ultranumb-mask

[ultranumb-mask]

Collateral // Final

Pairing: John "U.S. Agent" Walker x You Summary: The pressure that’s been building too long is finally breaking loose. You turn into collateral in each other’s war. There’s no room left for mercy. Warning: you both are immatures, language, a fight (?), someone's getting all touchy touchy, mentions of blood, Bob is a sweetheart Word Count: 1,709

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Final

The medbay is quiet in the antiseptic way only military installations can be — fluorescent lights hum like old tension, the air is too still, every surface wiped clean of anything resembling comfort. You sit on the edge of the gurney, stripped down to your undershirt, blood-stiffened fabric cut away from your shoulder where the plasma burn sears a line through skin and pride. The gauze stings. The antiseptic is worse. You don’t flinch. Across from you, John sits on another gurney — ribs taped, lip stitched, shirt off, bruises blooming like smoke across his ribs and collarbone. A medic just leaves, muttering something about rehydration and self-destructive behavior. Neither of you replies. The silence is heavier here than it is behind those lockdown doors. Because now there is no excuse. You watch him as he reaches for a fresh bandage, but his fingers stall halfway — a slight tremor in the motion, too subtle for most, but not for you. You know that kind of exhaustion. The kind that isn’t just physical.

“You still bleed like the rest of us,” you say softly, gaze fixed on the dark line of stitches across his side.

He doesn’t look up.

“Slower than I used to.”

“Stubbornness keeps you alive longer than skill.”

“Then I should be immortal by now.”

Your teeth click together at the bitterness in John’s voice. It isn’t a quip. It’s a warning. And for a second, you almost let it slide.

Almost.

“You know what?” you say, standing abruptly. The pain in your shoulder flares, but you don’t care. “You’re so fucking good at pretending you don’t care. You should teach a class.”

His head lifts, slow. Something flickers across his face — maybe guilt, maybe challenge.

“And you’re so good at pretending you never needed anyone. Maybe we should co-host.”

You bark out a bitter laugh. “Cute.”

“You started this,” he mutters.

“No,” you shoot back. “You did. When you walked out like you’d done your part.”

He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding breath since before the mission. “Because sticking around after that night would’ve made things better?”

“It would’ve been something!”

His voice rises — not loud, just frayed. “You said nothing. Just stared at me like I’d lit the wrong fuse.”

“Because I didn’t know what the hell to say!” you snap, stepping forward.

“You still don’t,” he growls. “But sure — let’s blame me for everything. That’s easier, right?”

Your hand flies out — not to hit, not really. More like a lash of grief — and it connects with the tray at your side. The metal crashes to the floor. Bandages, sealed vials, a pack of gauze explode across the tile in a mess of motion. A small glass bottle shatters. The sound is louder than it should be. It echoes.

John flinches, jaw clenching, but doesn’t move.

“Great,” he mutters. “Now we’re breaking shit.”

“Oh really?” you hiss. “Thought you started it when you broke us.”

He laughs — bitter, ragged — and steps forward. “Don’t flatter yourself. There was no ‘us.’”

Wrong thing to say.

You shove him — flat palm to bare chest — hard. Hard enough to make the pain in your shoulder spike white, but not hard enough to move him. He’s solid, tense. He doesn’t budge.

But the contact breaks something.

In you.

In him.

He lunges forward, grabbing at your arms. You twist, slam your forearm against his ribs — a blind strike. He grunts, grabs for your side, tries to hold you back, but you’re already pushing again, chest to chest, both of you off balance now.

Your boot kicks the metal leg of a stool. It topples, crashes to the tile with a hollow clang.

You barely notice.

“You done?” he snarls.

You laugh — bitter, breathless. “Not even close.”

You don’t wait. You slam into him again, shoulder-first, a reckless shove that knocks him back a step. He meets it — and matches. Slams forward. Bodies collide, stumble, scramble for footing. Your back hits the edge of the gurney — hard enough to jar your breath — and then you’re clawing at him, trying to push him off.

“You act like I’m the only one who fucked this up,” you growl, struggling against his grip. “Like everything just happened to you.”

“You’re rewriting it!” he shouts. “You think I vanished because it was easy? I left because I didn’t know what version of me I’d become if I stayed!”

“Oh, poor fucking you,” you spit. “Self-control too fragile to survive a little honesty?”

“No,” he bites out. “Too dangerous. For you.”

“You’re not a bomb, John. You’re a coward—with too much fucking muscle!”

That hits.

He surges forward — not to punch, but to overpower. He grabs your arms, pushes you back, trying to wrestle control. But you twist out again, grab his shoulder, dig your nails into the bruises already blooming there. He hisses, pain and fury sparking in his eyes.

“You want the real version of me?” His hands twitch — not hesitation anymore, just the last flicker before the fuse burns out. “Fine.”

He lunges. You meet him halfway.

Your bodies crash together with bruising force, no finesse, no thought — all heat and muscle and pain. He grabs your arms, and you twist free; your shoulder howls but you don’t stop. You drive forward, slam him into the edge of the gurney. It rattles.

He grunts, pushes back, shoves you sideways — you lose footing on something slick underfoot, a packet of torn gauze maybe — and suddenly you’re going down, locked together in motion too fast to stop.

The floor slams up into your spine.

Air punches from your lungs.

“You son of a—!”

“You drive me insane!” he roars, his voice scraping the edge of control. His breath is hot against your face, lips close enough to taste the fury still clinging to them.

“Good!” you shout, and you’re not even sure if it’s a triumph or a dare.

You're wild beneath him, furious and broken open, and you know he’s the same. Your fingers tremble with the need to hit him, hold him, hurt him, heal him—anything that will make the storm inside stop.

“Do you even understand what you do to people?” you hiss, your voice shaking with fury and something worse. “You waltz in, set everything on fire, and then vanish like your absence is some kind of favor! You left and I hated for it!”

His jaw tightens. “Good,” he says, voice low and ragged. “Maybe now we’re even.”

But there’s no space between you anymore. His hand moves, not with clarity, but compulsion — cupping the back of your neck like he’s not sure whether he’s about to shake you or kiss you. Maybe both.

His forehead presses to yours, sweaty, bruised, furious.

“You fucking ruined me,” he mutters — not accusing. Confessing.

You’re breathing like you’ve been running for days, even though neither of you’s moved an inch. His fingers tighten, then slip and drop to the floor beside your head. You arch up just enough to press your chest into his, matching his tension with your own, a collision of equal force and fracture.

“Tell me to stop,” he growls, voice breaking now, not with weakness — but restraint. “Say it — and I’m gone”

But you don’t.

Because everything inside you is screaming, don’t you dare.

Your eyes lock — not like lovers, not yet. Like rivals. Like soldiers who’ve met on too many battlefields, and this is just one more with fewer bullets and more breat and whatever comes next isn't a decision — it’s an instinct.

He kisses you — hard, rough, no hesitation. You grab his face, fingers digging into stubble and bone, and kiss him back like you want to tear the silence out of his throat. Like it’s punishment. Like it’s forgiveness. Like it’s both and neither.

His hands find your back, pull you forward like he needs more — more skin, more breath, more you — and he brushes the edge of your burned shoulder in the chaos.

You hiss in pain, break the kiss with a sharp intake of breath.

He jerks back, horror and hunger both breaking in his eyes. “Shit.”

“I’m fine,” you pant.

“You’re bleeding.”

“So are you.”

You pull him back in — because fuck the pain. This hurts less than not touching him.

He obeys, collides with you again, like maybe kissing is the only language either of you still knows. And neither of you has the strength left for translation.It’s messy now — teeth, tongue, breath. No rhythm. No grace. Just raw, stupid need.

“You should’ve said something,” you growl against his lips.

“I did!”

“Not then! Before! When I still had a chance to— to not care this much!”

“I didn’t think you wanted me to!” His voice cracks, still pressed against your mouth.

“You’re an idiot.”

“I know.”

You bite his lip.

He groans, a guttural thing, hands gripping your hips now like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again. Like you’re some dream he doesn’t trust not to disappear with the next blink.

And you are kissing again, impossibly close, like rage has folded into desperation, into grief, into everything.

Until—

CRASH.

The medbay doors slam open with an explosion of boots and voices.

“What the hell—?”

Yelena’s voice cuts through the steam of the room. She stops dead at the threshold, Ava right behind her, both frozen mid-step.

There’s a pause — a long one — as they take in the state of the room: the overturned stool, the dropped bandage tray, shattered glass on the floor, the monitors blinking error codes from ripped-out cables.

And in the center — you and John, pressed chest to chest, blood and bruises and adrenaline. Caught mid-motion. Mid-everything.

No one speaks.

Except Bob.

He steps in last, late and unhurried, chewing on a protein bar like this is just another Tuesday. His gaze slides across the chaos, lands on John, then on you, then back again. He chews. Swallows.

Then, with the calm of a man who’s seen a thousand worse things, he shrugs.

“Well. Guess we don’t have to worry about Walker anymore.”

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a/n: thank you all for staying so long 'till the end. it was never meant to be something full since it's all started with a dream but here we are. i'm sorry for any mistakes, haven't been writing for so many years and now I owe it to Walker and you!

[ultranumb-mask]

Collateral // Part 4

Pairing: John "U.S. Agent" Walker x You Summary: No running away now. Literally. You finally meet and get stuck together. word count: 3,261 warnings: angst, unrequired love, language, unresolved situation, mentions of blood and wounds a/n: I do start to feel like you are somewhat passive about the whole situation but if only you, my dear readers, knew the number of times in this chapter I was ready to throw fists with man... 'll save this for later.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Final part will be posted tomorrow

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You don't realize it at the time, but you are handling the aftermath the same way he does.

By focusing on the mission. And it is a routine—at least on paper. A simple sweep: enter, extract, exfil. Nothing you haven't done before. You don't expect Thunderbolts support, you don't need it. You definitely don't expect him. It has been so long since you last saw him that even the questions have gone quiet. You stopped chasing after the what-ifs and brushed aside the feelings his absence stirred. It was his choice to retreat — you could respect that. But what gnawed at you was how he made the decision for both of you. How he didn’t listen. Didn’t wait. Didn't give you the time to figure out what his words meant to you. But now, all that noise in your head feels pointless. There’s no chance of seeing John again — he made sure of it.

And still, the thoughts linger. They distract you, and you hate him for that. First, he storms into your team with that familiar bravado, taking on too much, and you curse him for it. Now, he haunts your thoughts for the opposite reason.

The west wing is colder than the rest of the compound — the kind of damp, concrete chill that crept under armor and lodged itself between shoulder blades. You move quietly, methodically, boots making barely a sound against the floor. The air smells like dust and ozone, the telltale aftermath of a shorted power grid.

You have already cleared the upper levels. No resistance so far — just empty corridors and a few tripwires rigged with more bravado than precision. This place isn't meant to hold. It is meant to delay.

You press your shoulder to the wall near a junction, flicking your eyes over the corner cam feed. Clear. West wing was supposed to be storage — maybe a fallback point. But something about the layout didn’t sit right. Too many blind spots. Too many sealed doors that hadn’t been on the original intel.

You reach the corridor just before the old server room. Light flickers overhead — weak and intermittent, like the building itself is trying to stay conscious. You step inside. The walls hum softly with dormant power. Your finger rests light on the trigger, scanning corners, checking movement—

And then you freeze. There’s a figure ahead. The shape is familiar in a way that bypasses thought. The way he stands — weight forward, arms loose but ready — it hits like muscle memory. You already know before your mind catches up.

John Walker.

Exactly where you told yourself he wouldn’t be. Exactly where you convinced yourself he couldn’t be. And yet — there he is. In front of you.

And for a moment—too brief to be called a pause, too heavy to be ignored—the world around you stilled. The air thickened. Even your pulse seemed to hesitate, suspended in that stunned fraction of recognition. He looks almost exactly as you remembered—only harder now. Sharper in the jaw, more sunken beneath the eyes, as if something vital has been hollowed out and replaced with grit and endurance. His armor is worn but clean, scuffed in the way that says "I’ve been in the dirt, but I still care enough to polish what’s left."

And his expression? Neutral. Too neutral. Like the kind of mask you wear so long you start to believe it’s your face.

You hold your ground, voice steady, deliberately professional—like that could make the moment ordinary.

“Didn’t think this was your op.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

“Got pulled in last minute,” he says, his tone even. “Didn’t know you’d be on-site either.”

You nod once, just enough to say fine, and turn away before your eyes could linger. You move toward the control panel across the room, scanning, logging, distracting yourself. Behind you, he follows —measured, distant, always keeping that calculated space between you. Not far enough to be impolite. Just far enough to say: don’t touch this.

And then, without ceremony, he speaks. His voice doesn't soften. There is no hesitance, no tremor—only steel.

“You ever stop to wonder why I left?”

You don't turn.

“No.”

A lie. A pointless one. You know it. But the word slips out before you can stop it — sharp-edged and defensive, a reflex more than a decision.

There’s a pause. And it lands between you with the weight of something dropped.

“Figured,” he says, voice lower now. “Easier that way.”

This time, you do glance over your shoulder.

“Wasn’t exactly hard to notice.” You know the tone is petty. You hear it as it leaves your mouth, and still, you don’t stop it. He left. He stirred everything up and then disappeared. And now he has the nerve to speak like it was ordinary. Like it didn’t mean anything.

His jaw tightens—just barely. A tell you remembered. A crack in the mask visible enough to let you know you hit the nerve.

“I didn’t want to make it worse,” he says. “Didn’t think I had the right to stick around after—”

“After what?” You stop and turn to face him. It hasn’t even been ten minutes since you came face to face again after all this time, and already, you’re circling an argument. And just like before, he’s the one who brings it to the surface. And part of you almost wants him to say something stupid again — if only to confirm that you were right to let him go. Something tightens in you. He said he fell for you and made it sound like an accident. Like it was something stupid.

John holds your gaze. The air between you sharpens.

“After screwing it up so badly I didn’t think I could fix it.”

“You didn’t screw it up,” you say, the anger rising now. “You ran. That’s not the same thing.”

He exhales — short, clipped. That’s when the comm crackles to life. Bucky's voice comes through, casual and cold — interrupting you.

“Walker, report?” John doesn’t answer immediately. He watches you and you don’t look away Then, slowly, he lifts a hand to his ear and replied, calm as winter glass.

“Sector’s clear.”

The line clicks off. Silence settles again – heavy, awkward, familiar. You can say something. He can too. But neither of you does. Because the mission isn’t over. Because there is still too much ash between you. Because the truth, when broken, is a fragile thing—easier left untouched than pieced back together.

You sigh and turn your focus back to the task in front of you. Just as you begin to move deeper into the hallway, the floor beneath your boots gives a low, mechanical shudder — subtle, but wrong.

Your head snaps up a heartbeat before the blast hit.

A low boom rolls through the reinforced walls, followed by a shockwave that tears through the compound like a living thing. Dust rains from the ceiling in a fine, grey curtain. Lights flicker, flare too bright, then dim again. Somewhere below, metal screams — bent past what it can endure.

John is already moving — his hand grabbing your arm, instinctive, protective, pulling you sideways toward the nearest doorway as the charge behind you begins to scream.

You don’t make it far.

The explosion hits like a wave—heat, pressure, sound collapsing in all at once. The blast catches you both mid-step. The burn comes first, sharp and sudden across your shoulder where the fire brushes too close. Then comes the force — violent, absolute.

It throws you backward.

You barely register hitting the ground, the impact softened only by the weight behind you—John’s body crashing into yours as he shielded you from the hit against the wall. Debris rains down, shards of plaster and steel slicing through the air, some of it thudding against him instead of you. In the pocket of chaos, all you could feel is the burn along your arm… and the steady rise and fall of John’s chest against your back.

John curses under his breath — not panic, not fear. Just anger. He doesn’t seem to register the position you land in.

Bucky’s voice crackled faintly over the comms:

“Walker?!”

He taps his earpiece, eyes already scanning the room.

“Detonation in sublevel three. Structural breach. Two personnel trapped, no route out. Awaiting extraction.”

Only then does he pull back from you, suddenly aware of the closeness, shifting toward the far wall through scattered debris. You think he might have jolted, if not for the pain in his side — his breath catches even with that small movement. The line clicks dead. You both take a moment, catching your breath. You slide down the wall, the cold surface pressing into your back as your shoulder throbs — the burn not deep, but stubborn. Across from you, John moves slower now. His ribs clearly protest, dried blood forming a dark line along his temple. He takes the worst of it. You start to wonder how many times he’s shielded you like this — and how often you never even noticed.

While you watch him, he doesn’t look at you. Not a glance, not even once.

Around you, the compound groans — a slow death rattle of concrete and steel. Dust drifts through the air, settling in your lungs and eyelashes, and somewhere far below, another explosion echoes like a final breath.

You both sit amid the wreckage. Opposite sides of the same broken room. Neither of you speaks. Neither dares.

You’re the one who breaks it first.

“Thanks… for covering me.”

He nods once. Barely.

“You’re not hurt. That’s what matters.”

The words are flat. Functional. Like they could’ve been meant for anyone. But they weren’t. And you both know it.

You study him through the haze — the cut on his temple, the dirt ground into the seams of his armor, the way he still refuses to meet your eyes. He looks… not angry. Not wounded. Just tired. Worn down to the rawest edge of who he is.

“How long were you going to avoid me?”

He’s quiet a moment longer than necessary.

“As long as I had to.”

“And who decided that?”

Finally, his eyes lift. Not hard. Not cold. Just... hollow.

“You did.”

You narrow your eyes, that answer hitting like a cheap deflection. “That’s bullshit.”

He scoffs — soft, bitter. “Is it?”

“You disappeared without a word.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted.”

You take a step forward. Not aggressive. Just enough to force the space between you to mean something.

“You thought?” you repeat, sharper now. “You thought silence meant permission to vanish? That I wouldn’t notice if you just stopped existing around me?”

“I didn’t exactly get the sense I was welcome to stick around.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“And you didn’t stop me.”

The words come out too fast, like something he’s been holding in too long. He immediately looks away, exhaling hard. Regret? Maybe. Or just exhaustion.

You take a step closer. Not aggressive. Just deliberate. Measured.

“I wanted clarity. Not silence.”

He shakes his head, slow and bitter. “Clarity? You looked at me like I’d said something disgusting.”

“I was caught off guard.”

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, “you weren’t the only one.”

There’s a flash in your chest. Heat. Frustration. Something old and sharp.

“You made a choice for both of us, John. You walked away before I could figure out what the hell I felt.”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t argue — just absorbs it like he’s been waiting to hear those words. Maybe even deserved them.

“And now?” he asks, quiet. Careful.

You don’t answer right away.

The silence between you stretches. Not cold. Just worn out.

Then finally, his voice drops lower, stripped of everything defensive.

“I didn’t plan to say it that night. It wasn’t strategy. It was pressure. Like something I’d kept buried so deep it finally broke the surface. I didn’t even know what I was saying until it was already out.”

You say nothing. He continues — not because he expects forgiveness, but because it’s been inside him too long not to be said.

“And when you didn’t say anything… I didn’t blame you. I didn’t expect you to feel the same. I just thought—maybe—I wouldn’t have to carry it alone.”

His eyes close for a moment, as if just remembering hurts.

“But the silence made it clear. It was mine. All mine. And that was enough to tell me I had to leave.”

Then:

“…I wasn’t trying to guilt you. Or make you say anything you didn’t mean.”

His voice cracks, just barely. Not the sound of a man breaking — the sound of one who already has, but refuses to fall down.

His eyes flash now, fierce and hollow at once.

“But do you have any idea what it felt like? To finally say it — after carrying it for months like it was going to kill me — and then watching you just… stare at me like I’d dropped a gun at your feet?”

He shakes his head, a sharp, bitter motion.

“I’ve been shot at, tortured, humiliated in front of the goddamn world, and none of it — none of it — felt as fucking unbearable as that silence.”

He breathes hard, like his lungs can’t quite keep up with what’s crashing out of him now.

“I didn’t need you to say it back. I didn’t even expect it. But something—Christ, anything. A word. A look. A ‘John, not now.’ Even that would’ve been better than—than nothing. Than standing there like I wasn’t even a person to you.”

You shift slightly — not out of fear, but because the weight of it is too much. He follows. Not aggressively. Just needing to release it.

“You think I didn’t notice the way you looked at me?” His voice sharpens. “Think I didn’t see the hesitation? The weight in your eyes every time you didn’t know how to look at me anymore? I saw it. I saw all of it. And I told myself, fine. She doesn’t owe you anything. Not answers. Not affection. Nothing. So shut up and move on, Walker.”

He’s close now. Too close.

“And I tried. God, I tried. Missions. Drills. Jokes I didn’t mean. Knives I never stopped sharpening. I tried to wear it down — that feeling. That thing you left hanging in the air like it wasn’t yours to name. Like you could just leave it there forever and not look at it again.”

He steps back now, a half-step, like the words finally cost him something.

“But I couldn’t wear it down. Because it mattered. You mattered. More than I knew what to do with. And I couldn’t live with how small I felt in that moment. How replaceable. Like the only thing I was ever good for was pulling you out of fire — but never good enough to stand beside you when it wasn’t burning.”

He stops. Breathes. Just once.

“I fell for you like a man who didn’t believe he could. And when I did, I did it stupid and loud and all the wrong ways. But I did it. And I told you. And you didn’t say anything. And maybe that’s fair. But do you know what's the worst part?"

He exhales, bitter. "Some part of me still thought maybe… if I kept my distance, if I buried it deep enough, it’d go away."

His gaze lifts again. This time, there’s no mask.

"It didn’t."

His shoulders rise and fall, the fight draining from him like blood through open fingers. He doesn’t look at you anymore. Just down — at the dust, the ash, the wreckage between your boots.

The silence between you turns sharp again. But now it's thick with everything left unsaid.

And right as you take a step toward him—

Suddenly, another explosion rips through the compound — somewhere behind the wall that had buried the main exit. Not strong enough to bring down the ceiling, but close enough to shake the floor beneath you, dislodge debris, and send a dull groan through the twisted metal and concrete.

John moves before you can even register the sound. One arm snaps out across your body, the other bracing against the crumbling doorframe as he shields you with his body. His shoulder hits yours hard—protective, unthinking. The blast isn’t close enough to bring fire or shrapnel, but the aftershock sends dust raining down, a chunk of concrete slamming the floor just inches away.

You feel the heat of him—too close, too real—and his grip stays on your arm even after the danger’s passed.

Only when silence settles again, broken only by settling rubble and your uneven breath, does he speak. Voice low. Rough around the edges.

“You okay?”

You nod once, unable to say anything yet.

His hand lingers a second longer, fingers tightening—not to restrain, but to anchor. And then he steps back, slow, like it costs him something.

Like he’s scared that if he doesn’t move now, he never will.

But there’s something different in his face now—less fire, more clarity. Like whatever just happened stripped him down to something raw but steady.

Like he’s still bracing for more falling debris—only this time, it’s not from the ceiling.

Then — a muffled crash. Stone grinding against stone. The heavy scrape of something massive shifting.

And finally — light.

A narrow breach opens between the cracked wall and a half-collapsed support beam, letting in the harsh flicker of a flashlight cutting through the dust and dark.

“There you are!”

Bucky’s voice, loud and frayed at the edges, tears into the room like rescue and reprimand in equal measure. The beam of his light sweeps fast — then stops. Finds you. Finds John.

His silhouette appears through the clearing smoke, and he steps forward, eyes locking onto you both.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He says it flat, but something in his voice wavers — too much relief trying to mask itself as exasperation.

“You two? Really?” He looks between you, lips twitching like he’s debating whether to be annoyed or just grateful.

“I thought you were buried.”

You open your mouth to respond — maybe to deflect, maybe to downplay — but you shift slightly and pain spikes through your shoulder like a second blast. You wince, catching your breath through clenched teeth.

John moves before the medic does — not fast, just instinct. His hand hovers near your side like he wants to help but doesn’t want to push.

You don’t pull away.

But after a moment, you shift, testing your legs. They hold. Barely. You nod once to the medics now crowding the threshold, motioning them off until you’re fully standing.

“I can walk,” you say, quiet but firm.

Bucky lifts a brow. “That a pride thing or a concussion thing?”

You give him a dry look, stepping forward. “Let me guess — you missed me.”

“Only when I wasn’t being blamed for your terrible taste.”

You almost smile.

The medic moves to your uninjured side, gently guiding you toward the newly cleared exit. Your boots scrape against the concrete, slow and unsteady, but you don’t stop. You don’t look back.

Not until you reach the breach in the wall — and then, only once.

Behind you, John is still standing in the same spot. Bruised, bandaged, unmoving.

Watching.

You don’t speak.

And neither does he.

But this time, it’s him watching you leave.

[ultranumb-mask]

Collateral // Part 3

paring: John "U.S. Agent" Walker x You summer: The aftermath of John's confession, his escape to avoid hearing your answer, how each of his new teammates began to notice the impact it had on him word count: 1,189 warnings: angst!, you're not part of Thunderbolts team. They know you but your relationship with them stays out of the narrative since we focus on John's side of the story more

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 is on the way

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John never speaks about it. Not to Alexei, not to Yelena, and definitely not to Bucky. But something inside him has shifted, and everyone on the team can feel the change. He is still sharp in the field, still ruthless and precise, following orders without question, being the best cover for his teammates even at the most unnecessary times.

Bob notices the change almost immediately. Not because John said anything — he didn’t — but because the shift is quiet, subtle, and therefore unmistakable.

The sarcasm vanishes first. Then the unsolicited pointers during training sessions. Walker still checks in, still made sure Bob had enough of everything he might need giving his situation — but John does it from a polite distance that felt… unfamiliar. As if he is drawing invisible boundaries where there used to be none.

And maybe, on some level, Bob appreciates the space. He isn't always in the mood for Walker’s big personality, the loud opinions, the casually brutal honesty. But the silence that replaces it isn't peaceful. It is wrong.

It isn't just that John has changed — it is that he is shrinking. Retreating inward in slow motion, and pretending no one noticed.

And Bob did notice.

But knowing something’s wrong and knowing what to do about it — those are two very different things.

He thought, more than once, that maybe he should say something. Pull John aside. Ask. Or at least try. But every time he came close, the words fell apart in his head. What if he made it worse? What if he said the wrong thing, touched the wrong nerve, stepped into something that wasn’t his to fix?

Bob didn’t come from a world where people talked about their feelings. He barely know what to do with his own, let alone someone else’s.

So instead, he watches John drift farther away. And tells himself that maybe silence is better than stumbling into someone else’s pain uninvited.

Yelena, on the other hand, isn't one to let silence sit too long. She doesn't say anything at first. There is no sharp comment, no teasing jab, none of the barbed humor she so often uses as both armor and invitation. Instead, she simply watches—quietly, steadily—from across the quinjet, observing the way John moves like a man trying to disappear into the rhythm of survival. He no longer fills silence with idle remarks, no longer offers his dry observations during prep. Even the sharpening of his knife has become mechanical, almost ritualistic, as though repetition might dull whatever else was gnawing at him from the inside.

It isn't until a week later, after a long day in the field and a quiet return to base, that she finally slides into the seat beside him, her body dropping into place with the familiar weight of someone who didn’t ask permission to take up space.

“You’ve lost something,” she say, her voice devoid of its usual edge—low, almost conversational. “Or someone.”

John doesn't respond, doesn't even glance in her direction, doesn't bother to explain to her how wrong she was. How can he ever lose something he never actually had? Ridiculous. She lets the silence stretch, then added, in the same calm, cutting tone, “If you’re trying to get yourself killed, you should just say so. Might save the rest of us some guesswork.”

John doesn't argue. He just gives her that faint, fractured smile—the kind people mistake for agreement when it’s actually just absence.

“I’m still operational.”

“For now,” she says and walks away without John’s even noticing.

After another mission, one that ended with John returning late and bleeding from a cut just deep enough to need stitching, Alexei tries to make light of it—tries to play the part of the loud older soldier with too many stories and not enough filters.

“The great American weapon returns,” he announces with theatrical cheer, hands spread wide. “Stoic as ever. Very cinematic.”

John doesn't so much as glance at him. He walks past without a flicker of expression, his focus narrowed to the hallway ahead.

Alexei’s smile falters, left hanging in the stale air. He exhales a breath and mutters under his breath, mostly to himself, “No humor left. Dangerous man.”

Bucky never asks what was wrong. He simply watches—unobtrusively, but not without understanding. They aren't friends, not in any way either of them would name aloud, yet there is an unspoken recognition between them, carved out of the same kind of damage. They both know what it is to fall too far, to be remade into something they don't recognize, and then to walk the rest of the road with that weight chained to their name.

It is on a rooftop in Morocco, during a long stakeout under a wind that never settled, when Bucky finally speaks.

“You know pain doesn’t make you a hero,” he says, keeping his eyes on the skyline. “I tried that trick. Doesn’t work. Just makes you quieter. Better at hiding.”

John doesn't flinch. His eyes remain on the scope, finger still beside the trigger guard.

“Good,” he says after a pause. “Then I’m improving.”

Even Ava begins giving him space, exchanging silent glances with the others, receiving the same silent "we have no idea what's wrong with him" in response. She understands, perhaps better than most, what it looks like when someone stops trying to stay alive and simply starts enduring. When every movement is precise, efficient, controlled not by training but by apathy so sharp it resembles discipline.

He is still good. Too good. Because men who no longer care if they come back often make the most reliable soldiers. At least for a while.

At night, when the others are asleep or decompressing, John sits alone. Polishing gear that needed no polish. Checking mission logs he already knows by heart. Running. Always running. Because to stop would be to feel. And to feel would be to remember. And memory, above all, was the enemy. Because remembering meant you. The way your eyes looked that night. The words he wished he hadn’t spoken. The ones he still hoped you’d say. And the silence that followed.

At first, you don’t notice the quiet.

It’s easy to mistake absence for coincidence in a place like this rotating missions, tight schedules, debriefs at odd hours. People disappear and reappear like weather patterns. You learn not to ask why, most of the time.

But John’s silence doesn’t feel like weather.

It feels like something missing from the air itself. Like a missing weight on the opposite side of the room. Like heat from a fire that used to be burning and isn’t anymore.

You tell yourself it’s better this way. Cleaner. Simpler. How could it be anything else? How could you possibly expect anything to grow out of what was supposed to be a functional partnership between two strangers? Yes, you spent days with him as your only companion — but for operational reasons. Yes, you understood each other — but only on the battlefield. Yes, talking came easy. Silence, too. But that doesn’t mean it was anything more. Does it?

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a/n: was it obvious I tried to shift my personal focus on Bob to check if I'm not completely hopeless with Walker and how I failed? Yes, so there 2 or 3 more chapters coming and I hope this haunting feeling will let me go for good. thank you for reading, liking, giving your advice and thoughts!

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Collateral // Part 2

pairing: John "U.S. Agent" Walker x You summary: a closer look at John's complicated feelings after the confession warnings: John Walker's in love and is not happy about it, angst, unsolved problem, unrequired feelings word count: 974 a/n: this adds to the previous scene and I need this to go further. Later I plan to show you how this affected the Thunderbolts and you but the main core would still be John's internal conflict.

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 is on its way

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The door clicked shut behind him—quietly, without drama. Not a slam, not even a sigh. Just that subtle, final sound that marks the end of something, even if you don’t realize it in the moment. John didn’t go far. The mission was over, adrenaline long gone, and silence had taken its place. It wasn’t silence like peace—no, it was the kind that rings in your ears after something cracks. He barely made it halfway down the hallway before his steps slowed, then stopped. One hand reached out, pressing to the wall, grounding him. Not to steady his balance—but his breathing. He’d said too much. Or not enough. Or the wrong thing entirely. And now it was all unraveling inside him. His eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched.

“I wish I hadn’t fallen for you.”

The words echoed back to him. John hadn't meant to say it. Not like that. Not in the heat, not with grit still under his nails and blood drying on his knuckles. Not like a man giving up. But it was out. And now it echoed inside him like a mistake with no undo button. You’d looked at him like he’d spoken in a language you didn’t understand. Not cold—just… confused.

“You? What does it have anything to do with you?”

Your words resurfaced in Walker’s mind making him flinch. The words landed like a strike, because they were true—to you.

You didn’t know, of course. You couldn’t have known. He’d hidden it too well, buried it beneath routine, distance, discipline, and the false safety of indifference. He’d never given you reason to believe he felt anything for you. And of course John hadn’t meant to ask you to carry the weight of his feelings, either. Not after hiding it so long, after working so hard to stay distant. Professional. Untouchable. Instead, all it had done was blindside you. And then, in one moment, he handed you the entire truth like a live grenade and expected you not to drop it. The man let out a breath, ran a hand down his face. The shame sat heavy. Sticky. Everything felt too loud. Too tight. Like he’d stepped out of his own armor and left himself exposed—and worse, ridiculous. He rested his forehead against the wall, cold and steady beneath his skin. Real, in a way nothing else felt right now. John knew he couldn’t go back. Not with that look on your face still seared into his memory — not angry, not cruel. Just shocked. Like he’d said something irreparable. He could charge through gunfire. Take punches that shattered concrete. But look someone in the eye and ask if they could still care, even after seeing the mess he was? That was war on a whole different field. And he’d never been trained for that. But where would he go anyway? What could he even say? “I didn’t mean it.” — A lie. “Forget I said anything.” — Coward’s retreat. “I love you.” — Pointless, is it?

When he finally moved - slowly, numbly - he walked nowhere in particular—just somewhere quieter than this. His steps led him to the maintenance stairwell. Dim, impersonal, lit by flickering fluorescent light. He descended without thought, two steps at a time, until the concrete landing stopped him. There, he sank down. Helmet beside him. Elbows to knees. Shoulders heavy. U.S. Agent didn’t know what to do with the ache lodged behind his sternum—like something was trying to claw its way out. Not grief, not love, not even guilt. Just regret, raw and unshaped. “Great job, Walker,” he muttered to himself. The words fell flat. No anger. Just tired venom reserved for the man in the mirror. “Might as well have handed over your spine with that confession.”

He chuckled, once. A brittle thing. It died on the concrete before it could echo.

He wished, for one brief, foolish second, that you’d yelled at him. That you’d snapped, or rolled your eyes, or turned away while he was still speaking. Something to react against. Something to use as fuel. Something to hold against you so he’d believed that you’re not worth it all. But you hadn’t. You’d just looked at him like someone you didn’t recognize.

And when he saw that look—he chose the only thing he knew how to do. He left.

Because staying meant facing what he’d ruined. Because walking away at least gave the illusion of control.

So he did what he felt right to him at the moment. He hid from things which could hurt him, leave him defenceless, make him believe that he’s actually worse than he thought. Isn’t that what happened with his retirement as Captain America? There were too many blasts on him, forcing him on his knees, made to obey the public opinion which claimed him a monster. He crossed a line and there was no buts to it. He surrendered. What was the point fighting back then? And what is it now?

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, drawing in a slow, deliberate breath. The dark behind his eyelids offered no relief. Your face still flickered there. That startled expression. The shift in your posture. That something you almost said—but didn’t. But he hadn’t waited. Hadn’t asked. Hadn’t hoped. He just assumed the worst. And walked. A man trained to run toward danger, but never taught how to stay still when something gentle reached for him.

He didn’t cry. Not exactly. But something cracked inside him. Quietly. Cleanly. The kind of break that doesn’t echo, doesn’t scream—just folds inward. Like a structure collapsing under pressure it was never built to withstand. And he stayed like that alone in the stairwell. Not broken. Just… hollow. Like someone who had nothing left to fight — except the war inside his own ribs.

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A/N x 2: I want this man to suffer, honestly. I absolutely love how authors mostly do “enemies-to-lovers” stories because how can we surrender to this man we were so against in “Falcon and Winter Soldier”. I want him to suffer because it blows my mind how he’s the first character from Thunderbolts* I write about, THE character which brought me back from my writing block. He was never my favourite and I can’t imagine a happy ending with him and yet suddenly he makes me feel feelings! Not fair, Walker! Thank you for staying and keep reading the story! It’s like you’re holding my hand while we go through this <3

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Collateral // Part 1

Pairing: John "U.S. Agent" Walker x You Summary: After a near-disastrous mission, tensions erupt between two teammates — one too stubborn to admit the risk, the other too tired to keep hiding what he feels. In the heat of frustration, John Walker confesses something he never meant to say out loud. What follows is a moment of raw honesty, regret, and quiet fallout — leaving one of them speechless, and the other walking away before the silence can answer. Content Warnings: angst (?), language, unresolved feelings, potential for heartbreak or emotional pain Word count: 412 A/N contains spoilers and is down below

part1 - part 2 - part 3 - art 4 is coming

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You storm into the room with Walker close behind you, the door slamming shut like a final warning. You’re both fresh from the mission — bruised, dust-smeared, hearts still pounding — but none of it matters. John Walker’s pacing like he’s been rehearsing the argument in his head for hours.

“I told you not to go in alone!” he shouts. “You could’ve died!”

You don’t stop. The last thing you want is his voice echoing in your skull, riding the edges of adrenaline and exhaustion. You’re too raw to admit he’s right — and too stubborn to give him the satisfaction.

John follows.

“I said you could’ve died!” he repeats, louder this time, like maybe volume will make you listen.

“I didn’t,” you snap without looking back. “So save it.”

He halts mid-step. “You don’t even care, do you?”

Then you spin around, eyes flashing. “Of course I care,” you hiss. “But if I let that slow me down, I really would’ve died.” He blinks, stunned for half a beat. Then:

“Bullshit. You care about the mission. Not about yourself. Not about—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Not about what it would’ve done to me.” That stops you cold. “You?” You throw back looking almost insulted. The meaning of John's words not reaching your mind. “What does it have anything to do with you? It's not like you care about-”

“I care, damn it. That’s the problem! I—” His throat works. “I wish I hadn't fallen for you, just to end up acting like a damn fool!”

The room freezes.

You blink. The words hit you like shrapnel — sharp, fast, unexpected.

He stands there, shoulders hunched under the weight of something he clearly didn’t plan to say. His face is tight, but his eyes are open and tired — like he’s bracing for whatever you’ll do with it. Then he laughs once. Bitter and quiet.

“Am I an idiot?” he asks — not to you, not really. Just into the room. Into the quiet. A man who already knows the answer.

Neither of you answers.

He doesn’t wait for one.

He shakes his head slightly, like he’s mocking himself more than anyone else. “Hell of a moment to blurt out the one thing I swore I’d keep buried.”

And just like that, he turns and walks away — no explanations, no second glance.

And you? You’re left standing in the middle of it all, heart pounding louder than John’s confession.

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A/N: this is what I woke up from this morning. Not from the shock of the confession but from the aching feeling this look of his gave me. I had to share it with the world ASAP. That’s why background information’s missing, sorry, it could’ve added to story some sense, make the confession more unexpected for you but this is just how it happened to me so I hope you get to enjoy it. And I mean he was not even my favourite character! Uh, this man... I’m not sure if I conveyed it right but he asks "am I an idiot" not for loving but for saying it out loud at what seemed to be the worst moment possible. It’s like he asks "what the hell did I say that for????"

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corinthianism's fic recs

here are my personal favorite fanfics! idk how often i'll update this, but i hope you like them as much as i do :) *indicates smut

last updated: march 26, 2024

MARVEL

loki laufeyson - from the void, with love — by whirlybirbs (my fav fanfic of all time!!! i think about this fic several times in a day bro) - riptide — by starks-hero - the tailor* (series) — by birdofhermes (ao3) - time after time (series) — by goldencherriess (ao3) - a friend from work — by cozy_the_overlord (ao3)

thor odinson - god of fertility* (request) — by charnelhouse - highway don't care (but i do, i do)* (part one, part two, part three) — by spacelabrathor

peter parker (andrew garfield) - agree to disagree — by delicate-dorothea - nerdy peter (request) — by webslingingslasher - good boy x bad girl trope (request) — by webslingingslasher - hold you here, my loveliest friend* — by p3mybeloved - your friendly neighborhood sensitive spider* — by jin0 - glad you're home — by withahappyrefrain - the mechanics of a soul — by irndad - 3 is the magic number* — by withahappyrefrain - crush — by ptersparkers - as it goes — by forever-rogue - here comes the sun (part one, part two, part three) — by withahappyrefrain - stability, reciprocity, and a romance for the ages (series) — by privateanxieties (ao3 - need an account to read)

steven grant (moon knight) - hold me close — by stormkobra-5 - gift of min* — by astroboots - puzzles* — by stormkobra-5 - first time* — by luvpedropascal - domestic adonis* — by peterman-spideyparker - where it starts — by silversweetpea - fallen from heaven, grown on earth* (series) — by davosmymaster (ao3) - call me poe* — by kittyfandom (ao3) - elemental — by batsingotham (ao3) - the boy with the thorn in his side — by eating_flowers (ao3)

marc spector (moon knight) - not him — by loud-mouth-loser - it's worth it, it's divine* — by the-archxr - i'm getting to know someone — by davosmymaster (ao3)

wade wilson (deadpool) - tea and sympathy (series) — by bucketsoffrogs (ao3)

SHERLOCK (BBC)

sherlock holmes - your hidden strength — by okay-j-hannah - sublime dexterity* (part one, part two) — by daydreamtofiction - literally everything by starks-hero

SUPERNATURAL

sam winchester - playing house (part one, part two) — by uncouth-the-fifth - baby i'll stay (heaven can wait) — by uncouth-the-fifth - move over.* — by ggwritesstuff - where's your head at?* — by beau55515 - birthdays: sam winchester style* — by karleekarma (ao3) - the comforts of home — by zepskies - under the hood* — by shawslut

dean winchester - whether you like it or not — by kbeautimous (ao3) - reading you wrong — by zepskies - cherished — by thatonewriter15 (ao3) - soft touch — by wearywinchester - i love her, that's why* — by kaleldobrev - drivin' me crazy* — by lis-likes-fics

castiel - salt n' lick* — by aperfectgrace (ao3) - a bite of apple pie (series) — by ac_deanc (ao3)

THE SANDMAN

the corinthian - bring me a dream* (series, ongoing) — by placeinthemiddleofnowhere - nihil — by lis-likes-fics

dream/morpheus - sweet dreams (are made of this) — by stranger-nightmare

CRIMINAL MINDS

aaron hotchner - from eden — by heliotropehotch - gold star — by honeypiehotchner - love, an abstract concept — by luveline - honeymoon phase* (series) — by hotchsbitch (ao3)

THE BOYS

soldier boy (he's absolutely horrible but so. so. hot.) - break me down* (series) — by zepskies (go read their other stuff too!) - talk to me — by zepskies

homelander (also absolutely horrible. would sleep with him.) - if i can't have you — by watchstarscollide - milky white* — by after-witch

GAME OF THRONES

jaime lannister - i'm not made by design — by ichorai (this legitimately changed my brain chemistry)

STAR WARS

obi-wan kenobi - like turning on the light* — by full-time-make-believer (deactivated acc) (this also changed the trajectory of my life) - where it wasn't* — by 221bshrlocked - your thoughts are loud — by spidersbane - empty me out* — by 221bshrlocked - house of memories* (series) — by meshlasolus - bad idea, right?* (series) — by mischiefling (ao3) - you make me feel like dancing — by saradika (ao3) - it's a wonderful lie — by firstofficerwiggles (ao3) - temptation's kiss — by karasong (ao3) - you make my dreams* — by wickedscribbles (ao3) - like a living mirage — by karasong (ao3) - broken drought* — by rosalindbeatrice (ao3) - never grow up — by doihavetoloseyoutoo (ao3) - never ending story — by kybercrystal (ao3) - volveré* — by kxnobi (ao3)

din djarin (the mandalorian) - the savior* (part one, part two, part three) — by dindjiarin - significant — by softlyspector - touching din — by archieimagines - uncharted territory* — by pedrito-friskito - creed* — by wheresarizona - home is wherever i'm with you* (part one, part two, part three) — by saradika

DRACULA (BBC)

count dracula - the székely* (series) — by theplumsoldier

LOTR/THE HOBBIT

thranduil oropherion - a boon* (series) — by inksplots (ao3) - beauty and the beast (series) — by tamurilofrivendell (ao3)

DOCTOR SLEEP

dan torrance - of monsters and men* — by helaintoloki & obitwo - domestic life (headcanons) — by thornsinmycrown - smut alphabet* — by daincrediblegg

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Jealous Jason Todd Headcanon

~loooong requested hope you enjoy some brotherly competition~

- jason had no idea he wanted you until dick called "dibs" the first night he met jason's mysterious "friend" and newest bat-recruit

- at first, jason didn't care. like at all. but that never stopped him from being an asshole

- "my brother y/n really? what's there to like? i didn't see you as a musical theatre and dad-joke enjoyer" he'd scoff anytime dick tried to make a move

- that didn't stop richard fucking grayson.

- "hey! y/n! fancy seeing you here!" .. "it's the batcave dick i work here" .. "oh, well are you working all night? maybe we can grab some big belly burger after?" .. "we have patrol together you dork"

- honestly, it was endearing being adored, worshipped even. from handwritten poems, to a little mini batarang necklace, and all the weapons your heart could desire

- and for all his dork-tendencies, dick knew a thing or too about hand placement...

- "put me down richard" .. "you literally fell into my arms" .. "i would've landed on my feet" .. "sure princess, but aren't my arms a little better?" he'd tease, sweeping you bridal style out the back door of the gala you two had just rescued

- it was somewhere in between the gift giving, rooftop dates, and stolen glances that jason realized he might want -slightly, just a tiny bit- more.

- okay; he wanted you all to himself.

- but he's always been shit at explaining it

- where dick was obvious and flirtatious, jason started subtle: always inching closer to you, keeping a longing gaze set on your every move-even if it meant tripping himself up in battles- you noticed he would sooner get shot than let you catch a scrape

- and just like dick's coddling, it got annoying

- "jace i've been on the team for months, i think i can watch out for myself" .. "i know, i protect the people i care about" his response was almost a whisper, and before you could pry further, he disappeared, replaced with a familiar cheesy grin "hi y/n! wanna catch a movie tonight?" .. "uh, one sec dick! i need to check on jace"

- but jason was never anywhere to be found. every time he let you in, he disappeared just as quick.

- when you started toying with new weaponry jason was there, you still got butterflies remembering the way he pressed himself against you while fixing your form, his calloused fingertips lighting fires as he subtly adjusted your grip on your gun

- "jay is this right?" .. "mhm your grip is perfect, but the recoil will get you, slide your leg backwards to brace for the impact of firing" .. the minute his hand touched your thigh a shiver ran across your body, against your shaking will .. "oh, sorry i didn't mean to-" .. you cut him off "no it's good, you're good" but before you could turn around to unpack the cloud of tension in the room, jason cleared his throat and gruffly said "fire" ruining any chance of an emotional conversation. three perfect shots to the targets, and with a satisfying nod he was gone once again

- so when dick asked you out on a real date, to a restaurant whose menu alone gave you anxiety at the thought of ordering, you realized you had to give jason the ultimatum

- but for once in his (second) life, jason was way ahead of you.

- "you said yes to dick?" jason was sitting at your desk when you entered your own room, overly dramatic but it was jason todd after all.

- "do i have a reason to say no?"

- "you hate fancy restaurants. you need like a week to plan what you'll order otherwise you'll just be stressed the whole time"

- you rolled your eyes, but jason wasn't finished: "and you hate movies, sitting in one place watching a film you probably haven't heard of, pretending to enjoy the nuance"

- he wasn't wrong. "whatever jace, that doesn't-" .. "i can tell you what's gonna happen. he'll order a wine too sweet for your taste, and talk to the waiter enough to make you want to crawl under the table. then after a perfectly lovely dinner he'll take you to a rooftop to 'show you the sights' and you'll have your first kiss. but you hate the city skyline, it reminds you you're far from home. you like the sound of the ocean and the rusting of the forest. you like something real."

- your heart was in your throat. but you needed something more: "say it jason. don't tell me the future with dick. fucking say it."

- jason stood up, closing the distance between you, eyes now desperate and wild: "say what? that i've loved you since the minute i lost you? that i feel like ive known you forever? that i don't need to learn to love you like he does, i was built for it? that i feel like i was made for you? how do i put it in a few useless words"

- "you just did jay." you whispered, letting him lock his lips in yours with a smile.

- "please go break richard's fucking heart and come home to me." he grumbled, to which you agreed, letting dick down softly and promising to set him up with one of your friends in return for his kindness- a deal which he wouldn't let you forget

- years later, it was more of a household joke, dick claiming he was the catalyst to your and jason's lovestory. to which jason wholly despised, but you never minded giving dick a little credit

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Your first night with BNHA guys

I can’t keep these things inside me and I have to share them with the world.

Please, welcome some headcanons (am I using this word right?) of how your first night would go with BNHA guys who are not so easy to deal with. 

Plot: You have no expirience in intimicy but, having met your faited one, you now know what it is to be horny af. So you ask for some help.

Chisaki Kai

Mysophobia is a problem you can’t ignore and never did.

You might be unexpirienced kid in this stuff but that fever you feel every time Chisaki takes off his mask or gloves (only to change them for the other pair) - that fever you feel makes you swallow your saliva helplessly.

So you start to take little steps in Chisaki’s comfort zone, making him look at you more attentively and understand what you’re up to.

Finally, he lets you touch his body (just for him to get used to it). He calmly sits on the bed while you stand in front of him. You are nervous and blush. He takes his mask off and closes his eyes for not making you even more nervous. You take your time watching his body close: his eylids, his lips, his chin, his neck, his chest mustle which even black shirt couldn’t hide.

You are about to reach your hand to touch his cheek when you notice that the man has clenched his fists. So he is enduring it, huh? That’s when you stop and fall on the bed right next to Chisaki without touching him in any way. He looks at you quiet suprised and you refuse to look at him, feeling embarrassed, frustrated but helplessly in love with the man.

He’ll never tell you but at that moment when all he could see was tips of your ears getting red he felt an urge to touch and being touched by someone for the first time of his life.

You won’t stop trying. So Chisaki is quite amused finding you on the bed half-naked and with your hands tied up. You explain that it's all up to the man and you tied your arms up so you wouldn’t be able to touch him even accidentally, you let him touch your body so he could get used to you.

Chisaki willingly gives it a try. He touches your bare torso first with his gloves still on. That’s when you lose your breath and bury your red face in arm bend.

Chisaki touches your body with his fingertips, going higher to your chest and neck, slowly, getting used to the feeling of touching someone’s skin, feeling its warmth and scent.

Having noticed your heavy breathing, Chisaki asks you if you’re feeling o'kay and after a short silence, still hiding your face, not sure whether you should say it, you'd answer, “the man I want is touching me, I can’t help but feeling happy”

And then

He takes your hands away and shuts all complaints by a kiss. His instincts don’t allow him to think or feel disgusted: you’re under him and he can feel that bitter taste of desire you have towards him, he could see it deep in your darkened eyes;

Still with your arms tied up, you response to man's kisses with greed. Everything you wanted is given to you and you accept it all with gratitude.

On the morning there’re no hugs or good morning kisses. Yet Chisaki musingly plays with the tips of your hair and for that moment you couldn’t ask for more or feel even happier.

Hawks

Hawks is a mess, honestly, you can never tell what he’s thinking.

Oh, those wings, oh, those feathers, oh, that smile.

That smile seriously starts to get on your nerves: the love of your life teases you heartlessly for God knows why.

Shouldn’t be #2 Pro Hero be more tolerate towards his sagnificant one? Nah, not about Hawks.

You could never figure out what the man was up to but who said you wanted to?

So when the damn bird corners you in the kitchen, whispering in your ear sweet stuff just to tease you again you decide you’ve had enough. You kiss him and don’t let him pull away as he usually would do. You start feeling hot as he lets your tongue inside his mouth.

Due to inexperience you pushed too much so very soon the hero loses balance and falls on the butt with you on top of him. His wings spread wide and the wind they made makes you open your eyes and break the kiss.

You feel satisfied. You weren’t good kisser, you could tell, but for a moment it feels like Hawks wasn’t the head of the game.

Yet what you see then make you feel confused a bit. Hawks covers the half of his face with his hand, and his left wing’s covering his head and face with tips of its longest feathers as if protecting him. 

You get worried that you might’ve crossed some line, it was unpleasant after all, so you start to nervously shake your hands, mumbling apologies and excuses.

“Ooh?” You hear Hawks’s low voice and look at him, noticing very dangerous light in his eyes. “The truth is I was afraid you’re too good for me and didn’t want to scare you away being pushy but you got some interesting side of your character as well, didn’t you? Well? You’re not going to step back now, are you?”

The smirk on Hawks’ face which doesn’t suit a hero makes you swallow your saliva. Not saying a word, still sitting on the man’s lap, you place your hand on his chest and look straight in his eyes, making him understand that is what you want yourself.

Hawks’s a smart and somewhat mischievous guy. He doesn’t ask you twice, making sure you’re really ready. Hawks is a bird of prey after all.

You nearly suffocate with admiration when Hawks’s wings spread wide when their master’s on top you with these darkened eyes of his, focused on your face as you’re getting what you’d asked for. 

Lying next to him afterwards you hide your face, burning with embarassment, as Hawks teases you of how bold you were, attacking him and pushing him on the floor. 

You can hardly hear him as you’re remembering the last night: all those expressions you saw on Hawks’ face you’ve never seen before, his moans, his darkened eyes...

Hawks starts to poke you as he doesn’t get the desired - usual - reaction from you and it’s his way to check up on you.

You stare at him for a moment and he smiles innocently at you. “Angel in disguise” is what you think before covering yourself fully in the blanket.

That makes Hawks burst out laughing with tears in the corner of his eyes, feeling at ease that you’re o’kay and have accepted him whole.

Twice

The man's split personality (?) was too much for your heart: at one moment he'd press you against the wall with violent kiss, at the other he'd be already 10 steps away from you, crying, explaining himself, begging for your forgiveness and escaping way too fast, not letting you say anything and acting all innocent afterwards until the next sneaky attack.

Twice thinks too high of me, you say to yourself, already irritated by - ahem - well, you can’t be mad because of the absence of something you never experienced in the first place, right?

Anyway you came up with a plan.

You know you can’t handle the "tough guy" until Twice himself isn’t willing to do anything

On the Friday night when you both’re having fun, watching some crazy TV-show. I mean, Twice's having fun, all you can think about is how fluffy his hair is, how his stubble would feel like when he’d be kissing your neck, how he’d look like when he-

Twice bursts out laughting as players on TV-show did something apparently funny and turns his head to you.

You planned to attack him like his "tough guy" did with you but couldn’t bring yourself to ruin the fun Twice had at that moment.

Feeling bad, you wish the man good night and go to bed.

After some time, unsuccessfully trying to fall asleep, you feel that something’s crawling its way in your bed.

You were about to pull away your blanket when Twice grabs your arms and pulls them away, kissing you roughly. His arms sneek between your legs under the blanket, making you gasp.

That’s what you craved and yet something is missing. “Jin...” Your hot whisper's enough for the man to gain his consciousness and starts pulling himself away only for you catch his arm, making him to stay.

Still feeling insecure, Jin watches you take his position

Getting on top of the man, you decide it’s your turn to make him feel wanted so you cover his face with gentle kisses

Jin, with his eyes wide open, doesn’t dare to breath until you reassure him you're okay and he didn’t scare you. He takes a deep breath, lying on his back, letting you caress his body and kiss him. It doesn’t last long though.

You’re surprised when the man gently takes your arm and places a kiss on your palm. Then he looks straight in your eyes, pulls your face closer and kisses you, more passionate that his “tough side” ever did. At instant your head gets dizzy and, though still being on top, your whole body is in control of the man under you.

On the next day Jin’s shy as ever. “You’re not hurt, are you? You’re o’kay?You’re in pain! It must’ve been painful as hell!”

You can’t help but chuckle and that makes the man smile too, shortly, awkwardly but sincere.

[ultranumb-mask]

Knowing Charles’ family background, you couldn’t blame him for taking a break, leaving the big city and living on the coutnryside for a while just for him to get all of his thoughts in order. Suprisingly, simply watching you every day was enough to calm his mind. He meant no harm to you, he never enen intended to meet up with you or being introduced to you. Just watching you from distance was enough for Charles, he couldn’t ask for more. You were funny, radiant and, oh, so lovely. Charles couldn’t remember the day when all his troubles with his family, friends, the whole world didn’t matter to him anymore. All that mattered was you, what you were doing. You were the center of his world now.

[ultranumb-mask]

*some fellow passing by Jaskier in a pub*: Heard that princess got engaged recently. Lucky guy.
Jaskier: *was in the middle of chatting with Geralt but stops and can’t bring himself to continue his joyful speech*

[ultranumb-mask]

You: *going away from him* Stop talking nonsense! There is no ‘us’! And never will be. Jaskier: *following you and stopping at your words* Just because I’m a human? You: *feeling exhausted, stop and exhale annoyingly for the bard not understanding such simple things and keep forcing his love to you* Exactly because you’re a human. Jaskier: Well, that’s not fair. You: *getting even more annoyed but this time because you hate how desperate and hurt Jaskier sounds when the only thing you want for this man is to have long and peaceful life* Tell me about it.

[ultranumb-mask]

Jaskier: *playing his lute, singing and winking at you*
 Maidens ahead of you: *watching Jaskier, thinking he winked at one of them, giggle* 
You: *sigh tiredly as you think he simply flirts with you but all these glances from noble ladies because of his signs of affection towards you annoy you a bit*

after the ball

Jaskier: *catching up with you as you didn’t wait for him* Did you like my singing?
 You: Ah, yes, it was… nice *keep going to where you stayed with Geralt and Jaskier in this town*
 Jaskier: *taking your hand, surprising you and making you stop* Your opinion is really important to me. 
You: Jaskier *holding a nervous laughter* It’s a mere flirt, right?
 Jaskier: *stepping closer to you, his eyes don’t seem to you as bright as they usually are* What if it is not?

[ultranumb-mask]

There’re actually previous parts bu~ut I really need to publish it and put this plot to an end. Thanks to everyone who enjoyed it ;)

You: *don't understand why any Barry needs to come to your Earth and don't have a desire to figire it out as after leaving Earth-1!Barry you remember how it was like when Justice League told you the Flash died* Barry: *smiles at you happily as if he's been looking for you forever and now finally finding you doesn't know what to do* You: Barry? How can I help you? Barry: Oooh, I thought you wouldn't be so cold with your future husband. You: *didn't have time to recover from your travelling and can't think quickly* What? Barry: *steps closer* It's me, Y/N. Your Barry. It's me. I'm here. I'm back for you. You: *start to recognise what's happening* No... You-you're dead. It cannot be you. Whatever Earth you're from you got to stop this. Barry: *laughs at you shortly and kindly and pulls you closer to him* I love you, Y/N. I was so sorry I never said it to you properly. And when I came back I found out that you were gone. I didn't know what to do. Is this how you felt when I left? You and I, we are meant to be after all.

the end

[ultranumb-mask]

Barry: *cries* I can't. Why does she have to go through all of this? Alone? For what? For some dead man who will not- *swallowas as he understands what bullshit he's saying* I just... I can't let her go. I can't. Not after all of this what she's done for us. For the Flash. For me. Why can't she just... Just love me?

[ultranumb-mask]

Jaskier: *singing but once he notices you leaving a pub stops it and rushes after you* Woah! I-it’s you. Really you. You: *being deliberately suave* Nice to see you’re doing well, Jaskier. If you’re here it means that the White Wolf is somewhere near, too? So Yen is, I suppose. Jaskier: Will it always be about them? You: Why, it’s also about princess Cirilla. Jaskier: *feeling unfair for you only caring about them* Will it ever be about me? You: You don’t want it to be about you, bard, trust me. *giving the man a sincere smile this time* Jaskier: If it’s the only way to be with you... I’m ready. You: *looking into bard’s eyes, probable the first time when you see Jaskier as serious and almost desperate as he is now in front of you and understanding that it's starting to be hard for you to get separated with him* 

[ultranumb-mask]

I’m just leaving it here.

[ultranumb-mask]

You: *screaming inside for having let these words of confession slip off your tongue and turning your back to Jaskier ready to go to the other side of the world to save your heart from being regected* You didn’t hear anything!

Jaskier: *being shocked as you, the reason he hasn’t been able to write a single poetic line since he met you, confessed you loved him but waking up once you’re going away from him*  What- Wait! Stop, no. *standing up from the spot he was sitting, letting his notebook fall and nearly falling himself* Wait, just a moment... Y-You did say it though. *trying to act cool but feeling really scared that you might not really mean it*

You: *stoping your step but still not facing Jaskier and not knowing what to say to him*

Jaskier: D-did you - uh - mean all those words? *still staying awkwardly, barely breathing* There’s huge hope in my heart that you did because if you didn’t I just might die of a broken heart.