the most alive city on Earth into a tomb. And now they’ve put you in a cape. Put you on a team. And I’m supposed to trust that decision?” You could tell that no one had given him the second degree about this, that no one had even really achknowdlged to him directly what had happened. 

“I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered, voice thin, fragile. 

“Then say no,” you snapped, eyes blazing, head shaking. 

“I did,” Bob whispered back, barely audible. “They said it was already done.”

You paused. Just a beat. He looked up then—and for the first time, you truly saw him. His face was stripped bare of anger or defense. Instead, it was raw and scared. Not the kind of fear someone shows when cornered, but the kind that lives beneath the surface—held tight, pressed down, like a powder keg waiting for a spark.

“I told Valentina I wasn’t ready to be involved,” he said, voice trembling slightly. “I told her what it felt like… after New York. What I saw in my head. How quiet it was. How good it felt.”

Your breath caught. The words hung in the air, fragile and impossible.

“You’re saying it felt good?” you repeated, disbelief thick in your voice leaning forward to look at him a little better and to show him that this shit was no joke.

He shook his head quickly, eyes darting away like he feared your judgment. “Not happy. Not good good. Just… right. Like the universe was finally quiet enough for me to breathe.”

You said nothing. He swallowed hard, throat bobbing visibly. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. But the second it did, everything stopped hurting.”

Suddenly, your voice broke the tension. “I blipped,” you said, steady despite the tremble beneath your skin. “Five years. Gone in a snap. One second I’m walking beside Happy talking about new safety features in the Iron Man suit that should help my dad stay alive, in fact I wasn’t even sure where he was, and then... dust.”

His posture changed again, this time more to face you fully rather than turn away.

“I came back to a world where my best friend—my dad—was dead. My mom had a daughter I’d never met. A five-year-old who barely knew who I was. Everyone else moved on. I didn’t get to say goodbye. I didn’t even get to be there when he died.” You blinked hard, staring at Bob like he owed you an explanation.

“Tony Stark died saving the universe, and now you’re sitting here in his tower, part of the team that’s replacing the one he built.” You hit him hard again with your words watching as he nodded his head. 

His face crumpled, tight lines folding across his forehead and around his mouth. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“Neither did I.”  Another beat. The silence stretched taut.

You fixed him with a hard look, arms crossed tighter. His eyes were too bright—unnatural blue, sharp like shards of carved light trapped inside a man who barely contained them.

“I saw your father on TV,” he said suddenly, voice quieter, softer. “After Sokovia. After Titan. At the compound with Steve Rogers, back when they tried to make peace. I remember thinking he looked like someone who didn’t know what silence felt like.”

You said nothing, the weight of that statement sinking into the space between you. You untangled your arms and looked at the plain wall nearest your head. 

“I’m sorry he’s gone,” Bob added, voice genuine, careful. Not pity, but understanding. Like he knew what it was to lose someone the world expected to be invincible.

Your throat tightened. You blinked slow, heavy.

“Yeah,” you finally said. “It is.” 

Bob looked like he wanted to step forward, maybe reach out, but he stayed rooted. Instead, his fingers gripped the desk, digging in like if he let go he might simply disappear.

“I didn’t want to be an Avenger,” he admitted. “I wanted help.”

You tilted your head, skeptical, but he was being honest, you could tell this guy really was not sure of what any of this menat.  “So you thought signing up for Valentina’s pet death squad would help you get that?”

“She said the team could give me structure. Control. That they’d watch me.” He shrugged his shoulders just repeating what information he had been fed. 

“That’s not help. That’s a cage.” You whispered gritting your teeth thinking about how she could do this to someone in the first place and then trap them again. 

Bob’s mouth twitched, a flicker of agreement struggling to surface but trapped.

“You walked into the Avengers Tower five minutes after blacking out half of New York,” you said, voice low but unyielding. “That’s not rehabilitation. That’s PR cleanup.”

His jaw flexed, silent. Then, finally, a breath: “I didn’t feel human after it happened.”

Your gaze locked with his. This time, he didn’t look away.

“I thought maybe if I wore the suit,” he continued quietly, “if I stood next to real heroes, I might be able to be one.”

“You’re not your suit,” you said coldly, you felt like your mom. You remembered all of the arguments they had about that exact sentence. It felt thick in your mouth and spitting it out at this stranger felt almost painful. 

“I know. But you came in here today and now I feel like maybe I am a mistake that needs fixing.” His voice rose, not in a way that would be argumentative but in a way that gave confidence. 

“You say that like it’s a compliment.” You scoffed and gave him a side smile. 

“It is.”  You stared. The tension tightening up your spine like a coil.

“So?” You weren’t sure where this was going, but he was suddenly standing. 

“I want you to stay because you’re the only one smart enough not to lie to me.” Your face snapped into shock and your stomach twisted.

“I’ve spent every day since New York waking up and wondering if I’m still me,” he confessed, voice breaking. “Or if the Void’s just pretending.” 

Your heart hammered in your chest. He shifted half a step forward.

“I look around and all I see are people trying to contain me, or use me. Not understand me. You came in here, told me I was dangerous, and didn’t sugarcoat a damn thing.” He exhaled slowly, almost like relief. “You’re the first person who made me feel like I might still have a choice.”

You turned away, fingers dragging slowly down your face. “God. I must be out of my mind.” 

“You’re not,” Bob said gently, voice steady like a lifeline. “You’re just the only one here who still believes in consequences.”

You looked back at him. He looked fragile—nothing to do with size—but like a man holding back a hurricane with bare hands. If he were being honest and you were the only person willing to actually help him then you couldn’t leave. You knew enough to be asked to create him you just hadn’t been stupid enough to fall for it and it was not her asking this time. It was him. The patient. The test subject. 

“I’m not your friend,” you warned.

“I don’t need a friend,” he said quietly. “I need someone who doesn’t flinch.”

Silence hung heavy again he really wanted this, and he was not going to take no for an answer. 

Then—finally—you sighed.

“Fine,” you muttered. “But this isn’t a team-up. I’m not getting a badge, and I’m not wearing a damn vest.” You were being serious, this was not a mess you wanted attached to your name. You were already going over how to create something that could stop him and you hadn’t even told Valentina of your sudden cooperation. 

“You don’t have to.” He sighed a breath of relief hearing that you were in agreement. 

“I’m here to make sure you don’t wipe out another city.” You pulled your phone out of your pocket and started texting Valentina letting her know a few important things, like the lab you would need and the room you would like to occupy. 

“That’s all I want too.” Your eyes narrowed, sharp and watchful.

“If I even sense that thing in your head pushing out, I pull the plug. Hard.” You opened his door again and dialed another number your little helpers that needed to start moving your equipment and stuff around. 

Bob nodded slowly. “Understood.”

You took one last look.For the first time, he wasn’t fidgeting. Just still. Watching you like the first sliver of light in a sky that’s been black too long.

[onlyforsebastianstan]

Betrayal

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: When a mission goes sideways, the Avengers are left reeling from what appears to be a devastating betrayal, yours. Believing you've turned on them, the team cuts you off. But the truth is darker than they imagined.

And when you came back, bleeding and broken to warn them of the threat coming… they still turned away.

📎 Genre: Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Betrayal & Redemption | Post-Canon | Found Family | Emotional Recovery

⚠️ Warnings: → Heavy emotional angst → Team betrayal / abandonment → Offscreen torture (non-graphic) → PTSD and trauma aftermath → Guilt / grief / emotional neglect → Slow trust rebuilding → Hospital recovery scenes → Regret-heavy

The static had long since faded, but the echo of your voice still lived in the compound. It had been three months since the mission. Three months since Bucky had replayed that final communication over and over, clinging to the dissonance between your words and everything he knew about you.

"Y/N, we're not seeing the files come through. What's going on?" with Natasha on the other end of the line she asks.

"…I was never on your side." The silence that followed was like the pause before an avalanche. "Hail HYDRA." The words crackled through the comms and shattered everything. Then nothing but static. You disappeared. No trace. The intel was never recovered. The facility was destroyed. And every trail went cold.

The team tried to convince themselves it was a trick, a ploy, a forced hand. But evidence piled up. Footage, grainy, but damning, of you walking through the ruins with known Hydra operatives. A bodycam snippet of you smiling. They tried to deny what they were seeing. Bucky didn’t sleep for days, then he stopped talking about it altogether.

No one ever expected you to come back. You stood outside the gates of the Avengers Compound three months later. No weapon. No backup. Just your hands trembling at your sides.

Your voice over the intercom was ragged, uncertain. “It’s me.”

There was a long pause before Friday replied coolly, “They don’t want to see you.”

“I need to expla—”

“They don’t want explanations.”

The gate remained shut.

You didn’t leave. You couldn’t.

They called you a traitor, though never to your face. You heard them whisper. Natasha’s cold stare sliced through you. Steve wouldn’t even meet your eyes. Sam avoided you entirely. But Bucky was the worst of them all.

Because he didn’t yell. He didn’t glare. He didn’t do anything. Just looked at you like he didn’t recognize the person standing in front of him. Like you were a ghost with a stranger’s voice.

You told them you never wanted to hurt them. You told them it wasn’t what it looked like. You begged them to let you explain. But every word that left your mouth just made the wound deeper. So eventually, you stopped talking.

And that’s when Hydra found you again. It happened fast. An explosion rocked the south wall of the compound. Sirens blared. Automatic lockdown failed. Hydra soldiers flooded the halls, and the team jumped to action. They thought it was a coordinated assault. A revenge strike.

Bucky spotted you first. You were dragged into the hangar, struggling against restraints, blood on your temple. Rumlow held the gun to your head, grinning with smug satisfaction.

“You’ve got one shot to back down,” he warned the team, “or I paint the floor with your little agent.”

No one flinched. Not even Bucky. You saw it in their eyes. That fractured trust. They believed this was what you deserved.

"You think we care?” Tony called, his voice sharp but unsteady. “She’s HYDRA. Your kind.”

Rumlow’s laugh was cruel, his gun pressing harder against your temple. You winced but stayed silent. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dripping with mock pity as he looked down at you. “You tried so hard, didn’t you? Begging us to release you, fighting with what's left of your energy, and all those struggles to escape... for this. They really thought you turned.”

Steve’s shield lowered slightly. “What are you talking about?”

Rumlow’s eyes gleamed, still talking to you, his tone taunting. ascended “That little comms stunt? Wasn’t her. We had her locked up, screaming, while our mimic played her voice. You really think she’d join us willingly?” He shook his head, smirking.

"Hail HYDRA" a voice similar to yours was heard. but it didn't come from you. A woman Appeared behind the team as she chuckles. "My my, I guess my mimicking really pulled off." she said still with your voice.

Bucky froze. You weren’t the voice. You never were. His mind reeled. That voice he memorized, clung to, wasn’t even you. It never was.

Rumlow cocks his gun ready to shoot you as you look at Bucky. “And they bought it. Hook, line, and sinker.”

You don’t know what hits the Avengers harder. Rumlow’s confession, or the horror dawning in their eyes as they look at you with new clarity. The betrayal wasn’t yours. It never was.

Steve’s shield is already in motion before the Hydra soldiers can even raise their weapons. It slices through the air with a thunderous clang, knocking two operatives off their feet as if they were nothing more than bowling pins. In the space of a single breath, everything erupts.

Gunfire crackles around you, sharp and stuttering.

Shouts echo, orders, names, warnings.

Metal screams as it collides with metal, the high-pitched wail of blades meeting armor. Somewhere behind you, Wanda’s powers surge like a pressure wave, knocking another Hydra unit into the wall.

But none of it feels real.

The world fractures. Blurs. Tilts sideways.

Your hearing distorts until all you can make out is a high, keening ring inside your skull.

And then you felt the cold, hard ground.

A terrifying, creeping cold that starts in your fingertips and crawls up your arms, settling like a weight in your chest.

Your breath catches.

You look down.

There’s blood.

A startling amount of it. Blooming like a grotesque flower across your abdomen. You don't remember falling, but suddenly you're on your knees. You press a hand to the wound and feel the warm, wet slick of it soaking through your fingers.

So much blood.

Your name is being called, shouted somewhere. Maybe Sam? Maybe Bucky?

But the voices sound so far away now.

The battle rages on around you, but all you can see is the red soaking into the concrete beneath you. All you can hear is that endless, bone-deep ringing.

And all you can think is, they weren’t supposed to shoot.

Then darkness edges in from the corners of your vision, and the world begins to slip away. Spilling from your abdomen, spreading across your clothes, pooling beneath your body in warm, sticky waves. Your legs feel numb. Your fingers tremble as they try to press against the wound. They slide through blood instead.

You didn’t even feel the shot go off.

Rumlow must’ve fired just before Bucky got to him. Maybe on purpose. Maybe not.

But it didn’t matter now.

From the ground, you can hear the crunch of boots. The thunder of fists against armor. Someone screams. Probably Rumlow. You think Steve just knocked out three men at once. Maybe more.

But you can’t turn your head to look. Your body won’t obey.

Your vision tunnels.

You blink slowly, trying to hold on. The ceiling lights flicker above you, too bright. Your breathing is shallow.

You hear a voice, one that cuts through everything else like a sharp blade.

“Y/N?”

It’s hoarse.

Disbelieving.

Then it says your name again, more frantic this time. Closer.

You manage to turn your head just enough to see Bucky drop to his knees beside you. Blood stains his gloves. You’re not sure if it’s yours or someone else’s.

Maybe both.

His face is pale. Like he’s seeing you for the first time again. Like he’s realizing something awful too late.

“No, no, no—stay with me,” he breathes, pressing down on your wound. You choke on a gasp as pain explodes through your side.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks, voice cracking.

You try to laugh, but it comes out wet. You can taste copper. “I did,” you whisper.

And you did. You tried. Again and again. They just weren’t ready to hear it. The others gather around slowly, cautiously.

Steve lowers his shield, his entire body tense with grief and disbelief. Natasha’s expression is unreadable, but her jaw is clenched tight. Sam curses under his breath, pacing like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Wanda sinks to her knees opposite Bucky, her eyes wide and shining.

“What the hell did we do,” she whispers.

And then, Tony. He pushes through the crowd, scans the scene, and when his gaze lands on you, everything shifts. His hand twitches like he wants to do something, build, fix, create, but this isn’t something blueprints or tech can undo.

“She needs a med team. Now,” he says sharply into his comm. But even you can hear the doubt in his voice.

Your fingers weakly brush Bucky’s arm. He catches your hand instantly, both of his closing around yours like he could will your blood to stay in your body through sheer force.

“I didn’t betray you,” you manage to say, your voice paper-thin. “I tried to come back.”

He nods frantically. “I know. I know now. Just hold on.”

You offer a faint smile, the kind that costs too much energy. “You hated me…”

He shakes his head hard. “No. No, I didn’t. I hated—what I thought happened. But not you. Never you.”

It’s enough. You close your eyes. Not to give up, but because staying awake is getting harder.

“You’re not going to die,” he growls, like he can order the universe to listen to him. His fingers tremble where they press into your wound. “You’re gonna wake up and yell at us. And I’ll take it. All of it. Just—don’t go now.”

Darkness curls around the edge of your vision. But just before it takes you, you hear the sirens of the emergency med team racing down the hall. You think maybe, just maybe—it’s not too late.

The med bay was quiet, dimly lit by the steady glow of monitors and the occasional flicker of diagnostic screens. The air felt heavy, like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

You lay in the center of it all, silent, unmoving, pale. A tangle of wires and tubes connected you to machines that beeped steadily, marking the fragile rhythm of a life that was barely clinging on. The ventilator hissed every few seconds, a mechanical echo that filled the space between heartbeats.

Wanda stood at your bedside, unmoving, her eyes locked on your face. You didn’t stir. Not even a twitch of your fingers. The only movement was the rise and fall of your chest, aided entirely by the tube down your throat.

Behind her, Steve paced. His jaw was tight, arms folded across his chest as he walked the length of the room for the hundredth time. He didn’t speak.

And Bucky hadn’t left.

He sat beside you, hunched in a chair that looked too small for his broad frame, as still as a statue. His metal hand rested on his knee, twitching with restrained energy. But his other hand, his flesh hand, was wrapped tightly around yours. There was no mask on his face anymore. No stoicism. Just raw, open desperation. The kind that didn’t need to be said aloud.

No one had spoken in hours.

Until Wanda finally stepped forward.

“I can try,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She glanced at the others, eyes wide with something like hope, but tinged in sorrow. “If I go into her mind… I might be able to see what really happened.”

Steve halted mid-step, turning to face her. “You sure you’re strong enough after the fight?”

Wanda nodded once, her gaze never leaving your face. “They can’t speak for herself right now. But her mind might still remember.”

Bucky’s voice broke the silence next, hoarse and low. “What if it hurts her?”

She turned toward him, slowly, and said, “I won’t push. I’ll be gentle.”

Steve looked between them both, then at you, and after a beat of silence, he gave a single, solemn nod.

Wanda stepped closer, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached down and placed two fingers lightly against your temple. She closed her eyes.

And the world shifted.

Inside Your Mind

The moment Wanda connected, she was overwhelmed by a tidal wave of emotion. Pain. Desperation. Terror.

There was no peaceful entry. No gentle memories or quiet landscapes to guide her in.

Just screaming.

Searing pain, hot and endless, ricocheted through the mental space like a wildfire. She staggered instinctively, feeling it almost physically, but forced herself to push deeper.

Through the chaos, images began to claw their way to the surface.

You—dragged roughly down a metal corridor by two Hydra agents. Your body limp, bruised, bloodied.

You—thrown into a dark cell, the clang of the door shutting behind you like a gunshot.

Then a room.

Bright lights seared Wanda’s eyes even in the memory. A metal chair. Restraints. You, strapped down.

And Rumlow.

His voice slithered into the scene.

“The comms are still active. Let’s give your little friends a message.”

Wanda flinched as she watched a Hydra tech approach you. A woman. The woman they saw during the fight.

“Target secured. Uploading the data now.”

The sound made Wanda’s stomach turn. It was uncanny. Flawless. There was no distortion. No artificial cadence. Just you.

“Y/N, we’re not seeing the files come through. What’s going on?”

The imposter responded again, using your voice, calm, steady, terrifyingly cold.

“I was never on your side.”

And then Rumlow stepped into frame, smirking as he delivered the final blow,

“Hail Hydra.”

From your position in the chair, Wanda saw your eyes go wide with terror. You tried to scream, but the gag was already back in place.

You screamed anyway.

But no one could hear you.

The team wasn’t listening to you. They were listening to your ghost.

Then came the torture.

Wanda felt it. Not just as an observer, but as if her own body endured every lash, every cut, every jolt. The Hydra agents kept the comms channel open, using the mimic to keep up the ruse. It was all planned. Coordinated. Cruel.

In your thoughts, Wanda saw you praying they'd notice the difference. That someone, anyone, would realize that voice wasn’t you.

But no one had.

Memory after memory cascaded around Wanda, too fast to stop:

You—curled in the corner of your cell, body broken, blood drying on your skin.

You—scraping at a vent cover with trembling fingers, whispering over and over, please… please…

You—dragging your mangled body through an air duct, escaping only to collapse in the snow outside.

You—waking in a stranger’s clinic, delirious, desperate to get home.

You—standing at the gates of the Tower.

Begging.

Screaming your name into the intercom in the pouring rain.

They never answered.

You waited outside all night.

And they never came.

Wanda tore herself free with a sharp gasp, stumbling backward from the bed. Her knees nearly gave out. One hand caught the railing beside you, the other pressed to her heart as if it might stop it from tearing itself apart.

“Wanda?” Steve asked, stepping quickly to her side.

She didn’t respond at first. Her throat worked silently.

Then she looked up, and when she finally spoke, her voice was a whisper.

“She didn’t say it,” she breathed. “That voice on the comm... it wasn’t her.”

The room went still.

Steve froze. Sam’s brow furrowed. Bucky’s hand on yours turned white-knuckled.

Wanda’s voice shook as she went on. “They were already captured. Hydra made a voiceprint clone. They listened to everything through the comms and used it against us. While they tortured Y/N… we were listening to a machine pretending to be her.”

No one spoke.

Not a breath passed between the others.

And then Bucky stood. Slowly. As if rising from the grave.

His face was unreadable, locked in a silent battle between anguish and rage. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles split, blood trickling down his palm.

He didn’t say a word. He just turned and walked out.

He didn’t make it far.

Just two halls down from the med bay before the weight in his chest crushed him.

Bucky staggered into an empty sparring room, the lights flickering to life with a soft hum. He didn’t even notice. His breath was ragged, shallow. His vision tunneled.

The door hissed shut behind him.

And then—silence.

It rang louder than gunfire.

Louder than that damned voice he’d replayed a hundred times.

"Hail HYDRA"

He slammed his fist into the wall.

The plaster cracked. Bone didn’t.

Again.

This time, the drywall caved. Dust rained down. The pain helped. For a second. But it wasn’t enough.

Nothing would be enough.

They’d told him to stop listening to the audio logs. Said it was messing with his head.

But he had to. He had to. Because he couldn’t believe you said those words unless he heard them himself.

Again. And again.

Because maybe this time he’d catch the lie.

Maybe this time he’d hear the hesitation, the wrongness.

But it never came.

So he believed it. He let himself believe it.

You were the one person who never flinched when you looked at him. Who never held the Winter Soldier against him. Who fought beside him and chose him and saw the man behind the metal.

And he threw you away.

Not with a fight.

Not with rage.

But with silence.

He didn’t say a word when they shut the gates on you.

Didn’t move when you begged for five minutes.

Didn’t look at you when you cried in the hallway outside his room one night, curled up against the door like maybe, just maybe, you’d get through to him if he waited long enough.

He waited.

And you stopped coming.

Bucky dropped to his knees in the center of the room.

His hands trembled.

His breaths came out in short, choked gasps.

He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the floor, forehead pressing into the mat.

He couldn’t breathe.

Not because of the guilt.

Not just that.

But because for the first time in decades, he’d trusted someone completely.

And when that trust was tested, he failed you.

He failed you worse than anyone had ever failed him.

He saw your face again, bloody, fading, your voice shaking with your last words before you passed out.

“You hated me…”

And he didn’t say the one thing he should’ve said.

“Never you.”

His fist hit the ground again. And again.

Until he was curled around himself, shaking.

Until the grief crawled out of his chest like a scream with no air.

He wasn’t crying.

Not at first.

But then, He broke. Silently. Violently.

And for the first time since the war, Bucky Barnes sobbed like a man who had nothing left to lose.

Time passed. He didn’t know how much. Minutes. Maybe hours.

Eventually, footsteps came. A pause in the doorway.

Steve’s voice, quiet. “Wanda told us everything.”

Bucky didn’t lift his head.

Steve stepped in carefully, kneeling beside him.

“You couldn’t have known,” he offered.

Bucky barked a broken laugh. “I should have known. I knew her. I knew her voice. How did I not hear it?”

Steve didn’t answer. Because what answer was there?

Bucky looked up at him finally, eyes red, jaw clenched.

“I didn’t lose her when she disappeared, Steve. I lost her the moment I stopped believing her.”

The conference room was too quiet.

Not the usual silence before a mission briefing. Not the kind of silence filled with anticipation or focus.

This was the heavy, suffocating kind, the kind that followed ruin.

No hum of computers. No tapping keys. No rustling papers. Just the cold, hard absence of sound, and the weight of everything they hadn’t said.

Wanda stood near the tall windows, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She stared through the glass like she could will time to reverse, like maybe she’d see your figure walking toward the compound, smiling, alive, not a ghost made of their guilt.

Steve sat at the head of the table, the spot usually reserved for leadership. But today, it felt like a place of judgment. His posture was rigid, hands folded tightly in front of him, eyes fixed straight ahead like he was bracing for a verdict he already knew.

Sam leaned against the far wall, jaw set, arms folded like a barrier against the blame, though it did nothing to hide the tension locked in his shoulders. His eyes flicked between the others, waiting for someone to speak first.

Natasha sat at the table, nursing a mug of coffee she hadn’t touched. Her eyes were dark, fixed on the faint ripples in the black surface, like they might reveal some alternate version of the past where they hadn’t let you down.

Bucky didn’t sit.

He stood just inside the doorway, arms stiff at his sides, his face carved from stone. The kind of stillness that meant he was barely holding himself together, that sitting still might shatter what little control he had left.

Tony was absent. Whether by accident or choice, no one asked.

No one wanted to say the first word. Because words meant responsibility. Meant facing it. All of it.

Then Wanda exhaled, a sound that broke the tension like a snap of wire.

“She was awake during all of it.”

The words landed like a blow.

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“She heard Rumlow fake her voice,” Wanda went on, her voice trembling. “Heard us. Heard us believe it.”

Steve flinched visibly. “Wanda—”

“She screamed for us,” she said, cutting him off. Sharper than she meant to. Her breath caught. “She screamed. And no one came.”

Sam opened his mouth, stopped. “Because we thought—” His voice cracked. He didn’t finish.

“You thought she betrayed us,” Bucky said flatly, his eyes staring somewhere distant. “So did I.”

He dropped his gaze to the floor. His voice came quieter, tighter. “I listened to that comms feed every night like it was proof. Proof she lied. That she turned on us.”

A breath shuddered out of him. “I made myself believe it.”

Natasha finally spoke. Her voice was quiet. “We all did.”

Wanda nodded slowly, once. “We didn’t just turn our backs. We exiled her. Left her alone. Let her believe she deserved it.”

Steve’s head shook slowly, his expression tight. “She’s not dead. She’s going to wake up. We’ll make this right.”

Bucky let out a bitter sound. It wasn’t laughter. It was what you got when you tried to laugh with a broken rib, dry, painful, wrong.

“Make it right?” he echoed. “How? There’s no mission plan for this. No clean op. We left her bleeding outside our door. And she still came back to warn us about Hydra.”

His voice grew louder, rawer. “And the worst part? She didn’t stop trying.”

Sam’s shoulders sagged. He let out a breath, shaking his head slowly. “I heard her outside the hangar. That night after the mission. She was asking to talk. I turned up my music to drown it out.”

“You’re not the only one,” Natasha murmured.

Wanda’s gaze swept across the room. “Do you think she’ll want to stay when she wakes up?”

The silence returned, heavier than before.

Because none of them knew.

Because the version of you they remembered, the one who laughed in the kitchen, who stitched up Steve’s side mid-mission without blinking, who fought like the team’s safety was more important than your life, that person was gone.

And the one lying unconscious in the medbay?

They didn’t know if she’d come back.

Didn’t know if she even wanted to.

Steve finally stood, his hands braced on the table. His voice was steady, but low.

“We owe her more than apologies.”

Across the room, Bucky didn’t lift his head.

He just said, quiet and firm, “We owe her everything.”

Darkness wasn’t empty.

It pressed against you, not with silence, but with pressure. Thick and slow, like sinking into a dark ocean where sound bent and meaning vanished. You couldn’t tell which way was up. Couldn’t find the edges of yourself.

Then, a sound. Dull, distant, and familiar.

Beeping. Slow, steady, rhythmic. Life.

A flicker sparked in your fingers. A twitch. Then breath, shallow and dry against the raw scrape of your throat.

Voices emerged from the dark.

“…any change?”

It was rough. Worn thin. But you knew it. Bucky.

A pause.

“No… but she’s breathing on her own now.”

Sam. Steady. Tired, but hopeful.

You weren’t alone.

The darkness began to thin, shadows peeling back from your senses. You floated there, tethered by their voices, by the familiar sound of machines and distant footsteps and something soft beneath your spine.

A bed.

And then, a touch. Not pain. Not intrusion, just a hand.

Calloused. The cold edge of metal across your knuckles, softened by the warmth in his grip.

Bucky.

You didn’t open your eyes. Couldn’t. But your chest lifted just slightly, breath slow and steady beneath the faint weight of blankets and time.

You were alive.

And you weren’t alone.

When you finally stirred again, daylight filled the room.

The sun spilled golden through the wide windowpanes, painting the medbay in soft light. Your body ached. Not just from wounds and muscles unused, but deeper than that. Bone-deep. Soul-deep.

But you felt.

That mattered.

You blinked slowly, vision fuzzy.

The scent in the air was familiar. Warm, subtle. Aftershave. Bucky’s. He’d been there. Maybe only just left.

The door creaked.

Wanda stepped inside, the soft swish of her coat marking her approach. She froze the moment she saw you, your eyes cracked open, barely, but open.

Her hands flew to her mouth, tears rising fast.

“Y/N?”

You couldn’t speak, not yet. But your fingers twitched. Enough.

She crossed the room in a heartbeat, her movements careful but urgent. She reached you, brushing your hair back gently with trembling hands.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice thick and bare. “I didn’t see you. I should’ve. I should’ve known.”

You blinked once.

And still, she smiled, a sad, grateful thing through her tears.

“You’re safe now,” she said. “They’re all waiting. When you’re ready.”

She stayed a moment longer, her thumb brushing your cheek with the lightest pressure. Then she stood.

At the door, she paused.

“Bucky’s been here every day,” she said. “He never left your side.”

And then she was gone.

Time passed in fragments.

Moments of awareness. Fleeting conversations. Familiar faces hovering above you like dreams.

Natasha. Sam. Steve.

Each came alone, quiet and hesitant. Each one carrying guilt they didn’t know how to put into words, but they tried.

You listened.

You didn’t have the strength to answer. Not yet. But you heard them.

And every time they left… you waited.

Until one day, your voice cracked through the stillness like a match to dry tinder.

“Is Bucky here?”

The nurse didn’t answer. Just smiled and stepped out.

And within minutes, he came.

The door opened softly.

Boots scraped lightly on the tile, hesitant. Then he appeared, shadowed by the doorway, like he wasn’t sure if he had permission to step inside.

You looked at him.

His eyes widened at the sight of yours open, focused.

“Hey,” you rasped.

The sound shattered something in him.

His jaw clenched. He nodded once, stepped inside.

Closer.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Like guilt had been carved into his ribs and he’d learned to breathe around it.

You tried to sit up. Pain flared down your side.

“Don’t—no, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

He moved instantly, metal fingers adjusting your pillows with a gentleness that nearly undid you. His other hand hovered near yours, waiting, not assuming.

When you finally settled, you turned to him.

“Everyone’s already said their piece,” you whispered. “I figured you were avoiding yours.”

He flinched.

“I wasn’t avoiding it,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t… I didn’t know if you wanted to hear it from me.”

You studied him, the lines in his face deeper than before. “I wanted to explain. The night I came back.”

“I know.”

“You wouldn’t even look at me.”

“I couldn’t,” he whispered. “Not because I hated you. I just… I couldn’t see your face and not think of that moment in the comms. Your voice. Telling us you were Hydra. That you’d been playing us.”

You looked away.

“I heard it too,” you said. “While they hurt me. While they let that voice pretend to be mine. I listened to myself destroy everything I cared about.”

His hand twitched.

“I kept hoping… someone would figure it out. That you would.”

He stared at the floor.

“I failed you,” he said, voice rough.

You looked back at him.

“I didn’t question it,” he said, breath hitching. “I didn’t ask for proof. I didn’t listen to my gut. I just assumed the worst.”

A pause.

Then you said it. The truth that still ached.

“You loved me. And you still didn’t trust me.”

His eyes shone, red-rimmed.

“I never stopped,” he whispered. “That was the problem.”

You looked down at his hand, still hovering near yours.

“If I had trusted you,” he continued, “then believing that voice would’ve broken me. I think I was trying to protect myself by not believing in you. But it cost you everything.”

Silence.

And then slowly, painfully, you turned your hand, laced your fingers with his.

“It’s not your forgiveness you need to ask for,” you said. “It’s mine.”

He looked up.

“Do I have it?”

You squeezed his hand.

“You’re going to have to earn it.”

He nodded, fiercely. “Then I will.”

And in that moment, something shifted.

No more silence.

No more pretending.

Just the truth, bruised and raw, between you.

A beginning.

Together.

See my other stories here >>> Masterlist <<<

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Multiverse Police

I've seen the idea that GIW is actually SCP foundation somewhere, and lately, I've been thinking a lot about Fenton Happy Ending, so I bring you this. Behold, GIW/SCP, Team Phantom, and Fentons are working all together, and the whole wide multiverse fears them.

So, a giant green Lazarus Pit that looks more like a vortex than an actual Pit randomly opens in, say, Ohio. Because I heard a lot of weird shit happens in Ohio. The world is worried, JL gets sent there, but they are not exactly sure of what to do with it. Nothing comes out of it, and, well, no one is volunteering to just jump inside it - Batman made everyone read his files on Lazarus Waters, and they are reasonably wary.

But then a thing appears literally out of thin air on top of it. It looks like a spaceship, kind of, but more sci-fi than what real spaceships look like. And before anyone says anything, a large green - Lazarus green - dome appears, effectively covering both the ship and the Pit and cutting the heroes off.

The heroes are Confused (tm). And worried. And no one has an idea of what the fuck is going on, for all they know it could be some kind of yet another alien invasion.

Then, two figures on the hoverboards - one read and one teal - come out of the ship, flying over the Pit. They are followed by drones, and they all look like they are... scanning the Pit? A few more people, wearing black visors and shiny white suits that look like they are packed with all kinds of tech, slide down on the ropes straight inside the Pit. It sure looks like they are very familiar with it and have a good idea of what they are doing, working as a team.

One of the figures on the hoverboard, the one in a teal suit, notices the heroes on the other side of the green dome. She - because both of them look feminine enough - slows down and flies down to the ground, landing in front of Superman and taking off her helmet. It reveals a rather young, no older than twenty years old girl with fiery red hair tied in a bun, with eyes the same color as her suit. She smiles at them.

"Hi, you must be the Justice League?" She asks politely, and as Superman gives her a nod just out of surprise at her friendly attitude, she touches her ear, "Mom, this is DC sector universe. Pretty sure it's not a dimension we've been before, though." She turns back to Superman, "You don't recognize any of this, do you?"

Batman intervenes before Supes has the time to answer, "Who are you?"

The girl nods and taps her ear again, "Yeah, they definitely don't know us. So mark it as either an unfamiliar dimension or an unfamiliar timeline." Then she turns to Batman and smiles.

"You can call us interdimensional police. And since all the Batmans we ever encountered never believed us, I'm going to send you a copy of the files your other versions complied all together, so you can read and add more if you feel like it."

She touches her wrist computer, and, a few moments later, Batman's comm comes online with Oracle's voice:

"B, I'm getting a shit ton of files on... Multiverse Law Enforcement?.. out of nowhere. What's going on?"

Now, JL is baffled. Some of them - Flashes and Bats, for example - knew there was a whole wide multiverse going on, but to learn the multiverse has police? That's new.

Meanwhile, the redhead continues:

"The green thing behind me is a natural portal to the Infinite Realms, the dimension between dimensions. Which is really not what is supposed to be happening, so we are in the process of fixing it. It will take from ten minutes to a few hours, depending on what's on the other side, but the portal will be gone soon, and then I'll have to ask you some questions."

"Questions about what?" Asks Flash, and the girl waves her hand in the air.

"Oh, well, about the portals? If one so big is opening up, it means a few smaller ones had to exist in this dimension already. Our tech is not picking them up if they are smaller than a certain size, but you must have seen them before. I believe in the DC sector, you call them Lazarus Pits? We can take care of them later, too."

The second hoverboarder flies closer to them and revs her engine.

"Jazz, talk to them later, Tucker and Agents are done. Fentons are about to get Dannies down, so you need to either come up or leave the shield."

The girl - Jazz - looks surprised.

"Dan, too?"

"Yeah, it's the Toothy Jungle on the other side. They wanted to ask Ember, but, eh, what's her guitar gonna do to plants, even if they are sentient?" The red hoverboarder shrugs, and Jazz tilts her head, looking back to the heroes.

"I think I'll stay with them. You know it gets violent when Dan goes down, so people get antsy about us. I don't want to give the wrong impression."

The other girl huffs, but doesn't argue.

"Okay. Get out of the shield, then, and for Ancients sake, keep your comm open. Danny has an aneurysm every time you turn it off." With that, she flies away, back to the ship, and Jazz taps her hoverboard so it folds down into a hexagon shape no bigger than a backpack. Then, she steps through the shield, joining the JL on the other side of it.

"Are you not scared we might take you hostage?" Asks Wonder Woman just out of curiosity, and Jazz smiles pleasantly at her.

"Don't judge a girl by her looks. I don't want to brag, but I did fist fight Superman once and won."

----------

So basically, after Amity Park got sucked into Infinite Realms, the whole town just kind of collectively decided they like it there. And somehow they reached a happily ever after with both Danny's reveal to his parents and GIW, and then Clockwork showed up and was like, you guys want human food supply, running water and electricity, right? Well, I can do that, and so much more, you can be the ultimate perfect town. And for the price? You gonna go on adventures from time to time and fix the multiverse when shit hits the fan in various dimensions and universes. Doesn't that sound like fun?

And Amity Park, who's seen so much weird stuff over the years that it greatly affected their idea of common sense, goes yeah, that does sound fun! Let's go, people!

So here they are, appearing in different universes and doing damage control. They are, like, the superheroes for superheroes.

I'm probably going to write a part 2 to it, I want to show off Danny and Dan and Dani too. Halfas on the loose, JL is mildly concerned and kind of scared, and Jazz is just like yeah, that's just another regular Tuesday :)

I love Jazz being a badass, yes. Also, if you didn't get it, the other one on the hoverboard is Val, the drones are controlled by Tucker, and the people on the ropes are GIW agents.

| next -> |

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

"HE'S BLEEDING ON MY LIPS"

SYNOPSIS: After a long, hard, and brutal fight with the villain of the week, the teen team returns to HQ exhausted. As team leader, you must ensure everyone is okay, especially your team's powerhouse, Invincible.

You have never met a man more reckless than Mark Grayson. You thought you knew recklessness when you met Rex, but you never knew recklessness like his—not at all. He flew into fights without care for his health or well-being, putting himself in danger every step of the way, self-destructed and thrown around. As team leader, you were the only one there to help him after every battle. After each fight, he always came to the med bay for help with his cuts and bruises. You stayed there scolding him, but it always went in one ear and out the other. You can't with this boy; you really can't, but you really do need him. He’s fast, he's agile; for some reason, you always seem to be able to count on him. Even when he's acting like a total ass, you can always count on him to be by your side, ready for anything. So, what you have to do as team leader is to be by his side and help him.

After a brutal battle with the villain of the week, Mark came to the med bay. You were already there waiting, arms crossed and a scowl on your face, glaring at him. Your eyes peered through his mask; his goggles were shattered, and blood was bleeding from his nose, decorating his mask like bright red paint. At this point, it was part of his suit. If Spirit Halloween ever sold Invincible suits, they would have to make sure to add a bucket of paint on the side as well for accuracy, of course. “So, would you mind telling me why downtown has a crater in the sidewalk?” you said, your legs shaking with frustration, and the guy in front of you had nothing to say for himself.

“Well, I thought I could handle it.” You thought you could handle it? The whole room rumbled. “I gave you that comm for a reason—not as an accessory, but to call us when you need backup. You wouldn't have gotten beaten like that if you just called for help. You could have dismantled the villain quicker and ensured there was no damage in the area! Now, I have to file police reports on why there's an asteroid-sized crater in the middle of the street!” you shouted, and the tall boy sighed before running a hand through his jet-black hair. He walked over to where you were sitting, plopped himself down, and started to scratch his neck—a bad habit of his.

“I’m sorry I had you worried.”

Worried? You were more than worried; you were furious, scared, angry, upset—adjectives you could use to describe how you felt right now—a thousand at this moment. But you kept your mouth shut. “I just want to put so much weight on your shoulders already, team leader. I just wanted to give you a break,” he answered.

Now, you started to feel your heart warming, that cold, icy heart of yours melting into a sweet puddle. God, it was so easy for him to make you crumble like this. Hold yourself together, dude! You cannot allow him to think that you’re going to let him off the hook; there will be no lenience! You were going to tell him off, remind him that you are a strong team leader, and that you’re supposed to carry those burdens. “I’m glad that you’re trying to take things off my shoulders. Things are meant to be on my shoulders. I can handle almost anything, and I know you can too. But at the end of the day, we’re just human. We still bleed, and you’re bleeding on my tile floors!” you quipped, getting a chuckle out of him.

“I’m bleeding out of my nose, and I have a black eye. Are you worried about the tile floors, of course? I’m worried about the tile floor!”

“They’re white,” you answered. “Do you know how hard it is to get blood off of white tile floors?” All he could do was laugh, and he turned around to face you, lowering his head. “Alright, alright, I’ll clean them up, so come on. Take care of your doc, or else I'll start bleeding on your precious cape.” You grumbled, pulling his face closer to yours as you took care of the various wounds on his face. Blood still dripped from his nose, but you didn’t mind. You would deal with it later, you thought, every time you pressed the rubbing alcohol to his face. You had to grip his chin to ensure he didn’t pull away while you continued your work.

You started to feel his breath ghost over yours as he pulled himself closer. Your body began to shiver. What was happening to you? You were acting like a schoolgirl with a crush in front of the fifteen-year-old team leader. “Pull yourself together!” you screamed in your head, but when you looked up at him—his dirt-brown eyes staring into yours, his bloody lips, and his broken nose—you couldn't help but think he looked even cuter like this, so disheveled and vulnerable. He was putting all his trust and faith into you, into your hands, as you guided your fingers around those cuts and bruises on his face. You felt your hands begin to tremble as you quickly finished your job, bandaging his nose and eye, then trying to pull away.

“Doc, my head hurts," he whispered softly into your hand.

“I’ll get some Tylenol for that,” you answered softly.

“No,” his voice was firm. “Just stay.”

And you stayed. You were the one giving the orders, and he was the one following them. This was completely different; it was not in the instruction manual. “Just act professional,” you thought, and you rubbed his temple. “Does this feel better?”

He nods into your hands sweetly, making you sigh. "You're such a baby," you say with a playful grin. "I always have to take care of you. At this point, it feels like you’re just trying to get my attention," you ramble, and he pulls you closer. "Is it working? Do I have your attention, Captain?" you gasp. "Yeah, it’s your full attention, 'cause right now I'm feeling sick, and I think I need you to take care of me." He pulls you even closer, and you don't object.

"Be professional, be professional! Your team leader! Be professional!" your mind screams and yells at you, but you're not listening— not at all. I mean, almost any superhero looks strong next to a cute boy, especially when he’s bloodied and beat up. That must be your secret weakness.

He pulls you into a kiss, and you can taste the metallic flavor of his blood on your lips. You pull away because you're about to object, but he pulls you back in for a peck, then another, and another, until you're making out with him in the med bay, tasting the blood on his skin and on yours, feeling him grip you like a vice. His strong body presses against yours, shaking.

You’re the strong, capable leader. How can you be so weak at this moment? How can you allow him to see you in such a way— so vulnerable? But then again, you’d rather have him see you like this than anyone else. He runs a hand through your hair, tangling his fingers in your locks as he pulls you deeper.

His lips bite at yours, drawing just a bit of blood from them before licking it away. His breath is heavy, and he’s panting, but he doesn’t give himself any time to pull away; he's too busy making sure you’re out of breath. You are; you’re pushing and pulling away from him, trying to tell him to stop, but he’s not, and you’re not. Goodness gracious, what has he turned you into?

You finally pull away, and he’s looking at you with low eyes, the blood smeared on his lips and chin. You touch your face, noticing some of his blood on you now. You kissed a boy with bloody lips, and you liked it.

[subliminalghoest]

Safe house 3

Ghoap x f!reader (read part one & two)

-the third instalment is hereeee

-Warning: Slow-burn, fluff, we getting real angsty with this part (you've been warned)

———————————————————————————

You didn't believe it—not really. But there it was in the scope. A perfect shot.

“Bloody hell,” Price said behind you, voice low with something between disbelief and pride. “That’s 1,750 metres. New team record.”

He clapped a hand on your shoulder. “What’s the reward, then, Lieutenant?”

All eyes flicked to Ghost. He was still looking through the spotting scope, unmoving. Like he needed to double-check that what just happened... actually happened.

It took a second before he spoke, like the words had to boot up. “…Bragging rights.”

It’s a tradition in the team that they never hand out literal awards for new records and such, only the bragging rights over the rest of the team. Nobody wanted trophies turning into reminders of those who didn't make it home.

You rose, still in quiet disbelief, and each member clasped you on the shoulder, offering their kudos—Soap practically lifting you off the floor in excitement, “Christ, I’m never hearin’ the end of it, am I?” he chortled as you helped him up.

You shoved his shoulder. Grinned. “Only fair.”

“Hell of a shot.” You blinked at Ghost quietly packing up the equipment, “You really are as impressive as your file said.”

Your cheeks heated, Simon had never really spoken to you out of choice—only ever orders or corrections during training. You were still relatively new to the team, still figuring out your place with them, and Ghost... Ghost was a fortress. But hey, the harder they are to break, the sweeter the victory.

You smirked, mock saluting. “Just getting started, Lt.”

A deep chuckle escaped him as the finished with the gear, straightening up and confirming that, yes, you still were unaccustomed to his sheer size.

“You are already solid. Don't waste your time proving yourself,” he hesitated “…and call me Simon.”

You didn't know this at the time, but you would grow to become one of the three people with the privilege of seeing the man under the mask.

Back then, it was all about bragging rights. Now... it felt ridiculous to care for something so insignificant.

This was the kind of record nobody celebrated—other than grim understanding of what it meant.

This was the longest anybody had been comms silent and came back to claim their title.

Soap was still out there.

His mission had been a solo recon assist—a quick in-and-out, they said. You and Ghost weren’t on the roster, just supposed to wait it out, keep things running here. But now it was 4 days later—no update. You weren’t on the mission, but your head replayed every worst-case scenario like you were living them anyway.

Your heart thudded heavy in your chest. You stared harder at the screen. Like maybe you could force your thoughts away if you glared long enough.

“Staring isn't gonna bring him back any faster.” Price startled you from your spot curled up in a chair in the tech room, which you had spent more time in than out of the last 4 days.

Rubbing your sore eyes you straightened yourself, “It’s my shift, Captain.”

Confusion crossed his face before he glanced above your head and saw Ghost entering the room, the same dark purple marking his eyes as yours.

“I’m not having two of my best dragging arse if we get the call.” Price pointedly looked between the both of you, “Off the clock means off. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“But we—” a sharp glare in your direction cuts off your objection. Price was your Captain, his word was the law to you, no loopholes.

You gathered the rubbish on the desk from your snacks and began to leave, noticing Ghost had left without waiting for you or uttering a single word—strange.

Sleep evaded you into the early hours of the morning, the base silent around you. Too quiet. Without Soap here it felt like your world axis had been shifted and there was a gap that wouldn't fill until he returned. He would return, he had to. Claim his record title and brag your ear off about it far into the future.

The ceiling began moving as your eyes unfocused from staring at it too hard, pressing your palm into the sockets to try and alleviate the sting.

Then—

A knock.

You sat up instantly, heart leaping into your throat. For one impossible second, you thought it might be Johnny. Back, smiling like always, grinning through dirt and blood.

“I’d like to see you last 4 days in the wilderness with no comms, fucking majestic I was—wish you could've seen it, eh?”

But the knock came again—slower. Heavier.

Not Soap.

“…Yeah?” you called, already getting up knowing who it would most likely be.

You cracked the door open, and Ghost’s hulking figure filled the space.

He lingered in the doorway, half-lit by the hallway light. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

You blinked at him. “You okay?”

He stepped inside and shut the door softly behind him. He looked more tired than usual. Heavy. Not in a physical way, but in the way he carried the silence around him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Didn’t want to sit in my head all night.”

You nodded and motioned to the bed. “Sit. I’m up anyway.”

He sat down without a word, elbows braced on his knees. You stood in front of him, waiting.

Ghost wasn’t one to spill his thoughts easily. But he looked up at you now, his voice raw in a way you rarely heard.

“I keep thinkin’ the worst,” he admitted. “Every time the comms go dark like this, I wonder if I’ve already seen him for the last time.”

Your breath caught. You hadn’t let yourself say that out loud. Not yet. But Ghost’s voice cracked something open in you. Tore off the bandage you’d put up.

“He’s smart,” you said, gently. “He’s been in tighter spots than this.”

“I know.” He paused. “Still... it’s different when it’s someone you—” He cut himself off. Looked away.

You blinked. Love, thats what he was gonna say—not in the brother in arms, die for eachtoher way. They lovedeachhother.

Still, you kept your voice soft. Steady. “That’s why you’re scared,” you said. “You love him.”

Ghost didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the floor between his boots. Then—barely audible—“Yeah.”

A silence settled over you both, you didn't know how to respond. Already too emotionally raw from the past few days to fully fill in the gaps of what this meant in your head. You didn't need to though, Ghost continued, “We’ve been together. For a while.”

A while.

Oh.

You nodded slowly, but it felt like something inside you had been suddenly carved out.

You thought the safehouse night had been the start of something. Some messy, fragile maybe. But this?

They’d already had their beginning. And maybe an entire middle, too. And you... you’d just been a brief detour.

Your stomach twisted.

You moved closer, just slightly, and let your fingers brush over his shoulder. “He’ll come back,” you murmured. “To you.”

Ghost lifted his head at that. His eyes were unreadable behind the mask, but he reached out—slowly—and caught your wrist. Gently pulled you forward until you were standing between his knees.

Then his arms went around you, and he tugged you into a hug—tight, grounding.

You stiffened for a split second, then let yourself melt into it. Even with your heart aching, you didn’t pull away.

He needed comfort. And despite everything, you wanted to give it to him.

You stayed like that for a long moment. Your cheek pressed to the top of his head, his hands curled around your waist. His breath steady against your stomach. You let your fingers run gently through his hair where his mask didn’t cover it.

The moment stretched on as you held each other, bordering on the kind of intimacy you had been working so hard to forget.

Finally, he shifted, tilting his head up. “Can I stay?”

You hesitated. Then nodded. You couldn’t resist sliding your palm against his cheek, your heart squeezing slightly when he leaned his head into your palm and smiled softly. He looked so beautiful in that moment, it almost hurt to look at him.

He peeled away with a kiss to your palm, pulled away and climbed into bed. Your bed. You joined him, keeping to the edge at first, unsure. Your back to him.

But then his hand found your hip.

He hesitated. You could feel it in the way he held his breath.

Then he gently tugged.

You let him. Took what was given.

His arm came around your waist. His body curved against your back. Cocooning you in a warmth which quieted your mind.

Peaceful.

He pressed his face into your hair, and you could feel the tremble in his chest. Like even now, even after everything, he was still coming undone.

You let yourself be held.

Neither of you spoke for a while. Just the quiet sound of breathing in the dark.

Then Ghost said, voice dry, “You remember the safehouse?”

You let out a soft sound, half-laugh. “Kinda hard to forget, Simon.”

“Hm.” He nudged your temple with his nose, “Didn’t take you for a cuddler back then.”

“I’m not,” you muttered. “That was survival. You two were warm. That’s all.”

“Right,” he said, clearly unconvinced.

You tilted your head back enough to look at him. “You started it, anyway.”

“Hmm, don’t blame me—Soap was the one practically drooling on your neck.” he added, almost fondly.

You laughed, and he chuckled low behind you. It warmed something inside you that had gone cold earlier.

But then he shifted again, and his fingers traced the curve of your neck—your breath hitched. “Don’t regret it, though. Best night sleep I’ve had in years.”

He remained there for a moment, testing your reaction to his hand tracing patterns on your neck. Cataloguing each hitch or stutter to your breath—how your legs softly shifted when he found a sensitive spot behind your ear.

He moved his hand higher, gripping your chin and tilted your head toward him slowly. Gently.

Your body shifted to face his, settling against each other just as easily as you had in that safe house.

Ghost stared at you like he was waiting for you to pull away first—like he was giving you the chance to take it back.

You didn’t.

You leaned in, just enough, and his eyes shuttered closed.

When his lips met yours, it was soft. Fragile. A question, not a demand. You answered with the same quiet need, sinking into him, one hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt.

He kissed you like he didn’t know if he was allowed to want this—but couldn’t stop himself anyway.

It deepened, gradually. Mouths pressing firmer, breaths quickening. His hands tightened at your waist, fingers twitching with restraint.

You could feel the rough fabric of his mask brushing your lips. A barrier stopping you from feeling him fully.

And then, without thinking, you reached up—gripped the edges—and pulled.

He stilled, just for a moment. But he didn’t stop you.

You peeled the mask off and tossed it to the side—didn’t care where it landed. You wanted him.

And he gave in.

The kiss broke for half a breath—just long enough to see his eyes, wide and searching—and then your mouths crashed together again.

No restraint now.

Your hands buried in his hair, his tongue sweeping against yours, slow and warm and desperate. He groaned into your mouth, raw and wrecked, and the sound shattered something in you, sent heat pooling in your core.

You didn’t hold back.

You let yourself get lost in it—chests pressed, bodies tangled, breath stuttering between kisses that bled together. Hands grasping at your hips pulling you further into him, feeling the need for you against your core. Twisting, his body now half on top of you as he pushed you deeper into the mattress. There was no precision. No careful rhythm. Just aching mouths and shaking hands and raw, quiet desperation.

You kissed like you were the only thing keeping each other grounded.

You kissed like it meant everything.

And maybe… maybe for a moment, it did.

But then—reality.

You felt it before you thought it. A crackle of guilt. A flash of doubt.

Reality crashed in.

You pulled back.

Not all at once. Just an inch. Then another.

Ghost chased you for a second, eyes still closed, lips parted—until he felt the absence and opened his eyes.

Hurt flickered across his face, subtle but unmistakable. His hands didn’t let go, but they loosened, unsure. Shifting back so he was no longer laid on top of you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, breathless. Touching your fingers to your swollen, sensitive lips. Feeling to make sure that had just happened, but also maybe a barrier to stop it from continuing, “I shouldn’t have…”

He shook his head, voice rough. “No. Don’t be. I shouldn’t have—”

“Let’s just not, okay?” You rested your hands against his chest, smiling softly to reassure him.

He didn’t press further. Just rested his forehead against yours.

“Okay,” he murmured.

He lay back, pulling you with him until your head rested on his chest. One arm stayed firm around you, hand rubbing slow circles against your spine.

You curled your fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

Neither of you spoke again.

Eventually, your breathing synced.

Tonight, you were just two people lost in the quiet, holding on to what comfort and warmth you could find while your friend was gone.

The morning came slow.

Sunlight leaked in through the blinds, painting thin golden lines across the sheets. The room was quiet—still wrapped in that rare hush that only came after long, heavy nights.

You stirred first.

For a second, you didn’t know where you were. A solid wall infront of you giving you no clues as your brain struggled to wake itself up. Then you felt the weight of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his chest against your back, the steady breath brushing the back of your neck.

Ghost.

Your heart kicked up again—but not with panic, not quite. It was a soft ache. Bittersweet.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

He was still asleep. You could tell by the way his fingers twitched now and then against your stomach, relaxed in a way he rarely let himself be. His face—half buried against your shoulder—was bare still. His mask lay abandoned somewhere on the floor, like it hadn’t mattered last night. He’d let you see him when the rest of the world couldn’t.

You didn’t know what this was. What it meant. But you knew what it had felt like.

You settled further into his arms, carefully threading your fingers through his resting in your stomach, bringing his hand up to the centre of your chest. Letting yourself enjoy it. Just for a little longer. You weren’t ready for the world outside this bed. Not yet.

But reality never waited long.

Ghost’s phone buzzed.

The sound was sharp—too loud in the stillness.

You felt him jolt slightly behind you, his breath catching. Then the arm around you tightened reflexively before pulling away altogether.

You watched him move in silence.

He rolled over, reached for his phone. Pulling you with him with his other arm, tucking you in firmly against his side. A short kiss pressed into your hairline, sweet, soft, a side of Simon you hadn’t experienced before but seemed so natural to him you wondered if this is what he would be like, waking up with him every morning, the thought felt dangerous.

Screen glow lit up his face. You saw the moment it happened—the second everything changed.

The message on the screen must’ve hit him like a shot to the chest.

“Johnny’s back,” he said, voice flat. Distant.

Your heart surged. Relief swept through you fast, hard—but it was eclipsed almost instantly by the shift in him.

“That’s good,” you managed, voice low. You sat up slowly, the sheet wrapped tight around your chest. “He okay?”

He sat up fast. Swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Started grabbing his things, pulling on his boots, his hoodie, reaching for the mask. “I assume so. Just got a general update. I’ll check on him.”

He didn’t look at you.

You ran your fingers through your hair, trying to shake the quiet, the stillness that had turned suffocating.

“So…” you tried, a bit too casually. “You heading straight over?”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

Nothing more.

“Simon—” you started.

He just kept moving like the night hadn’t happened. Like the warmth you’d shared was some illusion.

You sat up straighter, sheet clutched to your chest. “Ghost.”

That finally got a pause out of him.

Half-dressed, mask still in his hand, he stood at the foot of the bed, back still to you.

“I shouldn’t have come last night,” he said. Quiet. Measured.

You flinched like he’d hit you.

No mention of the way you’d kissed him. No acknowledgment of the way he’d held you like he might fall apart if he let go. No sign of the soft, raw version of Simon that had laid beside you in the dark.

You bit your lip. Swallowed hard.

He looked over his shoulder—just barely. His eyes were unreadable again, that wall going up inch by inch. The wall you thought he’d let you behind for a moment.

Then he turned away. Pulled the mask back on.

The man who’d kissed you like he was drowning was gone. Replaced with the Ghost the world always saw. Cold. Sharp. Untouchable.

He reached for the door and suddenly you couldn’t let him leave like this. You knew once he left you would never build the courage to ask him what this meant. Would never know.

“Wait,” you said, voice cracking. “So that’s it? We just…” You didn’t know how to finish the sentence and the weight of it hung heavy in the air.

He hesitated—hand on the doorknob. The silence stretched.

Then, finally, “I can’t.”

And he left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence.

You sat there for a long time.

The room still smelled like him. The sheets still held the imprint of his body. But he was gone. You were alone.

Your throat burned.

You dragged the blanket off, beginning to recollect yourself—get ready to face the day, whatever state Soap had been found in.

And deep down, you weren’t sure which cut deeper—the fear of finding Johnny…or the certainty you’d already lost Simon.

You let the quiet crush you.

Next part here

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Soft Enough To Break

bob reynolds x fem!reader

joaquin torres x fem!readers

The sound of Y/N’s boots echoed down the polished marble floors of Avengers Tower, familiar and comforting. Sunlight poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting off metal accents and casting golden shadows across the open atrium. The city below was alive — honking horns, the steady rumble of trains, the low buzz of chaos. But up here, everything felt… still.

“Morning, trouble.”

She turned at the voice. Joaquin was leaned casually in the doorway, arms crossed, that lazy grin she’d come to love tugging at his lips. His dog tags clinked softly against his chest as he pushed off the frame and walked over.

Y/N smirked, letting her bag fall to the floor before sliding her arms around his neck. “You’re calling me trouble? You’re the one who almost got shot in Bolivia because you wouldn’t stop flirting mid-mission.”

“I maintain it was effective misdirection,” Joaquin murmured, dipping his head to kiss her cheek. “Also? Totally worked.”

She laughed quietly, the sound warm against his chest as he pulled her in. It was easy between them — or at least it used to be. She felt it now, that strange unfamiliar weight pressing on her from the inside. A feeling like something was shifting and she didn’t have the language for it yet.

“I got clearance for the Prague op,” Joaquin said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Sam wants us running recon together again.”

“That’s good.” Her voice was soft but distracted.

Joaquin caught it — just the tiniest note of distance. “Hey,” he said, catching her chin between his thumb and finger. “You okay?”

Y/N forced a smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly.

Before Joaquin could ask more, a voice buzzed over the tower comms. “Y/N — report to the east wing. Briefing with Captain Wilson and Sergeant Barnes.”

She glanced at him, grateful for the interruption. “Duty calls.”

Joaquin kissed her quickly. “Try not to fall in love with anyone while I’m gone.”

Her smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. “Only you, Torres.”

But even as she walked away, she felt it—the quiet ache of something unspoken dragging behind her like a shadow. And she had no idea that what waited in the east wing would be the beginning of everything unraveling.

——

The hallway to the east wing was long, quieter than the rest of the tower. She passed by portraits of former missions — candid shots of the old team, the new team, scattered memories sealed behind glass. She didn’t stop to look. Her boots tapped a steady rhythm on the floor as she approached the conference room.

Inside, the lighting was soft, warm. Sam was standing near the large screen, arms folded, looking over a file. Bucky sat at the edge of the table, his vibranium fingers drumming lightly against the surface.

Y/N stepped inside, shoulders straight. “You called?”

Sam looked up and gave her a tight smile. “Yeah. Come in. Shut the door.”

She did, silently crossing the room.

“What’s this about?” she asked, noting the way both men shared a brief glance before Sam spoke.

“You ever heard of Bob Reynolds?” Sam asked, stepping aside to pull up a holographic display on the screen.

Y/N’s eyebrows drew together. “The Sentry?” She folded her arms. “Didn’t think he was real.”

“Oh, he’s real,” Bucky said, low. “And he’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous,” she repeated, slowly. “And I’m here because…?”

Sam sighed and pulled up a second file — this one much more personal. Footage. A surveillance still. A profile sheet with her name and codename in bold.

“You’re the only person we trust to handle this,” he said. “Bob’s power is—” he exhaled, “—limitless. Cosmic-level strength. But what’s worse is he doesn’t always remember what he is. And when that happens… he becomes something else. The Void.”

Y/N leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “And what do you want me to do? Kill him if he snaps?”

“No,” Sam said quickly. “We want you to help him control it.”

Bucky stood now, pushing off the table and crossing his arms. “We’ve seen you work. You’re the strongest chaos magic wielder this planet has ever seen — maybe this galaxy. You can contain magic. But more importantly, you can teach him how to live with it. How to exist without destroying everything.”

“Why me?” she asked, voice lower. Not arguing — but trying to understand.

“Because you know what it feels like,” Bucky said, voice quieter now. “To be scared of yourself. To lose people because of what you can’t always control.”

The words cut deeper than they were meant to. She felt them settle somewhere in her chest, bitter and warm.

“He’s coming here?” she asked.

“Today,” Sam nodded. “He’s been under observation, and Bucky got him cleared for reintegration. He’ll be living in the tower. Close to the team. Close to you.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened.

Bucky gave her a look — not pushy, not forceful. Just… knowing. “You don’t have to like it. But you’re the only one who’s gonna get through to him.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Fine.”

Sam’s brows raised slightly. “That easy?”

Y/N nodded once. “I’ll help him.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out.

But if they’d watched her closely, they would’ve seen it — the smallest flicker of unease in her eyes. Not fear of Bob Reynolds.

Fear of what this might stir up inside her.

———

The sky over Manhattan was painted in thick, bruised clouds when the quinjet landed on the private roof deck of Avengers Tower. Wind whipped across the roof in sudden gusts, tugging at Y/N’s dark coat as she stood still, arms crossed, eyes narrowed on the aircraft as it touched down.

The engines quieted. The rear ramp hissed open.

She didn’t know what she was expecting. Maybe someone towering, maybe radiating energy or trembling with rage. But when Bob Reynolds stepped out — slow, cautious, eyes squinting against the wind — he just looked like a man.

Blonde hair mussed by the flight, broad shoulders hunched like he was trying not to take up too much space. A duffel bag slung over one arm. Blue hoodie. Black jeans. No armor. No mask. No threats.

Just a man.

Sam stepped forward to meet him first. “Bob. Welcome back.”

Bob nodded once. “Thanks for not sending a containment team.”

Sam chuckled dryly. “You blow up half a city, we might reconsider.”

That made Bob wince, but he didn’t argue. His gaze flicked past Sam — and landed on her.

Y/N didn’t move. Didn’t offer a smile. Just stood there and studied him.

“Bob Reynolds,” Sam said, gesturing. “This is—”

“I know who she is.” Bob’s voice was quiet. Not reverent, but certain.

Y/N’s brows raised. “Oh?”

He nodded. “I’ve read your file. Watched the Sokovia footage. Vienna. Lagos. You nearly pulled a moon out of orbit once.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You keeping tabs on me, Reynolds?”

Bob tilted his head slightly, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “You terrify most people. I just… understand you.”

Something about the way he said it made her stomach shift.

Sam cleared his throat, breaking the tension. “Right. Well, you’ll be on the residential floor. We put you in the empty suite next to Y/N’s — just for convenience.”

Y/N shot Sam a glance. “Convenience?”

“For training purposes,” Sam added quickly, not missing a beat. “And only temporary.”

Bob just gave a small shrug. “That’s fine. I don’t sleep much anyway.”

As they walked inside, Bob kept a few steps behind, not speaking. Not looking at anything for too long. Like he didn’t want to make a wrong move. Like he was afraid even eye contact might unravel something.

Once in the elevator, it was just the two of them. The silence was palpable.

“I don’t do pep talks,” she said flatly.

Bob nodded, hands in his hoodie pocket. “Good. I don’t respond to them.”

They stood in silence for a beat longer.

Then he turned, just slightly. “You think this is gonna work?”

Y/N didn’t look at him. “Don’t know. That’s on you.”

Bob nodded again, like he respected that. “If I go Void again…”

“You won’t.”

“But if I do.”

She turned her head, finally meeting his eyes. There was no softness there — just promise.

“I’ll stop you.”

He studied her for a long second, then looked ahead as the doors slid open.

“I hope you do.”

———

Day one of training started in the lower levels — deep under the tower where the reinforced combat rooms and containment zones were buried beneath layers of concrete and vibranium alloy.

Y/N stood in the center of the chamber, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Bob stood across from her, sweatshirt discarded, now in standard-issue tactical gear. Still no glowing eyes, no crackling energy. Just that same quiet restraint.

“You ever meditate?” she asked.

Bob shrugged. “Tried. Didn’t work.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Because you got bored, or because the universe started melting?”

He gave a faint smile. “Both.”

She nodded once. “Then we’ll start smaller.”

Her hands lifted, palms glowing faint red. Chaos magic pulsed softly at her fingertips.

“I’m going to push you. Not hard — just enough. Your job is to stay conscious. Stay you. If I feel you slipping, I shut it down.”

Bob nodded. “Okay.”

She didn’t hesitate. A pulse of red shot from her hand, wrapping around him like a coil. Not painful — but it had weight. Magic laced with memory, emotion, control.

Bob flinched, jaw tightening. His breath caught.

“What are you feeling?” she asked.

He blinked slowly. “Everything.”

Her voice stayed even. “Be more specific.”

“Fear. Anger. Wanting to let go.”

“Don’t.”

He groaned softly — low and almost animalistic — as his body trembled slightly, gold starting to flicker at the edges of his eyes.

She stepped in closer. “Bob.”

He lifted his head. “I feel like I’m drowning.”

“You’re not.” Her voice was sharp. “You’re standing. Look at me.”

His eyes locked on hers. Bright. Burning. But he was still there.

“Breathe.”

He did. Shaky at first. Then again. And again.

And the gold retreated.

She released the spell, watching as the tension bled out of his body.

“You okay?” she asked, tone almost gentle now.

Bob leaned forward, hands on his knees, panting. “You weren’t kidding.”

“No,” she said, studying him. “I don’t do that.”

There was a beat of silence. Then—

“How did you learn to control it?” he asked, glancing up at her. “Your power.”

“I didn’t.” She said it flatly. “Not at first.”

Bob straightened slowly.

“I killed people. Good ones. People I loved. I erased a whole town from the map. I broke the world before I even knew how to hold it in my hands.” Her eyes met his again. “Control came later.”

He didn’t flinch at the confession. Just watched her — the way she spoke about it like a history book. Facts. Damage. Lessons.

She turned away. “Same time tomorrow.”

As she started toward the exit, his voice caught her.

“Thank you.”

She paused, not turning back. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Then she disappeared through the door, her red magic flickering behind her.

⸻

Later that night, Bob sat in his room, drenched in sweat, hands trembling as he stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The glow in his eyes had faded — but her voice lingered.

“You’re standing. Look at me.”

It had worked. He hadn’t broken.

And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel completely alone inside his own mind.

———

The fourth day of training started like all the others — underground, dimly lit, reinforced walls and high-stakes expectations.

Bob was already in the room when she walked in. He’d stopped flinching when the security door groaned open now. That was progress.

“You’re early,” she noted, stepping inside, her boots echoing lightly on the concrete floor.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said simply, eyes scanning her face. “Nightmares.”

She didn’t say me too, but something in her jaw ticked. She got it.

“Alright.” She circled him, eyes scanning his posture, the tension in his shoulders. “Then let’s make you tired enough to sleep.”

He gave a half-smile. “You always this gentle with people you’re training?”

“Only the ones who could vaporize New York in under six seconds.”

She flicked her hand, and a ring of scarlet magic surrounded them. A protective barrier, just in case. Then she raised both hands.

“Let’s see what you’ve learned.”

He nodded once.

It started slow — red against gold, spell against light, force meeting force. Controlled bursts, measured impact. But he was stronger today. His shields held longer. His breathing steadied faster. And for a brief second, she let herself wonder what he could be — if he really harnessed it.

But then something shifted.

One of her spells ricocheted — rebounded off his field and struck him square in the chest. Not hard, not fatal, but enough to knock the air from his lungs and send him backward.

“Shit—Bob!”

She was by his side before she even registered moving. He was on the floor, coughing once, blinking hard. But his eyes were still his.

“I’m okay,” he rasped, one hand on her arm before she could pull away. “I’m okay.”

Her hand had instinctively gone to his chest — flat over his heartbeat, the other near his temple. She felt his pulse beneath her palm.

His eyes searched hers.

She should’ve moved. She knew that. But she didn’t. Couldn’t.

“You didn’t lose control,” she said softly.

“You helped,” he replied, just as soft.

Something hung in the air between them. Taut. Fragile. Unspoken.

Her hand slowly lowered, but her gaze didn’t break from his.

“I’m not here to save you,” she said, quieter now. “I’m here to teach you to save yourself.”

“I know,” he murmured.

But the way he looked at her — it didn’t feel like gratitude. It felt like something warmer. Deeper.

She stood abruptly, swallowing whatever just almost happened.

“Training’s done for today.”

Bob sat up slowly. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she lied. “You need to rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She didn’t look back when she left the room — didn’t let herself.

But later, she stood alone in the dark of her room, staring out the window, her fingers curling slightly with leftover energy she hadn’t meant to feel.

Something was shifting.

And she didn’t know if she could stop it.

———

They hadn’t even kissed hello when Joaquin pulled her aside.

Everyone was gathered in the common room — some post-mission debrief, something about recon, maybe a new threat. But the second he saw her walk in and settle on the couch across from Bob — not next to him — he felt it.

“Hey,” he said quietly, tugging her by the wrist toward the hall just outside the room.

She followed, glancing once over her shoulder.

“What’s up?” she asked, casual. Too casual.

Joaquin leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed just slightly.

“You’ve been… different lately.”

She blinked. “Okay? That’s vague.”

He didn’t laugh.

“You don’t talk to me after missions. You train late. You leave early. When I text, it takes hours to hear back. And I walk in today and you’re already here — talking to him.”

Her jaw clenched. “Bob is my assignment.”

“Right,” Joaquin said, nodding. “And I’m your boyfriend. So maybe you could pretend that matters too.”

She exhaled sharply through her nose, suddenly on defense.

“Even if I’ve been distant,” she said slowly, “you didn’t do anything about it. You didn’t ask. You didn’t try. So don’t act like you care now that it feels threatened.”

His eyes flashed. “Wow. That’s where we are?”

She crossed her arms, hugging herself a little without meaning to. “You’re not wrong. I have been off. I’m… overwhelmed. I’m trying to train someone whose power makes mine look like fireworks. And I’m doing it without any backup.”

“I never asked you to do it alone—”

“No,” she cut in, “but no one else stepped in either.”

He stared at her for a long beat.

Then, softer, almost broken: “Are you in love with him?”

She blinked. Hard. The question stunned her — not because it was completely out of nowhere… but because it echoed too close to something she’d been fighting not to feel.

So she didn’t answer it.

Instead, she deflected, voice cold:

“Are you that insecure?”

He flinched like she’d slapped him. Her heart sank — but she didn’t let it show.

“Forget it,” he said, pushing off the wall. “Just… let me know when you’re ready to tell the truth.”

She didn’t stop him as he walked away.

Didn’t chase. Didn’t speak.

Her fingers curled tight at her sides, red energy pulsing under the skin. Something was unraveling, and she could feel it tightening around her chest.

———

It came down faster than expected.

One minute they were debriefing about a possible Hydra resurgence on the outskirts of Sokovia, and the next, Sam was pulling teams together for immediate extraction. Intel was time-sensitive. Lives were at risk. And they were going in now.

“Y/N, Bob — you’re with me and Torres,” Sam barked across the tarmac. “We split once we hit the perimeter. Bob, you’re with Y/N. She’ll keep your power in check if things go sideways.”

Bob looked over at her as they loaded onto the jet. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Not since the argument with Joaquin the night before.

Her jaw was set. Power humming just beneath her skin, tighter than usual — like she was wound too tight. On edge. And now she was being dropped into a high-stakes mission with the very person her boyfriend accused her of falling for.

Awesome.

The ride was quiet. Joaquin sat beside Sam near the cockpit, eyes flicking back at her every few minutes. She could feel it. Didn’t acknowledge it.

Bob sat across from her — silent, respectful, patient. His knee bounced lightly. He was nervous. Always was before missions. But this was different. He hadn’t been sent into combat with her before. Not like this.

He cleared his throat. “Just… tell me what you need from me out there.”

She glanced at him finally. His face was serious. His eyes were steady.

“Stay close,” she said. “Don’t suppress your power if it’s instinctive. Let it flow. I’ll anchor you.”

“Okay.”

She turned her gaze out the window again, but her heart was thudding like war drums.

Focus.

—

The forest was quiet, too quiet. Nightfall was creeping in fast, and shadows swallowed their tracks. The facility was buried beneath the earth — steel doors, security drones, red floodlights that cut across the trees like blood.

Joaquin split left with Sam.

Y/N and Bob went right.

As they crouched behind a fallen log, Bob whispered, “You feel that?”

She did. A pulse. A low hum of dark energy radiating from below.

“I’ve felt it before,” she whispered. “Chaos magic. But not mine.”

Suddenly, an explosion rocked the ground behind them. Bob shoved her down, shielding her as debris sprayed from the trees.

Gunfire lit up the clearing.

“We’re compromised!” Sam’s voice crackled in their earpieces. “Engage with caution—! Torres, on your six!”

“Y/N,” Bob said quickly, “go. I’ll cover—”

“No,” she snapped. “We stay together.”

The firefight broke around them — but they were surrounded fast. Agents in black, energy weapons raised.

Bob’s pulse skyrocketed.

He could feel it bubbling — the same way it always did before he lost control. The golden light trembled at his fingertips.

“I can’t—”

“You can,” she said, grabbing his hand, fingers glowing crimson. “Feel me. Pull it into me. I’ve got you.”

He inhaled sharply.

And then unleashed.

The blast was wild — raw energy sweeping outward, knocking their attackers off their feet.

But one got through. She saw it — too late. The barrel of a rifle raised directly at Bob’s exposed back.

“No—!”

She threw herself into him, shielding his body with hers as she summoned every ounce of her chaos magic. The bullet hit the barrier. She felt it burn.

They collapsed together behind cover, his body twisted half under hers.

“You okay?” he asked, panicked.

She nodded — breathless. “You?”

He looked dazed. “You saved me.”

“Yeah. You ever do that again without me, I’ll kill you myself.”

He smiled — soft, stunned.

And that’s when she realized she’d grabbed his face without thinking.

That’s when she realized how close they were.

And how much she wanted to stay there.

The medics had cleared them. Minor injuries, bruises, nothing life-threatening. But the weight in the jet? Crushing.

Y/N sat beside Joaquin, head resting gently on his shoulder as he absentmindedly ran his fingers over hers. She hadn’t said much since they took off. Just kept her eyes on the floor. Body still trembling from adrenaline. He didn’t push her.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmured quietly, just for her.

She nodded once, her eyes slipping shut. “Thanks.”

Across the cabin, Bob sat strapped in — hunched forward, hands gripping the edge of his seat like his life depended on it.

His breathing was too fast. Too shallow.

The energy was building again.

Golden light licked at the seams of his fingers, eyes starting to glow faintly. He clenched his jaw, shaking his head, whispering no no no no like a broken chant.

And then—

“Y/N,” he gasped, eyes wide and terrified. “I—I can’t—I need—please—”

Her head snapped up.

She was gone from Joaquin’s side in seconds.

“Bob,” she breathed, kneeling in front of him. Her hands cupped his cheeks, grounding him instantly with her touch. “Look at me. It’s me, okay? Just me. You’re not alone.”

His whole body shook under her touch.

“I’m losing it—I can’t hold it—”

“Yes, you can. You’ve done it before. You just did it. You’re not the Sentry. You’re still Bob. Stay with me.”

He stared at her like she was the only thing tethering him to the earth. Slowly, slowly, the light dimmed. His chest heaved with shallow breaths, but he wasn’t glowing anymore.

She kept her hands on him. Kept whispering. Let him lean forward and bury his forehead against her shoulder.

From across the jet, Joaquin watched.

Expression unreadable.

But his hand had curled into a fist.

⸻

Later — Avengers Tower

They didn’t talk on the way off the jet.

Joaquin held her hand. She didn’t hold back.

They showered. Changed.

Everything looked normal.

But the second she knocked on his door that night — dressed in clean clothes, eyes tired, hair damp from the shower — he knew nothing was.

She stepped inside. “I just wanted to talk.”

“About what?” he asked, arms crossed.

She blinked. “The mission. You. Us—”

“Why?” he cut in, voice colder than before. “So you can convince me I’m crazy again?”

She froze.

“I didn’t say you were crazy.”

“No, you just called me insecure,” he snapped. “You just made me feel like I was imagining it—when I saw the way you looked at him out there. When I saw you hold him like he was everything.”

“Joaquin—”

“Admit it!” he yelled suddenly, making her flinch. “Admit you’re in love with Bob now!”

She stared at him, jaw clenched, eyes wet — but not with guilt.

With pain.

“What the hell is this?!” He gestured wildly toward the hallway, the jet, the day. “You drop everything for him. You run to him. You hold him like—like he’s not some stranger with god-tier powers and a split personality, but like you need him.”

Joaquin stood across from her in the doorway, jaw tight, chest heaving like he’d just been dragged through the mission all over again. And Y/N—she looked like she didn’t recognize herself anymore.

“You’re pulling away,” he said, voice low now. Defeated. “And I didn’t fight it. That’s on me.”

Her eyes snapped to his, rimmed in tears.

“But don’t stand here and act like this is all on me,” he went on. “Like I’m the reason you’re slipping. Because I’ve been here. This whole time. I haven’t moved.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“So say it. Say that it’s him.”

She stayed quiet.

“Say it.”

Still nothing.

The silence split the room down the middle.

And then—

Knock knock

A sharp, frantic rapping on the door.

Joaquin didn’t move. But Y/N flinched.

“Y/N!” It was Kamala, panicked on the other side. “You need to come quick—Bob’s not stabilizing. Bucky said he’s starting to shift again.”

She didn’t breathe.

Didn’t even blink.

Kamala’s voice cracked: “He’s asking for you.”

Joaquin looked away.

Y/N swallowed, blinking back the storm in her eyes.

And then she turned and opened the door—walked out without saying a word.

The sound of her footsteps faded down the hallway.

Joaquin stood alone.

Still in the doorway.

Still waiting for a confession he already knew was true.

[delilahsturniolo]

ᝰ.ᐟ NEW CLASSIFIED MISSION FILE . . .

★ secretagent!chris x secretagent!reader

⋆˚࿔ STAY WITH ME, SUNSHINE

in which . . . during a high stakes mission, you get shot, resulting in a worried chris who helps you

contains . . . mentions of blood, violence, use of weapons, reader getting shot, angst but comforting at the end

written by @delilahsturniolo, do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

requested by anon

view more of this au here!

the mission was supposed to be simple. get in. gather intel. get out. a quick sweep of a surveillance hub tucked beneath an abandoned airstrip in the middle of nowhere. quiet. clean. you should’ve known better. because now you’re bleeding. badly.

the bullet caught you in the shoulder, clean through, but it still burns like hell, and the world is starting to tilt sideways. you’re lying on your back behind a blown-out concrete wall, boots scraping against the gravel as you try to breathe through the pain. “fuck,” you gasp, clutching at the wound. “this wasn’t part of the plan.” a shadow drops beside you. chris. his hands are already moving, pulling off his jacket, shoving a compression bandage from his tactical vest against your shoulder. “you weren’t supposed to get hit,” he says, voice tight. “you’re too fast for that.”

“guess i slowed down.”

“don’t joke.”

you look up at him, blinking through the sweat beading down your forehead. “you’re not funny either, y’know.” he glares at you, but it’s the kind of glare that comes with wide eyes and clenched teeth and a little crack in his voice. you’ve seen him calm during car chases. unshaken in a firefight. even when the building was collapsing in madrid, he didn’t look like this.

but now? now he looks scared. he presses harder against the wound, and you hiss, grabbing at his wrist. “hurts,” you grit out. “good. means you’re still awake.” you laugh through the pain, breathless and dry. “you’re such an asshole.”

“you love it.”

“do not.”

his eyes flick up to yours, and for a second, neither of you says anything. your breathing’s shallow. his hands are red with your blood. the comms are silent, the evac team still thirty minutes out. you try to shift, but pain flares through your whole arm and you groan, eyes fluttering shut. “no, hey,” chris says immediately, tapping your cheek with his free hand. “no sleeping, sunshine. stay with me.”

“i’m tired.”

“yeah, well, you’re not allowed to die. i haven’t pissed you off nearly enough yet.” you try to smile, but it falls flat. “your flirting is terrible.”

“good thing i’m not flirting,” he mutters, looking down at you. “i’m trying to stop you from bleeding out.” you blink up at him slowly, voice quieter now. “you’re shaking.” he goes still. “…i’m fine.” you reach up with your hand, fingers brushing clumsily against the collar of his shirt. “no, you’re not.” he swallows hard, and for the first time, his voice softens. “you scared the shit out of me.”

“it’s just a shoulder.”

“it’s you.”

you blink again. and you wonder if the blood loss is making you hallucinate. because you swear you see something like fear in his eyes. maybe even something worse. something real. “you’ll be fine,” he says after a second, more to himself than you. “you’ve survived worse. you’re the toughest agent i know.”

“awwww, you’re being nice to me?”

“shut up,” he says, shaking his head, but his voice is rough. “you talk too much when you’re bleeding.”

you let out a soft noise, maybe a laugh, maybe a wince, and let your eyes flutter again. “hold on,” he whispers. “just thirty more minutes. then you can pass out all you want.”you don’t answer, but your fingers curl weakly into the front of his vest. “shhhh…” he speaks carefully. “stay with me, sunshine.” he tells you, trying to prevent you from passing out on him. the most surprising part is that he stays with you, silent, steady, and more terrified than he’ll ever admit.

© delilahsturniolo

[marvelstoriesepic]

Angstober (day 11)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Prompt: Wake up

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Bucky is losing it; mentions of panic attacks; angsty angst

Part two Part three

Angstober Masterlist

Bucky hasn’t had trouble sleeping for about two years now. That’s about how long you’ve been together. That’s about how long you’ve been sleeping in the same bed as him every night.

It’s been 25 months since you’ve gotten together, but in truth, the serrated edges of his nightmares began to soften long before that - all because of you.

You’ve always been a dependable member of this team. Skilled, efficient, and wholeheartedly committed to your work. Yet, what you’ve done for Bucky and what you did every day since then and still do to this day, outshines all of those qualities.

You’ve shown him patience - not the suffocating kind that hovers or pities, but a quiet, resolute belief in his strength. You saw something in him when he couldn’t do it himself. Little by little, day by day, night by night; you made him believe that he still had something to fight for, something to live for, and that there is a place for him in a world he wasn’t meant to see.

Your presence, your smile, your voice; all the little things that identify you - it all gifted him the reprieve of the guilt he was slowly drowning in. And you pulled him out of the water, teaching him how to crave the air that was lost, breath by breath.

He knows he shouldn’t rely on anyone with an amount so heavy, it would terrify anyone else. It might be dangerous. But he needs you. It’s that simple, really. You’re the only thing keeping him afloat, despite how long you’ve been helping him remember independence. He doesn’t want independence. He wants you. Because he won’t ever find as much comfort in himself as he finds in you.

So, this is a feeling he isn’t quite used to anymore.

Laying in bed, eyes unblinkingly staring at the ceiling in the dark, eyelids burning in exhaustion but not able to shut. His body aches for rest, but his mind won’t allow it.

He inhales slowly, forcing the breath deep into his lungs, following the breathing techniques you taught him in those early weeks; when you helped him through his panic attacks. He hasn’t had one in a long time, but he recognizes the signs all too well.

And it traps the racing thoughts in his mind.

Instinctively, his arms around you tighten. Your slumbering form lay peacefully and wam atop his chest and he lets it ground him. He lets it - lets you - tether him to the reality his spiraling mind so desperately needs.

His muscles are tense as he clings to you, seeking stability in the steady rise and fall of your breathing against him.

He exhales slowly, a deep sigh that he feels ripple through his entire body.

He put so much effort into convincing himself it was nothing. Just harmless smoke. It didn’t have to mean anything, anything barbaric. But that’s what Hydra is known for. Wickedness, Inhumanity, Evilness - the list can only go on.

That smoke was invisible. And Hydra loves to play invisible. Hiding in the underground and pretending they don’t exist.

Once again, Bucky’s mind, cruel and ruthless, drags him back to the mission earlier that morning. Anxiety claws at his resolve and he takes in another breath almost aggressively. It’s as if his subconscious is trying to prove to himself that this wasn’t just some non-toxic mist you had been exposed to for mere minutes on end.

Steve’s voice crackles over the coms, talking about something important no doubt, but Bucky’s attention is locked elsewhere. His senses are attuned to just one thing - your breathing. Your comms are on and Bucky knows about which corridors you are walking through to retrieve a file for Fury.

You’re not supposed to engage in combat, unless perhaps on the way out but the path should be cleared. So, then why are your breaths coming out faster and far from the rhythm he loves to listen to.

He waits a few seconds, his instincts flaring, trying to reason with himself. Trying to get him to stop worrying himself out of his mind. But the sound of your breathing doesn’t sit right with him, and the longer he listens, the more uneasy he becomes.

Carefully, he calls out your name, ignoring whatever Steve might still be saying on the other end. There is a pause - he clearly interrupted the captain - and then your voice comes through, soft and reassuring. You know how much he gets concerned for you, sometimes just needing to hear your voice in confirmation everything is fine.

“How far are you?” he asks, voice a little tighter than he’d like. Steve hasn’t picked up on where he got interrupted. He gets it too.

“Almost there. Just down the hall,” you reply, though there is a slight hesitation, a pause, another unsteady breath. It’s subtle, but Bucky picks it up, brows furrowing. You’re contemplating something, weighing your words and his steps begin to falter, own breathing getting even heavier.

“There is something odd, though.”

His heart squeezes and he tries to swallow that lump in his throat, but it remains stuck, halfway blocking the way for air inside his body.

“What is it?” His response is immediate, urgent. “Do you need backup? Want me to come over? I’ll be on my way-”

He tried so hard to sound casual but the laugh coloring the tone of your next words tells him he wasn’t at all subtle in his feelings.

“No need, Buck. I got it. The air just feels a little weird here, that’s all. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Do you have trouble breathing?” So far underground, it’s almost to be expected that the air is different, but he needs to know more, craves to ask a thousand more questions but he refrains himself. You can handle yourself. You don’t always need him to breathe down your neck, hover over you like the miserable man he is.

“I can breathe just fine, Buck,” you sweetly soothe again, letting him take the time he needs to gather his thoughts around your well-being.

He exhales, the tightness in his chest easing up a little bit which spreads awareness that his whole team just heard his ridiculous worries over the shared coms. Heat creeps up his neck and he cringes inwardly. Though he wouldn’t change a thing and he sure as hell will check in on you again when the nerves rise once more. And they will.

It was only thanks to Tony’s tech that Bucky even found out what had happened - that you had walked straight through the invisible smoke, breathing it in the whole time and letting it enter your body with every gulp of air.

The surveillance had picked up traces of the strange substance, the air you had said felt weird. But you hadn’t seen the smoke. None of you had. And now, Bucky feels like he’s losing his grip.

He hates this helplessness, this stifling feeling that there is nothing he can do but watch and wait. Watch you, observe your every movement, listen to your breathing, analyze your body language, trying to decipher if something is off. Waiting for the shoe to drop.

You had told him countless times that you feel fine, that nothing feels different and you don’t like to see him this worried, but his mind loves to go to cruel places. And his concern for you is too extreme, running so deep, clinging so tight, that the need for you to feel okay almost hurts him physically.

Tony and Bruce are running tests, trying to figure out what the hell that smoke even was and how harmless it really is. But the waiting is torturous. The tick of every second feel like stabs to his heart. Bucky doesn’t trust harmless, not after everything he’s seen. Not after everything he’s lost. And he won’t put you on that list. Because if he had to, he’d add himself right after. He lost himself once and he will again if you’re no longer with him, falling to much greater demons than ever before.

And so, he watches. It’s all he can do. He watches you like a hawk, nerves fraying and senses tumbling, torn between the need to protect you and the agonizing reality that, for now, he’s powerless to act. His mind races with worst-case scenarios, his imagination conjuring all the ways this invisible thread could hurt you. And yet, there is nothing he can do - nothing but hope that Tony and Bruce figure it out before it’s too late.

The waiting feels like it’s driving him mad.

Bucky waits till sunrise, the first light of the day bleeding through the thick curtains. He hasn’t even noticed it had gone brighter outside, only acknowledging it when your skin begins to glow under it, making you look like an angel sent from heaven.

He hadn’t slept, not even for a moment, his eyes not leaving your peaceful body. Every sound you made, every small shift of your body as you slept, every breath you took, he noticed. He spent hours, gently running his hands over you, trailing his fingers over the familiar contours of your form, pressing his lips so softly against the parts of you he could reach without disturbing you.

At some point; Bucky carefully, reluctantly, slips away from beneath you, and quietly into the bathroom. The cold splash of water on his face stings, but it does nothing to shake the weariness clinging to him.

The man in the mirror staring back at him is hardly recognizable to him. Dark circles shadow his eyes, deep and heavy, his gaze dull and hollow, lacking the fire you ignite in him. When he doesn’t normally sink into a pit of worry. His brows sag with the weight of exhaustion, his expression almost foreign in its desperation.

You won’t be happy when you wake up. He can basically hear you chastise him in his head and he really wants to smile at the thought but since no other thought this night had been a decent one, he doesn’t know how at the moment.

Bucky’s hands grip the edges of the sink, tightening, until he might have been worried about breaking the porcelain if that thought wasn’t so irrelevant to him right now. A long and heavy exhale leaves his chest, his head hanging low and eyes squeezed shut. He forced himself to press his lips together, not to let out a sound that would perhaps wake you up.

He tries to be in control of the rising wave of frustration and utter helplessness that surges within him, pushing it down as his chest constricts.

It takes a few more minutes before he feels composed enough to return back to you. He releases his grip on the sink, hands flexing before letting both, flesh and metal fall back to his sides. With a last glance in the mirror, he walks out of the door.

The sight of you, still peacefully asleep in the exact position he left you, quiets his mind just enough for at least a small moment. With silent steps, he approaches you, slipping carefully back into bed without making a sound. Slowly, he wraps his arms around your body again, drawing you close, pressing you against his chest, feeling your warmth.

You don’t stir as Bucky settles in, pushing his nose into your neck, closing his eyes, and inhaling deeply - a breath that is filled with your sweet scent.

Bucky isn’t sure how much time slips by as he keeps lying there with you, watching you, breathing you in. But when midday rolls around and you haven’t stirred yet, he decides to wake you up. He might get lucky, being able to bath with you and having you curled up on his lap during a nice breakfast afterward. He craves your voice. He needs to hear you, needs to be soothed by the sweet sound of it, telling him you’re okay and you love him. Perhaps even telling him some silly story about how Sam embarrassed himself in front of you girls. That happens more often than not.

He wants to float in the calm of your presence, to be lost in the way you reassure him, relaxed in the rhythm of your words, comforted in the warmth of your arms.

So he starts with the gentlest of touches, his lips brushing along the curve of your neck, trailing kisses along your skin. He moves to your shoulders slowly, taking his time as if each kiss carries the unspoken weight of all he’s been holding back. When he reaches your cheek, he whispers, soft and low, just for you.

“Baby,” he murmurs, his lips close to your ear, letting the heat of his breath coax you from sleep. “Sweetheart, time to wake up.”

He continues his kisses, lingering, tender, while his body shifts slightly as he props himself up on one elbow, hovering above you just enough to reach more of your skin. His hand moves to brush your hair gently out of your face, his thumb stroking your temple. “Y/n.”

You don’t react, so he continues trailing his kisses over your shoulder, along your arm and back up again, nibbling on your skin.

Bucky is no patient man, but he always has been with you. However, it never takes this long to wake you up. It comes with being an Avenger, always alert, even in your sleep, and usually, the first few touches of his lips are enough to coax you into consciousness.

But you keep lying beneath him, without moving a single muscle, chest rising and falling with every steady breath and tension builds in his middle.

His tone drops, voice louder, getting more urgent. “Doll,” he says, hand cradling your face, gently turning it toward him so he can see you clearly, hoping for even the slightest response. “Come on, baby, wake up. Come back to me.”

He searches for any sign, any flicker of consciousness in your expression, but there is nothing. You look peaceful, serene even, as if you’re merely lost in a deep, calm sleep. There’s no sign of distress, no discomfort, but that only worsens the hollow dread forming in the pit of his gut. Something is wrong. He can feel it. He knows

His pulse quickens, heart pounding violently as fear takes root. His hands, so tender before, now move with desperate urgency. He shakes your shoulders, lightly at first, hoping to watch you open your eyes and greet him with that sweet smile upon seeing him, the one that is so good at melting away his worries.

You don’t stir. You don’t do anything.

“Y/n! Wake up!” he pleads again, voice cracking, panic taking hold of his voice and settling in his bones. His breathing lost any sign of rhythm since the last day but it grows shallow now, ragged, horror rushing up his throat, alarm ringing in his ears.

He is leaning over you, shaking you with more force, more insistence. Leaning closer and pressing his lips to your forehead in an almost rough kiss, he calls your name again, voice strained and sounding foreign to him.

“Show me those beautiful eyes, baby, come on,”Bucky pleads desperately, trembling hands holding your face, shaking it, just like your shoulders, your arms. But the only movements your body does are the ones caused by his touch, your body still limp beneath him, eyes closed, breaths deep.

“Don’t do this to me, baby, please. You don’t get to do this.” His voice breaks, the words barely making it past the lump in his throat. “Come on!“

But there is nothing. No flutter of your eyelids, no soft sound from your lips. Just silence. The kind that makes his blood run cold, terror crawling under his skin, like he’s never felt before. “Wake up!” He is shouting. Vehement, cracking under the weight of the fear flooding in his chest. It strips him bare, leaving him more powerless than he ever was before.

A sound rips through his body, dry and dreadful as it leaves his lips and he isn’t able to acknowledge the tears tracking down his face.

Without wasting another second, Bucky scrambles away from you, his body moving on sheer instinct, his mind only consisting in utter panic. He shoves the blanket off in one harsh movement, throwing it to the side and scooping your limp form into his arms. His heart is pounding so vigorously, it’s as if it has a life of its own, threatening to tear right out of his chest.

The moment you are secured in his arms, he runs. His legs feel weak, but he pushes forward, every step fueled by the thought that something is wrong. Terribly wrong. He crashes through the door, protecting your body with his. His voice echoes down the hall, frantic and full of a terror he’s never known as he yells.

Bucky should have known better.

Hydra doesn’t deal with harmless. He knows that better than anyone.

But even with all the horrors of his past, all the things he’s lost while under their control, nothing could have prepared him for this. Nothing could have ever come close to the agony of the very possibility that he might lose you. Lose you to them. Lose you because of them.

You had been the one to help him to the light. You were his light. You gave him a reason there is something worth holding onto. Your love for him. His love for you. But that very darkness that Hydra plunged him into, now came sneaking back to take the one thing that matters most. The one thing he would die for. The one thing he would die without.

He’s running but it feels like he is falling. Endlessly. Into a void of despair and all he can do is scream into the emptiness, hoping somehow he can pull you back before it’s too late.

He doesn’t even know who he’s calling for. Steve perhaps. Bruce. Tony. It doesn’t matter. It won’t ever matter again. Because if there is no you, then there is nothing worth remembering anymore.

🍁 October Writing Challenges Masterlist 🍁

Part two

[multific]

Til Death Finds Us

Johnny MacTavish x Reader

Summary: Everyone told him you were dead. Soap buried you in his heart and tried to move on. 

The explosion tore through the sky like a scream.

Soap hit the dirt hard, ears ringing, vision swimming. There was shouting over the comms, static bursts, and the sound of his own name barked through clenched teeth.

But your voice never came through.

Not once.

When the dust cleared and they dragged out what remained, it wasn’t you.

All that was left was your dog tags.

Burnt. Bent. Bloodied.

He held them in his hand for hours. Refused to let go. Refused to believe.

They told him you were gone. Confirmed KIA. 

A body unrecoverable in enemy territory.

Ghost gripped his shoulder. “You can’t save ghosts, Johnny.”

But you weren’t a ghost.

You were his.

And the world felt wrong without you in it.

Three months later, a command calls him in.

A recon team swept a compound in hostile territory. 

They found a prisoner.

Identified only by a faint tattoo. A scar behind the ear. A voice that barely worked.

It was you.

Alive.

Soap’s hands shook when he saw the file. The photo. 

Your eyes, sunken and hollow, but still yours.

“I’m going,” he said before they could even ask.

The rescue was fast. Violent. Clean.

Soap moved like a man possessed. Didn’t stop until he had you in his arms.

You didn’t speak.

You just looked at him like you weren’t sure if he was real.

“Got you now, Bonnie,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

You flinched when he touched your hand and it damn near broke him.

Back on base, you barely spoke.

You didn’t sleep unless the lights were on. You didn’t eat unless someone reminded you. You didn’t cry and that scared him most.

You weren’t the same. But, he wasn’t either.

The man who came back with you had learned to live without his heart.

And now that it was beating again, it hurt.

Still, he stayed. Every night.

He didn’t push.

He brought you tea. Sat in the corner of your room. Told you stories about the dog he almost adopted. 

The mission which went sideways. The new guy who reminded him of you.

You didn’t laugh.

But you listened.

And one night, when the storm outside sounded too much like war, you reached for him.

It was uncertain. Broken. Healing.

You curled into his chest like you were afraid he'd vanish.

He held you like you were the most fragile thing he'd ever touched.

“Johnny…” you whispered, voice barely there.

He closed his eyes. “There you are.”

“I’m not me anymore,” you confessed. “I don’t know how to be.”

“You’re still mine,” he said softly. “And I’ll wait as long as it takes to bring you back.”

The first time you kissed again, it was in the quiet of the med wing.

Your lips trembled. 

Your hands clung to his shirt. You kissed like it might be the last moment you remembered how.

But it was enough.

He kissed you like a promise.

“Love you,” he whispered against your mouth. “Always did.”

Tears slipped from your eyes and this time, you let them fall.

You were still here.

He was still yours.

You didn’t go back to who you were.

Neither did he.

But every night, he helped you sleep. Every morning, you woke to his voice and his hand in yours.

You learned to laugh again.

He grinned like a man reborn every time.

And when you told him you loved him, he kissed your fingers like they were gold.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered. “But we made it.”

You nodded. “Til death finds us.”

He smiled. “And not a bloody second sooner.”

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[endofthelinegang]

the patriot

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

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  #90 from the prompt list "If I ask you to kiss me in front of all these people, will you do it?" 

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  bad words 

use this magical link here to find a number and give me a request for ANY marvel character :)

The op was supposed to be clean.

Get in, get the files, don’t get blown up. Real simple. Barely an inconvenience. Except for the part where every camera system in the building was running on spaghetti code and Cold War duct tape. Except for the part where John Walker—your Thunderbolt teammate, reluctant handler, and possibly a human caffeine tablet in a tactical vest—was stuck in the same room with you, trying to keep you from pushing every glowing button just to see what they did. And especially the part where Valentina Allegra de Fontaine called you two specifically instead of anyone else on the team to do the most absurd thing imaginable mid-mission.

“Don’t touch that,” John barked, not looking up from his datapad. He’d said it four times now. He was practically hitting you in the head with his elbow from how close he was standing to make sure you hadn’t gotten bored and decided to just mess around with something. 

You hovered your finger over the blinking red control switch labeled COOLANT OVERRIDE.  “You don’t even know what this does.” 

“I don’t need to,” he muttered, thumbing through corrupted files. “I know you, and if you touch it, it’s gonna end with us knee-deep in radioactive soup or setting off an old Soviet alarm that wakes up a bear.”

You dropped your hand. “One time, Walker. I trigger one bear one time and suddenly I can’t have a little fun anymore?” In all fairness to which you did not bring up was that it had not just been you who had done it. It was actually you and Yelena discussing what the little symbols meant, she thought bear and you thought maybe a small house dog. You were wrong, and no one died. 

He gave you a look. “You shouldn’t name the bear, either.” You smiled at him and just remembered the look on his face when he walked in to see a bear three times the usual size staring him down. He was trying to kill it, and you were considering maybe keeping it as a pet, 

“Dmitri had a soul.”

He sighed like he’d been aged by this job, by you, by everything. You tapped the tops of your boots on the floor taking your hands away from the buttons you looked up at John. He was reading really intently, his thumb tapping off the back of the device creating the tiniest little noise when the hard piece of his tactical glove hit. Before he could notice you were studying him the comms crackled.

“Hey, so, uh…” It was Val. The two of you immediately made eye contact and listened in. The two of you could tell from her little “uh” that she had been on the phone all day thus far. Which was never good. “We’ve got a situation.”

You and John exchanged a look. Neither of you wanted to talk first so you pointed a finger at him before he shook his head and nudged you with his boot. “What kind of situation?” you asked slowly.

“The kind where CNN’s en route, the press already knows you’re in-country, and Walker’s last mission made him trend for destroying national land with a motorcycle  instead of the enemy. We need positive coverage. Like, immediately.” 

You blinked. He was throwing his hands around ready to respond to her and have a repeat conversation about how he did not know it was national land and that he was just doing what had to be done. But not wanting to hear that conversation you broke the brief silence, “How is that our problem?”

There was a pause on the line but you could still very faintly hear her making little sighs and the fact that she had stopped walking wherever she was headed because the little clacking of her heels stopped. You knew right then she was going to tell you something you did not wanna hear. 

“You’re both hot, you’re both in one piece, and the system’s still down so I can’t even see where the rest of your idiot team is. We’re going with plan D.” Val finally breathed it all out so fast that you barely understood her but you did catch the “you’re both hot” part which you could not fathom was going to go anywhere good. 

John narrowed his eyes looking at you before setting down what actually needed to be worked on because he too could sense this was going to be some shit,  “What’s plan D?”

“You kiss.”

Silence.

Dead silence.

Eye contact seized. 

Even the building, full of ancient rust and creaking pipes, seemed to go quiet. The machines that had been making fuzzy noises were silent. John said nothing for a second. Then: “The hell we do.”

“I’m serious,” Val snapped, now she knew the two of you had heard her and were considering her little plan. That is all a woman like herself needed. “Sell a romance arc. I don’t care if it’s real, fake, or hate-fueled. Make the press eat it up. We need a distraction.” You grabbed onto John's arm and pulled yourself up off the ground because this was way more serious than whatever she originally had you working on. 

You rubbed your forehead and started pacing back and forth, with a slightly raised voice you spat at her, “Val, I swear to God—”

She cut out. 

“Val?” you said again. “Val—”

Nothing. Comms dead.

Meanwhile, back in the basement, the team was losing it.

“We’ve almost got it,” Bucky said through clenched teeth, typing furiously at an old Soviet terminal hooked up to an external power supply Ghost had hotwired together from literal scrap metal. The keys were sticking on and off thanks to the metal of his fingers slamming them so deeply into the board. 

“Are you sure that’s the right port?” Ghost asked, upside down, practically inside the wall. She was hoping anything would work so that there was a possibility of leaving this dingy and smelly place as soon as possible. 

“It’s glowing red,” Alexei said, pointing helpfully. “That seems promising.” He was nodding and absolutely no one in the room was even looking at him.

Yelena threw her hands in the air. “Everything in this place is glowing red! The coffee machine glows red!”

“I told you not to drink from that!” Bucky barked, usually John was the one giving helpful advice or rules such as that but he was too busy running around with you. Which was honestly beneficial, Walker would have already shattered that keyboard into the wall and everyone would have been standing around bored as a team. 

Yelena shrugged. “Too late. I have regrets.” She gagged and fanned at her mouth taking in deep breaths.

“Focus!” Ghost said. “We need visual back before Val loses her entire mind.” Ava nudged into Bucky watching what he was doing to make sure nothing else went wrong.

Alexei leaned over, his piece was the only one that had been working this entire time, which he did not mention, but now he had something fun to say so it would be worth telling on himself, “Pretty sure she already did. She told them to kiss.” 

The others paused in synchronized horror, Buckys hands stopped typing, Ava did not even look backwards at the man who was now belly laughing, and Yelena slowly put her tongue back into her mouth and her hands fell to her sides, 

“…Oh no,” Yelena whispered. “They wouldn’t.”

Bucky’s fingers flew faster, he snapped out of his trance just long enough to get into a rhythm of typing and then slamming the keyboard onto the desk to prevent his earlier issue from happening. “What happened now? What could warrant that?”

“Visual coming online,” Ghost announced, shaking the hell out of the box connected to the computer that was so hot from being overworked that no one else was even willing to touch it.

Bucky smacked the monitor and jiggled it a bit watching as the static would stop and start. Then the static cleared—

And then—

“OH MY GOD,” Alexei shouted, running over to the computer and putting both hands on Bucky’s back. “I—THEY’RE—”

“ARE THEY KISSING?!” Yelena shrieked practically jumping on top of Ava who was frozen in total shock not even caring that Yelena now reeked of what smelled almost like coffee but worse.

Ghost slammed a button. “Recording started.”

“We do not need a recording of this.” Bucky groaned and sat back in the chair that was now sitting straight up and down thanks to Alexei’s weight pushing on the back of it. 

Back in the camera's line of sight, you and John were still standing close together, you had stopped pacing once you realized there was really no getting her back online and that just not doing it was not going to be an option. 

He muttered, for once he was trying to not be rude and just handle the situation for what it was, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

But you? You broke into a grin, an evil and sinister little grin as you now stood toe to toe with him, arms around his neck and hands resting right on the back. He didn’t move a muscle he just stared you down.

“Well, Walker,” you said leaning into him just enough to feel his chest rise and fall against yours. “Ready to be a patriot?”

He touched the side of his head to yours placing two hands on your hips. “You enjoy this way too much.”

“If I ask you to kiss me in front of all these people, will you do it?” Before John could again be the one to make the final blow, you pulled your face back from his ear and pulled your arms back so that your hands could grab onto his face. The kiss hit like a switch flipping. His hands moved against your waist instinctively, firm and grounding. You felt the tension in his shoulders melt and re-coil in new, unfamiliar places. His lips were warmer than expected, mouth soft but insistent, the kind of kiss that said we’re doing this, and we’re doing it right. Then of course John took things into his own hands like you knew he eventually would, guiding you back against the cool panel wall. Your hands were going everywhere now. First you curled then into his vest, then up into his hair without thinking, because of course it was soft, and of course he groaned low in his throat when you did it. The angle shifted, deepened—

“OH MY GOD THEY’RE STILL GOING,” Yelena howled, Ava had sensed moved on once she realized that this may only be the beginning of whatever was going on so Lena had a front row seat to the action now. 

“That’s the most American thing I’ve ever seen,” said Alexei, sounding weirdly proud smacking both of Bucky’s shoulders, still choosing to be right behind him instead of his right side which was completely empty. 

“I’m turning this feed off,” Bucky muttered. “I’d call HR if they weren’t the ones insisting they do this.” He scowled, watching in clear view of Walker moving one hand from your waist up your body and into your hair. 

“I’M RECORDING,” Yelena declared, moving the keyboard away from him. 

Val shrieked something about “fireable offenses” and “weddings get 30% off in DC if you use my name.” To the entire group seeing as to how everything for the actual mission was now at a complete standstill. 

And you? You pulled back just an inch, breath warm against John’s jaw, grinning like an idiot.

“That’ll sell it,” you whispered, not moving to push him back or anything to get away from him just staying put. 

He looked at you, expression unreadable.

“…Yeah,” he said after a second. “It will.”

Back at the safehouse, nobody let you live it down. Yelena and Ava brought popcorn to the debrief. Red Guardian reenacted the whole thing with sock puppets for your good friend Bob who could not go on the mission. Bucky tried to avoid any and all conversation or reenactments of the whole thing. Val sent a legal contract titled Thunderbolt Relationship Clause 4B: I Told You So.

And John?

He sat next to you on the old couch, legs spread wide, one arm behind your shoulders—casual, like nothing had changed. Except everything had. You can feel his warmth all of a sudden, you can’t stop thinking about how you could just curl up next to him and cuddle.. Or how you could get in his lap and start kissing him all over again the way he was sitting.  Instead you decided to move closer to him now you were touching side by side. Not saying a word he dropped one arm from behind the couch and sat it around your shoulders. 

“You know,” you murmured, voice low, almost shy, “we might need a... sequel. For the press.”

He turned, slow and deliberate, one brow ticking up. “You talking damage control?”

You shrugged, playing with your own hands, spinning the rings around your fingers as you spoke. “Public morale. National interest. You know. All that patriotic stuff.”

His mouth twitched, but not into a smirk—something softer, more thoughtful, like he was weighing the truth in your joke. Or the lie in it. He was staring at you, watching how just started curling into his side. The way your hands were so unsure of what to do or where to go. 

“We make a good headline,” he said finally, voice rough around the edges as he let out a little cough using the arm that was around your shoulders to dip down and wrap around your waist to pull you up closer to his face. 

You met his gaze, “Then maybe we should give ’em something to write about.”

And this time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t for show. No click of cameras. No orders in your ear. Just the press of his hand against your cheek, warm and certain. Your breath catching as he leaned in—slow, like he wanted you to stop him but knew you wouldn’t. Just the quiet hush of lips meeting, the kind of kiss that didn’t care who watched because no one was.

It was steadier than before. Realer. And when he pulled away, barely an inch, his forehead resting against yours, the world felt... quieter somehow.

Like the mission was done.

Like something else was just beginning.

(Kind of.)