[bunnibaby-love]

nsfw x links 💝

♡ Caleb + Sylus + Xavier + Rafayel + Zayne + Varka + Flins + Diluc + Wriothesley + Toji + Gojo + Geto + Nanami + Phainon + Ashveil + Dan Heng + any of ur favs!

💋 • Putting you on mean prone bone after being bratty all day.

💋 • Burying himself deep inside of you while sucking your cute tits

💋 • Treating you like you're a ragdoll and fucks you hard and rough

💋 • Gives you playful kitten licks and kisses on your pussy while being cute

💋 • He's tired but the only dinner he wants is your sweet cunt! Just sit on his face and grind on his handsome face

💋 • Torturing your clit cause you're so impatient

💋 • Deep and Rough thrust after he back from gym

💋 • Riding him while he gets dumb off your tits

💋 • Teaching you how to take him on your mouth then finally fucking you

💋 • Sloppy french kiss while he's deep inside you

💋 • Fucking you hard while you're wearing his favorite lingerie on you

💋 • Pining you while you just take all of him

arts are not mine crds to the artist <3 download X and log in to your account to view links! Use VPN if it still doesn't work

[sunsburns]

the complete knock (ii) — bob reynolds

⟢ synopsis. joaquín convinced you to stay in new york as a chance to regroup... and maybe look into who the hell this bob guy is. and just when things could not get any worse, john walker finds you both under the ruse of wanting to talk.

⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, sequel to this fic right here! a lot of plot. reader is described as female. reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :( joaquín is sooo baby brother. a bit of stalking happens, walker is a punching bag (i love him tho), reader is crazy stubborn, #justiceforsamwilson.

⟢ wc: 21.2k+

⟢ author’s note. bob wears bunny slippers. that is all i had to say.

You should’ve been halfway back to Washington by now. Maybe already unpacking your bag in your bedroom, or sitting shoulder to shoulder with Joaquín on the couch while Sam paced in front of you both, jaw clenched, hands on his hips and brow furrowed like he was about to crack the floor with how hard he was pacing back and forth. He’d be muttering something about how disappointed he was, how you went behind his back and dragged yourself into this morning’s breaking news cycle.

Instead, you were still in New York, sitting across from Joaquín in a café that toed the line between ‘upscale diner’ and ‘hipster brunch spot.’ Somewhere in Mid-Manhattan, near enough to the buzz of the city, but tucked just far enough to feel like a secret. Still, it was too close to the watchtower for your liking, just down the street.

The café had all the trimmings of old New York: polished floors, and red leather booths, but filtered through the lens of reclaimed wood walls and Edison bulbs.

It was early enough that there were only a handful of people occupying the other booths. Old soul music hummed softly from the speakers overhead, and a couple of waitresses bustled between tables, laughing in Spanish. There was a white man across from you who was poking into his own breakfast with a strange mannerism only filthy rich people would have.

The mug of coffee in your hands had gone lukewarm. The latte art was so nice that it made you hesitate even to drink it, but you also wondered if you could force yourself to have an appetite after last night.

Joaquín had convinced you to stay just a little longer; said it might help you feel better. He sat in front of you in the booth, wearing an I LOVE NYC shirt, sipping from his cold brew as if he hadn’t dragged you out of bed at five in the morning for a run around Central Park that took an hour and then saw the sunrise. Which then became a detour to Times Square before it got crowded. Which then became breakfast out, because apparently, room service wasn’t “authentically New York enough.”

And now? Now you were here. Staring into a latte you didn’t ask for, stomach coiled too tight to even think about food, wishing you could leave the city already.

You hadn’t said much since leaving the gala. Not in the van, not in the elevator ride up to your hotel room, not even when Joaquín offered to stay. You’d nodded, locked the door behind him, and then downed whatever overpriced minibar bottle of tequila you could find. Maybe two.

You kept replaying it all. The way the crowd went quiet when the cameras caught you with Valentina. The fake smile politeness as she wrapped an arm around your shoulders and whispered poison in your ear.

The words still echoed: What’s loyalty really worth?

She wanted you to betray Sam, as if enough people hadn’t already done that.

And then there was Bob.

Fuck that guy.

Fuck Bob.

You went back to nursing your coffee, eyes glazed, ears barely catching the low hum of the voice of the lawyer Joaquín had hired as he explained your legal options. You weren’t sure what he was saying. Something about image rights, team misrepresentation, staying away from De Fontaine and possible lawsuits: you nodded because it was easier than arguing.

Joaquín said you would stay just until noon like this city hadn’t already taken enough energy from you. And you agreed because part of you still hadn’t figured out what to do next.

Besides, it was only eight-thirty in the morning by the time you both got your drinks.

“…And those are just a few steps I’d recommend moving forward,” the lawyer said smoothly, adjusting his glasses as he sat back. “I’ll be honest, this isn’t exactly my usual wheelhouse, but I think we’ve got a decent case if we frame the whole thing as a misunderstanding. Especially if De Fontaine keeps using ‘Avengers’ without clearance.”

His tone was calm. Unbothered. Confident, even. You couldn’t tell if that made you feel better or worse. You probably could have avoided this entire situation if you had stayed home and told Congressman Gary to suck it.

“Yeah, thanks,” Joaquín said brightly, finally glancing up from his laptop.

The man stood, reaching for the sleek red cane that rested against the booth. “Well, you’ve got my number,” he said. “Call if you need anything. I’m happy to keep looking into it.”

“Thanks, Matt,” Joaquín said again, giving him a grateful smile.

“Seriously,” you added, your voice a touch warmer now. Maybe it was the way Matt had actually made the whole mess sound… manageable. “Thank you.”

Matt turned in your direction, that easy smile not fading. “Don’t worry. If you want to push the misunderstanding narrative, you’ll be fine. And if Valentina keeps branding this team as Avengers, there’s a solid case for misrepresentation, especially if your likeness is being used to imply endorsement.”

You nodded. “Right. Yeah. Got it. Thanks.”

Matt paused, as if catching the hesitation in your voice. “You’ll be okay,” he said, then offered a small wave as he made his way toward the door.

Joaquín watched him leave, the bell above the café door giving a soft chime as it swung shut behind him. Then he turned back to you with a grin that was way too proud for someone who’d just hired a lawyer from a newspaper ad. “He seems nice.”

You narrowed your eyes over the rim of your coffee mug. “Where’d you find that guy?”

He pursed his lips, “You said we needed a lawyer. I got us a lawyer. He has really good reviews on Yelp. One of the best in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Hell’s Kitchen? You made that pour man come all the way down here for us?”

“He offered,” Joaquín said defensively, “Matt said he preferred to meet in person anyway. Besides, we need someone who’s not scared of Valentina. The man literally sues billionaires in his spare time.”

You set your mug down a little too hard, making it clink against the saucer. “We have lawyers. Sam knows people. Actual governmental legal teams. With offices. Why didn’t you call one of them?”

“I didn’t realize we needed the god of lawyers to step in,” he muttered, exasperated as he rolled his eyes. “Relax. We’ve got more than enough to blow this thing wide open. The press photos alone are enough to raise suspicion, and the way Valentina keeps parading that ‘New Avengers’ name around? That’s grounds for a cease and desist.”

You leaned back in the booth, rubbing your temple as you exhaled. “We don’t have as much as you think.”

“But we will.”

You didn’t respond, you just turned your head and focused out the window again. Outside, the city moved on without you. Pedestrians marched by in layers of spring coats and scarves, dodging puddles and taxis like it was all muscle memory. There was something comforting about how oblivious they all were, how none of them had been at that gala last night or had their name blasted across every trending tag before noon.

Inside, the warm smell of eggs and expensive coffee lingered in the air, but you couldn’t shake the sourness sitting in your stomach.

Joaquín, thankfully, didn’t push. He went back to typing on his laptop, though you could tell the silence was killing him. His foot bounced under the table. Occasionally, he muttered something to himself, probably reviewing the security cam footage from the gala again, probably rewatching the exact moment Valentina draped an arm over your shoulders like she owned you.

The two of you were dressed down, in civilian clothes (if Joaquín’s tourist merch would count as such), and baseball caps pulled low. Your sunglasses sat folded beside the ketchup bottle and sugar packets, next to the fresh copy of this morning’s Daily Bugle. Your photo was front-page centre. The shot of you in the dress, frozen between Valentina and Yelena, half-turning like you weren’t sure if you wanted to be there or bolt.

At least you looked pretty.

You wondered if Bob had seen it.

The thought hit you suddenly, out of nowhere, and lodged itself in your chest like a splinter. You hadn’t even realized you were still thinking about him, not actively, anyway, but the memory of his face lingered stubbornly. The way he’d looked at you like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go. The way he’d said your name, low and careful. Like it mattered. He felt like a scent on your jacket or a song stuck in your teeth. Something stupid and soft that wouldn’t let go.

You pressed a hand against your thigh under the table, grounding yourself. It wasn’t the time.

A waitress approached not long after, balancing two plates in her arms with the practiced grace of someone who’d been doing it since before either of you were born. Her hair was tied up in a neat bun, a pencil tucked behind her ear, and she gave your table a friendly smile.

“Three pancakes, three eggs, and three sausages?”

Joaquín perked up immediately, pulling down his headphones and sliding his laptop to the side like he hadn’t been glued to it for the past twenty minutes. “That’s me, thank you.”

“Berry waffles?”

You raised your hand, and she set the plate down gently in front of you before asking if there was anything else either of you wanted. You both politely declined, and she left.

Joaquín didn’t waste a second. He picked up his fork and immediately began cutting into his mountain of food. Syrup pooled fast over his eggs and sausages.

You just stared at your plate. The waffles were warm, the fruit arranged in neat little clusters, but your stomach still felt like it had been twisted into knots. You poked at a strawberry without much commitment.

“So,” Joaquín said between bites, reaching for his cold brew and sipping loudly from the straw just to get your attention like a child.

You didn’t look up, just stabbed a strawberry on your plate.

He tried again. “Do you… Do you wanna talk about it?”

That time, you met his eyes. His smile was soft and a little tentative, but he was holding himself like he expected you to throw your drink in his face. His shoulders were hunched, eyes flicking between you and his plate like he was bracing for impact.

“Talk about what?”

He blinked at you, then gave a pointed look. “Last night.”

You frowned, “We already debriefed.”

“I—I know that,” he said, fork mid-air. “I meant, like, talk about it to me. As friends. Just… me and you. Like we usually do.”

You didn’t answer right away. The quiet between you stretched long enough for the sounds of the diner to filter in again; the clatter of dishes, the sizzle from the kitchen, someone laughing faintly three booths over. Then you sighed, setting your fork down with a metallic clink against the ceramic.

“It’s just...” Joaquín tried again, not looking at you now, like the words would land better if he said them sideways. “You’ve been kinda like… a pain in the ass. To put it nicely.”

That drew a faint grin from you, brief, reluctant, but real. No one could needle you quite like him. Maybe that’s why you both worked. Maybe that’s why it always worked. You rolled your eyes, not quite ready to give in.

“I just don’t understand why you got us a lawyer off Yelp.”

Joaquín pulled a face, somewhere between defensive and done-with-you. “It’s not about the lawyer, man.”

“It kinda is, though.”

“No, it’s not. I’m talking about what Valentina said to you.” His voice dipped low, more careful now. “And… y’know. That Bob guy.”

“Can we not?” you muttered. The words left your mouth too quickly. “Not here, Quín.”

He didn’t say anything. Just watched you for a second longer, his fork hovering above his plate like he was debating whether to say more. Then he dipped his head, gave a short nod, and went back to his food.

You cut another piece of waffle and chewed slowly. It was good, golden and fluffy, the syrup pooling around the edges—but it didn’t warm you the way it should’ve. Didn’t ease the dull pressure blooming in your chest.

Across from you, Joaquín had only taken a few more bites before he set his fork down and wiped his hands on a napkin. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice a little quieter this time. More careful.

“We’ve done a lot of missions together, right?”

You glanced at him, wary. “Right.”

He nodded, like you’d confirmed something only he knew how to track. “And we’ve both done our fair share of flirting here and there. You know… for the job. Sometimes not for the job.”

You gave him a look, already spotting the slow grin building on his face. “Not this again.”

“I’m just saying, we do pretty well for ourselves. I do especially well.” He smiled. “Like, remember that Peruvian girl from last month—?”

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, spotting that dumb smile on his face he only has when he's about to say something stupid. “Uh-huh.”

“Well, remember how I—”

You didn’t even let him finish. “Oh my god,” you groaned, putting your fork down again. “Is there a point to this story? Because I really don’t think I can stomach hearing about that one again.”

He had the decency to look mildly sheepish—just a flush rising to the tips of his ears—but it didn’t stop him from doubling down.

“It was good sex.”

You snorted. “Mediocre at best.”

“You weren’t even there.”

“And yet, I know you need to get laid more. You talk about this girl like she changed your life, and then you follow it up with ‘she liked my jacket.’ That’s it. That’s the story. You slept with her, and she left the next morning.”

“She did like my jacket,” he muttered defensively, half under his breath.

“You need to get laid more.” You repeated into your coffee.

“I need to get laid more?” he scoffed, eyes narrowing. “You need to get laid more.”

You leaned forward just slightly, squinting at him like you dared him to double down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He blinked at you, deadpan. “You know what it means.”

“Enlighten me.”

“It means,” he said, drawing the words out slowly for dramatic effect, “you need to get laid.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it physically hurt. “I get laid.”

“Not enough,” he shot back, mimicking your tone with a mockery of concern in his voice.

You jabbed your fork in his direction. “More than you.”

“Sure.” He waved his hand dismissively, like he’d already let you win for the sake of moving on. He tugged the brim of his cap lower over his forehead, leaning back into the booth. “Can we circle back to the actual point here?”

“Whatever,” you muttered, voice low, flat. You stabbed at your waffles again, syrup pooling under your fork.

He pointed at you then, vaguely, as if trying to name something intangible. “See, this is what I’m talking about.”

You didn’t look at him, but he kept going.

“You’re off. Last night, you took a few hits—I mean, emotionally. I’ve never seen you like that before. Not really.” He scratched at the side of his jaw. “Valentina was just trying to get in your head, you know that, right?”

You let out a bitter, breathy laugh and grabbed the newspaper from beside the salt shaker. “It’s working.” You held it up with both hands and shook it for emphasis. “‘Reformed or Recruited? Meet the New Face at The New Avengers’ Table.’” You slapped it down in front of him, the headline side up. “I could kill her.”

“Okay,” Joaquín said, glancing around the café, lifting both brows. “Maybe don’t say that so loudly in public?”

You ignored him, still staring at the article. “It’s just—she talks like she’s already won. Every word out of her mouth is loaded. Like no matter what you say, she’s already said it in her head and spun it into something smarter. It’s so fucking frustrating.”

Joaquín didn’t interrupt. You kept going.

“She knows things. Things she shouldn’t. About me. About you. About everyone. And the way she talked about Bucky—” Your voice dipped again. “She’s got him on a leash. She has to be blackmailing him. There’s no other reason he’d stick around a group like that. You remember how long it took for him to even trust us? How much work Sam put in for us? And now she’s got him sitting next to Walker and a bunch government rejects that should be facing lifetimes in jail.”

Joaquín was quiet for a second, stirring his drink with the tip of his straw. “I know. I’ve been thinking the same thing. Maybe she’s got something from his Winter Soldier days. Something buried.”

“Maybe,” you murmured. “But I don’t know. He made peace with all that. Or he was trying to.”

Joaquín nodded solemnly. Then, with perfect timing and a shit-eating grin, he added, “She probably found his butt pics or something.”

You recoiled, immediately groaning, “Ugh, gross, Joaquín. Come on—I’m eating.”

He laughed into his straw, biting it. “I’m just saying. It would explain a lot.”

You tried to keep your glare steady, but your mouth twitched, the corner threatening to pull upward. You hated that he could do that, break through the spiral with the dumbest thing imaginable. But maybe that’s why he was still your first call every time things went to shit.

Joaquín’s voice softened a little. “You know she doesn’t win just because she made the headlines first, right? She wants you rattled. She wants you to think she’s got it all figured out. But she doesn’t. You’re better than her.”

You looked down at your plate, the fruit now limp and soaked through with syrup, and slowly pushed it aside.

“I just hate not knowing,” you said quietly. “Not knowing what she’s playing at. Not knowing what Bucky’s really thinking. Not knowing if any of this is going to matter.”

“It matters,” Joaquín said without hesitation. “And if it doesn’t yet, we’ll make sure it does.”

That finally made you look at him.

He gave you a lopsided smile, stupid, warm, stubbornly sure of you in a way you weren’t even sure of yourself right now.

“You’re not alone in this,” he added. “You’ve got me. And Sam. And probably, like, three semi-legal encrypted files Matt just handed over.”

You huffed out a soft, reluctant laugh. “God, you’re annoying.”

“Yeah, but I’m right.”

You didn’t say it out loud—but maybe, just this once, you didn’t disagree.

Your phone buzzed against the table, and both you and Joaquín froze, mid-sentence, mid-chew. His fork hovered halfway to his mouth. Your eyes locked on the screen.

The display lit up, just enough for you both to see the name.

Captain Sammy!

Neither of you said anything at first.

You’d been waiting for this. Dreading it, really. That’s why your phone had been sitting so close to your plate all morning, screen facing up, volume on for messages only, buzz setting maxed out. Every scrape of cutlery, every breath between words had you waiting for this.

Joaquín leaned in slightly, eyes scanning your face. “Is it Sam?”

You nodded, slow. “Yeah.”

“What’s he saying?”

You didn’t move right away. Your hand hovered over the phone like it might burn you. “I don’t know. I’m… too scared to open it.”

His brows pulled together, and he leaned further across the booth, trying to read the message upside down. “Why hasn’t he messaged me yet?”

“I don’t know,” you repeated, this time quieter, and your thumb swiped across the screen like muscle memory. You tapped into your messages.

Your stomach twisted before your eyes could even process the text.

Call me soon. We need to talk.

You winced.

“Well?” Joaquín asked, watching you too closely. “What’d he say?”

You turned the phone toward him.

He read it, then leaned back slowly. “Woah.”

“I know.”

“No emojis?”

“No.”

“He used proper punctuation.”

“Yeah. Caps. Periods.”

Joaquín let out a long whistle and slouched deeper into the booth like the air had been sucked out of him too. “Shit. He’s so pissed.”

You exhaled hard and tossed the phone facedown onto the table like it might accuse you of something else if you looked at it any longer. Your shoulders slumped, and you dropped your head into your hands, the motion knocking your cap off in the process. It hit the seat with a soft thump.

“God, I’m so fucked,” you groaned into your palms.

“Hey…” Joaquín’s voice softened. No teasing now. Just warmth. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing your wrist. Gently, he coaxed your hands away from your face. “We’re fucked. We’re a team. We both get fucked together.”

You stared at him for a second.

Then winced. “...Dude.”

He blinked, mouth twitching, and then his expression crumpled into a wince of his own. “Yeah, yeah. I heard it as I said it.”

You shoved his hand away, and he laughed. It was the kind of laugh that let you breathe again, even if only for a second.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “Do you wanna book a plane home or should we just drive back?”

“Let’s drive,” he said without missing a beat, already pulling his laptop closer. “The longer it takes to get back, the better. We need time to stall.”

“I’ll rent a car.” You thumbed open the app, scrolling through the available options. “Any preferences?”

“I’m not picky.”

You nodded absently, letting the words pass between you like background noise. Your finger moved down the screen, but your mind wasn’t really following. Each name—Toyota, Chevy, Honda—blurred past you.

The pressure had started to settle beneath your ribs now, a slow-building ache that hadn’t let up since last night. It pulsed quietly with every breath. You tried to ignore it, tried to act like you were okay, like you weren’t picturing the message on your phone or imagining the conversation that would come when you finally called Sam.

But you weren’t okay. Not really. You hadn’t been okay since that tower. Since Valentina’s voice crawled into your skull and made a home there.

The sound of Joaquín tapping at his keyboard pulled you back to the present.

“Hey,” he said, his tone cautious, like he already expected you to roll your eyes again. “I know you said you didn’t want to talk about last night anymore, but that guy you were talking to—Bob? I managed to get a voice match, and I did some digging for you.”

You didn’t look up. Your thumb hovered over a rental listing. “I really don’t care. Do you want a Honda or—”

“Well,” he cut in, “his full name is Robert Reynolds.”

You froze, just for a second. Just long enough for Joaquín to notice.

“Jesus,” he added, grinning like he couldn’t help himself, “you were flirting with a guy named Robert.”

You lifted your gaze, flat but not without bite. “Shut the fuck up.”

He laughed, light and triumphant. “There’s not much on him. He’s kind of a nobody, to be honest. Valentina must have wiped him or something. He’s got an old Instagram account but hasn’t updated it since before the Blip. Mostly middle school, high school stuff. A couple of mirror selfies. Not much else.”

You didn’t mean to be interested. Not really. But your head perked up anyway.

“Let me see.”

He angled the laptop your way without a word, thankfully.

The screen showed a grid of filtered, slightly overexposed images, pictures that fit from the time they were taken and posted. Group shots at what looked like house parties. Underage drinking and smoking. A photo of a dog. One of the sunset, blurry and underwhelming, captioned ‘summer’ with a cute emoji of the sun. Most of the posts were book covers, titles you vaguely recognized; a few you’d read yourself. The kind of things people share, not for anyone else, but just to remind themselves they were still here.

He didn’t post himself often.

But one picture stopped you.

A younger version of him stood beside someone in a graduation gown. His hair was shorter, his face leaner, his body thinner. He wasn’t wearing a gown himself. Just a hand shoved awkwardly into a hoodie pocket, the other slung around the person beside him. Still, he was smiling—kind of half-hearted, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his face. It was the same mouth, same sharp features. But softer.

You stared at it a moment too long.

You weren’t sure what you were looking for. Maybe something to prove he wasn’t a threat. Or maybe something else entirely.

You could still hear the way he said family, like he believed it, like he needed to.

You hated how easily he’d gotten under your skin. How, even now, some part of him was curling its way around your thoughts, threading through your brain like smoke through a vent. He was weird, and there was something about him that felt too big to look at directly. Like if you focused too hard, he might burn a hole through you.

You tried to tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. You tried to tell yourself he didn’t matter.

But your hand was already resting on the corner of Joaquín’s laptop, scrolling gently through the next photo. And the one after that.

And you didn’t stop.

You didn’t realize how long you’d been staring until Joaquín cleared his throat.

“He never graduated,” he said, “Dropped out.”

You blinked, sitting up a little straighter, “What?”

Joaquín tilted the screen back toward himself. “I couldn’t find any school records past sophomore year. No GED either. He just kinda... worked odd jobs before disappearing.”

Your eyes scanned what was left of Bob’s social media feed. Just ten posts in total. Ten fragments of a person whose edges were too slippery to pin down. Still, that didn’t stop the strange kick in your chest, like your body knew something your brain hadn’t caught up with yet.

“Disappearing?”

“Yeah. And it gets weirder.”

He clicked over to another tab. The brightness of a mugshot hit you instantly.

“There’s a criminal record,” Joaquín said. “Not sealed, surprisingly. Valentina’s people probably missed it—or didn’t care enough to clean it up.”

You leaned closer as he continued.

“An assault charge from one of his part-time jobs years ago. He attacked a civilian.”

“At work?”

“Yeah,” he said grimly. He tapped the keyboard again, and up came a police scan. Bob, older than in the Instagram posts, but still younger than last night, sat facing the camera with a vacant expression. His cheeks looked hollow, his eyes rimmed with red and shiny with unshed tears. Sweat slicked his forehead, and his lips were split as if he’d been grinding his teeth on them.

“He was on drugs,” Joaquín said, his voice a little quieter. “Methamphetamine.”

You vaguely remember him mentioning he was sober.

“…Jesus.”

“And,” He continued, hesitating only slightly, “he was wearing a chicken costume when he got arrested. Like, full mascot getup. Worked at Alfredo’s Bail Bonds. I don’t even know what that is.”

You frowned. The ache in your chest curled tighter as if the image on the screen weighed something you couldn’t name. Bob didn’t look dangerous in that photo. He didn’t look angry or unhinged.

He looked lost. Like he’d already been falling long before anyone ever thought to arrest him.

“It’s not funny, Joaquín.”

“You’re right. It’s not.” Joaquín glanced at you. And even though the grin tugged at his lips, he raised one hand in surrender. But the humour was still there. You know he didn’t mean anything by it, not really. You could tell he was just trying to lift the mood. “But like… come on. A chicken costume? It’s objectively a little funny.”

You scoffed, reached across the table and closed his laptop with two fingers, giving him a flat look. “You’re the worst.”

“Shut up,” Joaquín said, flashing you that stupid grin again as he tugged the laptop back toward him. “You love me.”

The warm morning sun was finally starting to cast a glow through the window and onto your half-eaten plate of waffles.

Joaquín opened his laptop again and tapped a few keys, lips pressed together now. “I still don’t get what he was doing in that tower last night.”

“He knows Valentina to some extent. We know that much,” you murmured, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He nodded, gaze fixed on the screen, but your voice dropped with the weight of what you were about to say next.

“…He called Bucky family.”

That made him pause. He turned toward you fully, his brows lifted. “Family?”

“Yeah,” you said, quietly. “Like Walker. Starr. Belova. He said they saved him.”

You watched Joaquín’s expression shift, his usual spirit tempered by something more focused, sharper around the edges. He leaned forward a little, propping his elbow on the booth table again as if the change in posture could help him wrap his head around it.

“Saved him from what?” he asked. “When?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know.”

He frowned. “You didn’t ask?”

“I didn’t really get the chance,” you said, your voice catching for half a second. Then you exhaled. “Or—I don’t know. I just freaked out.”

“You freaked out? You?”

You gave a dry, humourless laugh, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your napkin. “You haven’t met him. He just… he threw me off.”

Your voice was quieter now, almost drowned out by the soft rumble of a waitress rolling a cart past your booth.

“I was already on edge after everything Valentina said. Then he shows up, out of nowhere... and he acts... he was really sweet, actually. And I know it’s stupid but I let my gaurd down. Then he said Bucky’s his family, and I—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head. “What the fuck was I supposed to say to that? ‘Cool, same’? I don’t even know if Bucky considers us family.”

Joaquín rested his chin in one hand, looking thoughtful. “I mean… I probably would’ve asked him more questions. Try to figure out who he is before jumping to conclusions.”

You shot him a look.

“I’m just saying,” he continued, hands up in defence. “The idea of them saving him could be legit. Like—it could go back to what happened in New York a few months ago. The whole Darkness or Void incident. That was a mess. Maybe he got caught in all that and they pulled him out or something.”

“Maybe,” you said, still not convinced. “Lot’s of people got caught up in that. What makes him so special?”

Joaquín exhaled through his nose. “Could’ve been one of those publicity saves. You know how they’ve been staging those lately.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. You hated the thought of that being true. That Bob was just another pawn in Valentina’s carefully calculated optics campaign. But there was something else in your gut. That didn’t feel like the whole truth. Bob had looked at you like he knew something. Like he’d seen something you hadn’t yet.

You rubbed at your eyes. “Are there any records of that?”

“No,” Joaquín said, tapping his finger against the side of his laptop. “Not really.”

You sank back into the booth, staring at the streaks of syrup on your plate.

“It doesn’t matter now,” you said after a long breath. “We’ll probably never see him again. Or Bucky, for that matter.”

Joaquín shook his head, his expression tightening. “Don’t say that. He’ll come back.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah,” he said without missing a beat. “He can’t stay away from Sam for too long. Those two go into, like, withdrawals if they spend enough time apart. Sam starts getting all twitchy. It’s weird.”

You let out a soft laugh, “Yeah, right.”

Joaquín grinned, kicking you from under the table. “Hey. Fun fact. Bob’s from Florida.”

You raised a brow, skeptical. “What, you think he’s from Miami too?”

“Sarasota Springs.” He said, “Makes sense, I guess… with his criminal record, it kinda tracks. Rich, by the coast, drugged-up suburbia. Perfect place to arrest a meth-head chicken.”

You shot him another glare. “That’s not funny, Joaquín.”

“I’m sorry!” he shrieked when your foot connected with his shin under the table.

He was not sorry—his laugh betrayed him. He kicked you back with zero remorse. The table wobbled with the weight of your childish back-and-forth, your drink nearly toppling as Joaquín banged his knee into the edge, cursing. You stopped before either of you caused a spill.

But then, he froze.

Not the usual kind of still, either. He stopped laughing mid-breath, spine straightening with a jolt, and his eyes cut toward the window in a way that immediately froze your blood. The humour drained off him like a tide pulling back to sea.

Your own posture tightened. “What?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer; he just grabbed his sunglasses and slapped them on, even though you were indoors. That alone told you how bad it was.

“Get down,” he muttered, reaching across the table and sliding the newspaper to you. “Look casual.”

You snatched it without a word, unfolding the pages like you cared about the stock market. Your heart beat too loudly in your ears, and your eyes scanned the ink without registering a single word. Still, you followed his lead, the two of you falling into sync like clockwork.

You tried to guess what had set him off. Your brain jumped straight to Sam, storming through the front entrance, arms crossed like a disappointed dad at parent-teacher night. But no. He was still in Washington, right?

You glanced over the paper’s edge. “What is it?” you hissed.

Joaquín didn’t move much—just lowered his voice to a whisper through clenched teeth. “It’s Walker.”

You blinked, lips parting in disbelief. “What?”

“Shhh. Shut the fuck up.”

You straightened up ever so slightly, trying to look calm, normal, bored, but you angled your head toward the door.

“Where?” you whispered, barely moving your lips.

“By the entrance,” Joaquín murmured, adjusting his cap lower. “With the ghost girl.”

You squinted subtly. “Ghost gi—?”

Ava Starr. You caught sight of her instantly, despite Joaquín not needing to say her name. She stood like someone perpetually mid-departure, her hair pulled back and jaw set tight as she waited at the counter. Her arms were folded, and she was already halfway through her order. Beside her, unmistakable in his broad, self-assured posture, stood John Walker. He wore a sun-bleached military jacket and—God help you—that stupid beret. His eyes weren’t scanning the room yet, just the menu above the barista, but that could change at any moment.

You ducked back behind your newspaper like it might physically protect you. “We should just… lay low until they leave,” you said under your breath, acting like it was all casual. “The last thing we need is getting caught with them. Especially now. If anyone sees us here with them, it’s gonna look real convenient.”

“Okay,” Joaquín murmured, fingers tightening around his coffee cup. “But I’m telling you, if Walker starts walking this way, I’m crawling under this booth.”

You almost laughed, but it didn’t quite make it out. Instead, you focused your gaze on your plate, trying to pretend your nerves weren’t crawling all over your skin.

The seconds ticked by with unbearable slowness. Joaquín took a sip of his drink, eyes still hidden behind his glasses and the screen of his computer. For one full, glorious moment, it seemed like maybe—maybe—they’d leave without seeing you.

“Hey, guys,” came a voice behind you. Too familiar. Too smug.

Your stomach dropped.

“Funny seeing you here in New York.”

Your spine stiffened like a board. Across from you, Joaquín let out what had to be the quietest groan of his life, a barely audible sigh that still managed to scream you’ve got to be kidding me.

You didn’t look right away. You already knew who it was. But slowly, cautiously, you turned in your seat, past the half-finished plate of fruits and the folded newspaper still clutched in your hand, to find John Walker standing at the edge of your table.

Hands on his hips, back straight like a soldier reporting for duty. That signature smugness twisted his mouth into a grin that looked about ninety percent forced and ten percent calculated. A politician’s smile, one he’d probably been coached on.

Ava Starr stood just behind him, half-shielded by the oversized sweater and black trench coat she was wearing, and her baseball cap pulled low like you were. She sipped from a takeout cup like none of this had anything to do with her. Still, her eyes flicked over the two of you, sharp and curious. There was intrigue there, and something else. Something like suspicion.

“Walker,” Joaquín said, dragging his sunglasses off and trying on a smile that was just a little too wide to be natural. He leaned back against the booth like he wasn’t one second away from bolting. “Long time no see, man. When—when was the last time we saw each other?”

Walker didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t know, Torres.” He tilted his head, pretending to think about it with mock sincerity. “I think it was about two, three years ago? When you pled against me in court.”

Joaquín blinked, just once, then let out a breathy, “Right, right.” A stiff nod followed, and you caught the colour blooming in his cheeks before he turned back to Walker, trying to recover. “Wow. Time flies. How’s Olivia?”

Walker’s jaw flexed, the grin faltering just slightly. “She’s fine,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“Happy wife, happy life, am I right?”

“Ex-wife, actually,” Ava said casually, her voice cool and clipped—and British, you noted, catching you a bit off guard. It was the first time you’d heard her speak. “She took the kid and left him.”

A sip. Deadpan. Not even a blink.

Joaquín flinched like she’d hit him. “Oh—uh. Sorry.”

Walker sighed, running a hand down his face, but he didn’t look particularly angry at her for saying it. If anything, he just looked annoyed, maybe even tired. Like someone who didn’t have the energy to defend himself anymore.

You cleared your throat, eyes narrowing just enough. “Who’s your friend?” You asked it knowing full well who she was. You had files on every single New Avenger. The question was less about gaining information and more about playing the game. Buying yourself time. Pretending this conversation was normal when every instinct in your body said otherwise.

“This is Ava,” Walker said, gesturing toward her with a lazy flick of his wrist.

Ava offered a faint smile, small, and polite, but with an unmistakable edge of sarcasm. It was a smile that said she knew exactly how uncomfortable you were, and she probably felt the same way.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi.” You nodded once, tight-lipped.

Joaquín, ever the icebreaker, leaned forward in what was possibly the worst possible moment. “I gotta say—your powers are so cool. Like, if I could have powers, I’d want something like yours.”

You didn’t even have time to stop him.

Ava blinked, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Thanks. The cells inside my body are tearing themselves apart every second. Chronic pain. Constantly.”

He deflated like a balloon with a hole in it, sinking back into the booth. “Oh.”

“Sorry about him,” you said, giving Ava a small shrug. “He never knows when to speak or what to say.”

Ava gave a short, amused nod. “It’s alright. I’m better now, anyway. My cells only tear apart on my command.”

“That’s nice.” You tried not to show it, but the offhandedness of that statement—how someone could say something so gruesome with such ease—did something to your stomach.

Then Walker turned back to you.

“See, I thought I saw you last night,” he said, voice casual in the most deliberately uncasual way. He scratched at his beard.

Your jaw tightened.

Of course he saw you last night. You saw him too. He knew it. You knew it. And the fact that he was pretending like this was just now dawning on him made your teeth itch. Especially since your photos from that gala were currently trending on half the internet. The press had already decided what it meant. You didn’t need Walker playing coy.

“Yeah,” you said, smiling sweetly. “I saw you too. Then you turned and walked the other way before I could say hi.”

Ava snorted into her drink, reaching over to smack Walker’s arm. “You ran off?”

“No—” Walker started, but you cut him off with a tilt of your head and a raised brow.

“You did.”

“I didn’t run off,” he said, defensive now. “I just had business to attend to.”

You didn’t bother replying. He was still talking, but his words blurred into the background as your phone buzzed once again on the table beside you. Sam. Probably asking when you'd be ready to talk or when you were coming home.

You caught Joaquín glancing at the screen, and a silent understanding passed between you both. Time to wrap this up.

You turned back to Walker with a pleasant enough smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Did you need something, Walker? I mean, it’s great to see you—” (lie) “—but we were just trying to have some breakfast before we went home.”

“Home? You’re leaving so soon?”

“We’ve got things to do. It’s a long drive back.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “We can fly you back to Washington. No problem. You’d be home before sunset.”

You blinked once. “No thanks.”

Walker chuckled, a low, dry sound that barely passed for humour. “You should come by the tower anyway. We’ll show you around. It’ll be fun.”

You couldn’t think of anything that had to do with John Walker being described as ‘fun’.

Also, he wasn’t exactly subtle with the way he asked the two of you to go to the tower with them. You didn’t know what was up there waiting for you, and you didn’t want to find out. You just wanted to go home.

“Really,” you said, the word coming out like dead weight. “We’re good. We’ll just get the bill and go.”

Right on cue, the waitress showed up, sliding the receipt onto the table with a bright smile that faltered the second she noticed Walker and Ava still hovering beside your booth. She glanced between all four of you, sensing something off, the way people do when they walk into a conversation that’s gone a degree too cold. Without a word, she walked off, her shoes squeaking faintly against the linoleum.

The table went still for a beat. Then Ava finally spoke.

“We know you talked to Bob last night.”

That shut you up. Just like that, your posture went a little rigid, shoulders tensing into steel as the name settled like a stone in your gut. It landed like a trigger pull. You tried not to be too obvious but you were failing.

Joaquín was worse, he froze mid-bite, his fork hovering just an inch from his lips before he slowly set it down. His eyes darted to you, then back to Ava.

Ava shifted slightly, her voice calmer now, but precise. “We also know you asked about Barnes.”

That got you. You didn’t respond; you didn’t need to. The fact you were suddenly locked in, gaze narrowed, said enough. She had your attention. And she knew it.

Ava scanned the café. Her eyes didn’t linger too long on anything, but you recognized the sweep, measured, tactical. The way a person looks when they’ve been taught to watch for threats before they come through the door.

“We’re not with Val,” she said. “Not in the way you think. Just… give us a chance to talk. Somewhere private.”

You nearly laughed. Or maybe you wanted to. Or maybe you wanted to scream. Somewhere private? As if that didn’t set off every alarm in your body.

You didn’t know Ava Starr beyond what you and Joaquín had pulled from the files: taken by S.H.E.I.L.D. as a child, quantum instability, a near-lethal skill set. You didn’t know John Walker beyond the courtroom footage, the headlines, and everything you watched from the sidelines, a man who still believed he deserved redemption without ever earning it. You also knew he had taken a dangerous dose of the super soldier serum, making him violent and twitchy.

But you definitely didn’t know them well enough to follow them into a quiet place with no exits or no witnesses.

And you definitely did not want to be caught walking around New York City with them. The last thing you needed was another headline featuring your face beside the likes of John Walker. And Joaquín? You weren’t about to drag him deeper into a mess that wasn’t his.

But before you could say any of that, before you could even start lining up all the reasons this was a terrible idea, you heard: “Okay, sure.”

Your head snapped around. “Quín?”

Joaquín had turned his hat backward, that familiar nervous tell masked behind the casual flip. He was already sliding his laptop into his bag, fingers moving with a kind of focused ease that suggested he’d been waiting for this the whole time. Like part of him had been waiting for someone to finally offer an answer, any answer, and now that it was on the table, he couldn’t bring himself to hesitate.

“What?” he asked.

“You can’t just—”

“What?” he said again with a little more attitude, zipping the bag closed. “You’re always saying how much you hate being in the dark. They’re offering answers.”

“They could be lying,” you shot back, sharper than you meant. “This could be a trap, or another setup.”

You said it like they weren’t standing right there, and you didn’t care if they heard. They could take the hint or choke on it.

He shrugged, cool, easy, frustratingly calm. “Then we’ll find out.”

You stared at him, your chest tight all over again. He meant that. You could see it in the set of his jaw, in the way he shouldered his bag like it didn’t weigh a damn thing. That unbearable sincerity, that same stubborn belief in people that made you trust him, was now steering him straight into a situation you didn’t trust at all.

You wanted to snap. Wanted to grab his arm, drag him out of the café and into daylight, anywhere but here. A bitter remark rose in your throat, hot and ready to be thrown—about the last time he leapt before looking, the last time he decided to be a hero and ended up flatlined for two full minutes on a hospital table, blood-soaked and broken and somehow still apologizing for it afterward.

But the words caught in your chest.

You didn’t say it. You didn’t even whisper it.

You just looked at him. Tried to say it with your eyes, with the hard, silent glare you shot across the table—don’t do this.

He didn’t meet your gaze.

Instead, you turned, eyes locking onto Walker and Ava, your voice low and sharp. “How’d you find us?”

Walker raised both hands, a placating gesture you didn’t buy for a second. “We didn’t follow you or anything. Personally, I couldn’t care less about what you two are up to.”

You bristled at the you two, and you hated how they started to drag Joaquín into it.

“But,” Walker went on, “Yelena’s been tracking you since the gala.”

Your blood ran cold. “What?”

He said it casually like it was nothing.

You blinked, stomach lurching. There’d been no tag, no weight in your coat, no itch along your back where something might’ve been placed. You’d showered. Slept. Walked half the city this morning without even realizing it. And that was the point, wasn’t it? You never saw her. Never felt it. Never even noticed.

Because Yelena Belova didn’t need a tracker when she was one of the best Red Room assassins. You only couldn’t understand why she hadn’t killed you when she had the chance.

Unease coiled at the base of your spine. You felt exposed. Like someone had peeled back your skin and left it raw in the open air.

“Please,” Ava said again. Her voice was quiet, almost too calm, but there was something underneath it, something tense and taut like she hated begging for trust. “Just hear us out.”

Your stomach continued twisting, hard. Every instinct screamed don’t go. Don’t let them get you alone. Don’t let Joaquín near whatever this is. But you could already feel the decision slipping away from you.

The elevator couldn't have been any fucking slower.

You swore you could hear the grind of the gears behind the panelling, dragging each second out like a countdown to something awful. The small screen above the door blinked from floors 37 to 38 to 39 with glacial slowness.

You thought this building had state-of-the-art technology remodelled. Why the fuck was their elevator so damn slow?

Your chest was caving in on itself, a familiar panic clawing up your throat and settling behind your ribs like a second heartbeat. Every inch of this place felt too polished. You hadn’t forgotten how sharp the Watchtower felt—like walking into a wolf’s mouth made of steel and luxury.

Your brain spiralled—clawing through every possible worst-case scenario like it was trying to prepare you for all of them at once. You hadn’t even gotten to the part where Valentina might be standing on the other side of the doors. You could already see it: that smug, all-knowing smile she wore like lipstick, arms crossed, voice dripping with venomous delight. She’d say something like “Took you long enough,” and you’d want to punch her in the teeth, even as you walked willingly into the trap.

Matt would kill you.

Your lawyer had explicitly warned you to stay away from anything remotely connected to Valentina. Wait it out. Stay clean until the dust settles. This was the very opposite of that.

You rubbed a thumb across your phone screen, opening and closing your texts with Sam. The messages were still left unanswered. You had typed seven different versions of a reply: “I’m okay”, “Just give me a second”, “Long story, I’ll explain later” and deleted them all.

You couldn’t leave him in the dark. You didn’t want to be like Bucky. But how the fuck were you supposed to explain this?

‘Call you soon, busy talking to John fucking Walker’?

Joaquín shifted beside you, close enough that you could feel the low heat radiating off his arm. He wasn’t saying anything, but his tension mirrored yours—jaw clenched, eyes locked on the doors, hands flexing at his side. You could see it in the way his fingers curled and uncurled at his thigh like he was ready to move, run, or punch someone if needed.

If you were to die, at least you could blame it on him.

Behind you, Walker and Ava stood just a little too casually; coffee cups in hand, speaking in quiet tones you couldn’t catch. Not that you tried. Every nerve in your body was too loud already, the soft hum of the elevator music a scream in your ears.

They were calm. You weren’t. That alone was reason enough to worry.

You glanced at the elevator buttons. No emergency stop. No backup plan. You weren’t sure what you’d even do if you had to fight. You couldn’t land a hit on Ava unless she let you. She could phase her entire body into atoms and probably rip your spine out if she wanted to. Walker? He definitely had a gun. And he was superhuman. You’d go down in minutes. Joaquín too.

No. Fighting was not an option.

But running? That window was already gone. You’d known that the moment they cornered you at the diner. There hadn’t really been a choice. They would’ve followed you all the way back to D.C. if they had to.

So here you were. In a box of steel, crawling toward confrontation, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted out. The air was too still. Too thick. Your reflection in the brushed metal doors looked sick. Unsteady. Tired.

Joaquín glanced at you from the side, like he could sense what was happening in your head without you saying a word. His hand hovered near yours, not touching, but there. Just in case.

You should’ve just gone home. Should’ve skipped breakfast, told Joaquín to let it go, and gotten on the first flight out of New York before any of this spiralled.

Your spine ached from tension as you shifted in place, uncomfortably aware that you were still wearing the same clothes you’d gone running in earlier that morning—damp with city sweat and stale adrenaline, clinging wrong to your skin. No time to change, no time to breathe. They hadn’t given you the chance.

The elevator slowed. You felt it before you saw it—an unnatural stillness as it glided to a halt on a floor you didn’t recognize. One that hadn’t been accessible during the party last night.

Your pulse ramped into overdrive. You braced yourself, watching the doors split open with agonizing slowness, and for a split second, you were sure something was about to go horribly wrong.

Because something was there.

A long, black cylinder slipped between the doors just before they finished opening. You didn’t wait. Instinct took over—you lunged back, grabbing Joaquín and yanking him behind you as your heart rocketed into your throat.

“What the hell—?” Ava started to say, already stepping forward, but you weren’t listening.

You were listening for an explosion.

And it came.

A loud pop! cracked through the elevator like a gunshot, sharp and close. Joaquín jumped, slamming into your shoulder, and your breath caught, chest tightening as you threw your arms up. You were ready for anything—smoke, gas, flashbang, worse.

The four of you stood frozen, fists clenched, muscles coiled, every instinct screaming fight.

Then… something fluttered.

Light. Soft. A delicate brush against your cheek.

You opened your eyes slowly, blinked once, twice, and saw colour drifting down around you. Red. Gold. Silver.

Confetti.

Tiny scraps of shimmering paper were falling in slow spirals over your head, clinging to your sleeves, catching in Joaquín’s curls. You glanced down and realized you were still gripping the front of his shirt like a lifeline, your knuckles tight in the fabric. He looked just as stunned as you did, eyes wide, jaw slack.

Behind you, Walker groaned loudly, swearing under his breath. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

You finally looked up. And there, standing just outside the elevator, was Alexei Shostakov grinning like a child with a confetti cannon in his hand.

“Surprise!” he boomed, shouting your name, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.

You blinked at him in disbelief. Your body hadn’t quite caught the memo that you weren’t about to be murdered (which could still happen), it was still locked in a battle stance, heart trying to punch its way out of your ribs.

Sunlight spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows lining the lounge beyond, bouncing off the glossy, marbled floors and catching in the confetti still drifting down like ashes from a very sparkly apocalypse. The room stretched wide and open—modern, luxurious.

Alexei took a triumphant step forward, tossing the cannon aside with a clatter and reaching for your hand like he hadn’t just given you a heart attack.

You didn’t take it, your fingers were still trembling, but he didn’t seem to notice as he tugged you into the room. He waved his arm grandly toward the entryway, where a crooked banner hung overhead: WELCOME TO THE AVENGERS! The lettering was large and smudged, still drying in places, and the fabric sagged slightly in the middle.

Paint-streaked fingerprints decorated the edges, and sure enough, Alexei’s hands were splotched in red and blue. He must’ve made it himself. That realization made your head spin harder than the confetti had.

Your mouth parted, trying to find words, but before anything could come out, Walker stormed forward and beat you to it.

“What the fuck is all this?”

Alexei dropped his hand, puffing out his chest with dramatic offence. “It is party!” he declared, gesturing at you with a broad, proud smile. “For our new member! Did you not read the news?”

He turned to you again and slapped a heavy hand against your back, nearly knocking the air from your lungs. “Congratulations, my friend. We are very happy to have you on our awesome team.”

“No. No, no, no,” Walker muttered, dragging a hand down his face like he was already exhausted. He stomped up beside Alexei and grabbed his arm, pulling him gently, but insistently, away from you. “No party.”

“What do you mean no party?” Alexei protested, wide-eyed. “This calls for… what is word? Celebration! She has joined the Avengers!”

“No. We do not need to celebrate, there’s nothing to celebrate.” Walker hissed, his voice strained as he pointed back at you. “This isn’t—she’s not joining the team.”

Alexei looked at you, expression falling. “You’re not?”

“No.”

“Oh,” he said.

Walker guided him off toward the far end of the lounge—a massive open-concept kitchen with gleaming appliances and a dining area you were certain had hosted at least one illegal meeting in the past month.

“Sorry about him,” Ava said, stepping beside you now. Her tone was breezy but fond like she was used to this. “I’d say he’s not usually like that, but I’d be lying.”

She reached over and gently plucked a curl of confetti from Joaquín’s hair. He blushed, mumbling something under his breath that made her grin wider when he tugged his cap back on again.

“I’m gonna go find Yelena,” she added, stepping away. “She’s around here somewhere. Make yourselves at home.”

“Wait—” Joaquín called after her, taking a cautious half-step forward. “Valentina’s not… here, right?”

Ava laughed without turning back. “God, no. She’s probably halfway across the country by now. Besides, she can’t hurt you if you’re with us.”

You weren’t sure if that was comforting or worse. You tried to make sense of what that even meant as she disappeared up a set of spiralling steel stairs toward the upper floor.

The silence that followed made you acutely aware of your surroundings for the first time. This wasn’t just another floor in the tower. This was where they lived.

The room you stood in opened into what looked like a shared lounge and rec space. Through the transparent panels of frosted glass, you could see a massive sunken living room just ahead—an enormous circular couch built into the floor like a pit, all pointed toward a huge flat-screen TV mounted on the wall.

Through the windows, the whole upper side of Manhattan was seen and Central Park stretched out in the distance, green and gold beneath the morning sun.

The marble floors gleamed beneath your shoes. A massive, shaggy rug near the couch looked warm and strangely lived-in. The entire space looked lived-in now that you got a better look at it, cluttered with mismatched mugs, throwing knives, forgotten jackets, guns, socks and someone’s boot kicked off to the side. It was the kind of mess that told you, yes—this was where they really stayed. A home, despite how cold and glossy it looked at first.

“Bet you’ve never been greeted into a home like that,” Joaquín said quietly, almost hopeful.

You turned on him so fast he barely had time to register it before your hand smacked the back of his head, knocking his hat off.

“Joaquín. What the fuck are you thinking?!” you hissed, voice low and sharp, even though you were sure no one was listening. “We shouldn’t be here. We can’t trust these people.”

He rubbed the spot you hit, wincing and bending down to pick up his cap from the floor. “I know. Okay? I know. I’m sorry. I just—I really think we should hear them out.”

“Hear them out?” You blinked at him, disbelief carving out your words like broken glass. “What?”

He stepped closer, voice dropping lower, more urgent. “Listen,” he said, eyes flicking around like he was afraid someone might actually be listening. “I don’t think John Walker would willingly try to talk to us if it didn’t mean something. Think about it—that guy fucking hates us. And Bucky doesn’t mess around. If he’s even entertaining working with Walker, it’s gotta be for a reason.”

You stared at him like he’d just lost his mind.

“Are you hearing yourself right now?” you snapped. “No, seriously, are you hearing the words coming out of your mouth? Did you not understand anything that happened last night? Bucky’s—he’s not doing this—Valentina said—we already know—he’s being blackmailed—” You struggled to find the words because you really weren’t sure if he even was. “This?” you waved your arms around frantically, “this is literally the one thing Matt told us not to do. He told us to stay clear of anything even remotely tied to Valentina and this fucking tower—”

“Okay, okay—”

“—And now we’re here. Willingly. Jesus Christ, Joaquín. We are putting ourselves in a worse situation by the minute. We need to leave. Now.”

Your fingers closed around his arm as you spun toward the elevator, dragging him with you before anyone could return. The urgency prickled along your spine like static.

Joaquín tried to pull free. “Wait—just wait a second—”

But then your phone started ringing. The sharp, sudden sound sliced through the moment. You flinched, instinctively reaching for it.

You didn’t need to check the screen to know. You already knew. Still, when you looked, your chest clenched anyway.

It was Sam.

His contact photo filled the display—an old picture from last summer’s cookout, blurry and sun-drenched. He had an arm around your shoulders, the both of you mid-laugh, framed by folding chairs, paper plates, and the golden glow of fireworks behind you. Bucky had taken the picture, you could see his thumb in the corner. You could also see Joaquín cut off on the side, the photo taken seconds before he tried to bomb it.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath.

“You gotta answer that,” Joaquín said.

“I’ll answer it later.”

“I think you should answer it now.”

You turned your glare on him so fast that he almost took a step back. “I could kill you.”

He raised both hands in surrender. “I’m just saying.”

You flipped him off as you turned away, stalking into the nearest hallway. You didn’t want to go far, you didn’t trust this place enough for that, but you needed space. Air. Somewhere quieter to breathe.

The hallway stretched narrower than expected, cooler too. The light dimmed as you moved in, shadows creeping in like something alive. The apartment’s polished glamour fell away here, replaced with something colder. Raw concrete walls. Steel framing.

You slowed when you noticed what was displayed along the wall.

Glass cases lined the corridor like a gallery—each one holding weapons. Blades, a shield, and a blackened skull mask with a hollow stare. Scorch marks bloomed along the gear like they’d been found in a fire. The plaque caught your eye:

Antonia Dreykov.

You didn’t know who Antonia Dreykov was. But you knew how people treated the dead when they didn’t know how to let go. This seemed something like it.

Your hand drifted to the case before you could stop yourself. One of the smaller knives had been left slightly off-centre, the glass not fully locked. You slipped it free, weighing it in your palm. The metal was cold but familiar. Comforting in a way that made you hate yourself.

You tucked it into your pocket, then took another. Not because you planned on using them. Just... in case. You couldn’t afford to be the only unarmed person in the apartment.

You kept your back to the wall, thumb hovering over the green Accept Call button on Sam’s contact. You weren’t ready. Not for the sound of his voice. Not for the questions. Not for the disappointment he wouldn’t bother hiding.

Because no matter how reckless Joaquín had been to get you here—you still came.

You bit the bullet and answered, bringing the phone to your ear with a shaky breath. “Hey.”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me.”

His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. Not anger, but the obvious disappointment you expected. Concern, tight and braced behind his words like he was afraid of what you’d say next.

“Sam…”

“Do you wanna talk or should I?” he cut in firmly. “Because I need a very good explanation as to why your face is all over the damn news.”

You exhaled, slow and uneven, pressing the heel of your palm to your forehead.

You knew he wasn’t trying to berate you. Sam wasn’t like that. His voice didn’t carry malice, not even now, when he had every right to be furious. You knew it looked like you’d gone behind his back the same way Bucky had. And while your intentions had been good, that didn’t matter, not when Valentina had twisted it, splashing your name across every headline like you were some kind of defector.

“I’ll talk,” you said quickly. “I’ll talk. Just… let me talk, okay?”

A dozen excuses lined up behind your teeth. Every one of them was flimsy and easy to knock over. But lying to Sam? You couldn’t stomach it. Not after everything. Not after he’d trusted you.

“I fucked up,” you whispered. The admission stung worse than you expected. “I thought… maybe I could talk to Bucky.”

There was silence on the other end. A pause, heavy with surprise. “Talk to Bucky?” Sam echoed, more cautious than confused now.

“Yeah.” You rubbed at your face, suddenly cold despite the weight of your spring jacket. “I got invited to their black tie event. Congressman Gary sent the invite, and I was going to say no—I swear—but then I thought, maybe… maybe Bucky would be there. And if he was, maybe I could corner him. Ask him what the hell he was thinking. Why he left. Why would he join them after what Ross offered you? And he knew. Bucky knew and I just couldn’t understand why he would... leave.”

You leaned back against the cool wall of the hallway, careful to keep your voice steady. Just far enough from Joaquín’s line of sight. Just close enough to watch him, still poking curiously at things he definitely shouldn’t be touching.

“I just…” You shook your head. “Things haven’t felt right, Sam. None of it makes sense. One minute Bucky’s fighting to get Valentina impeached, the next he’s... working under her? The fuck? He shuts you out and I thought maybe... I could find out why. Maybe I could fix it.”

On the other end of the line, you heard him sigh. He murmured your name, and it made your chest ache.

“You were right, by the way. Valentina’s a total snake,” you said quietly, trying to fill the silence because it made you feel more uneasy. “I came in looking for Bucky and walked out with half the press calling me her newest toy.”

“She really played you, huh?”

“Like I’m her bitch on a leash.”

Sam let out a short, dry laugh that made you feel a little better. “Yeah. She does that.”

“We think she did the same thing to Bucky. Joaquín and I, I mean. Got in his head.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Sam murmured. “But listen… I don’t want you carrying my mess, alright? I’ll deal with Bucky. That’s on me.”

“I just wanted to help.”

“I know, kid. I know. And I know your heart was in the right place. But next time… just talk to me first. Please.”

There was no guilt in his voice. Just a quiet exhaustion. A gentleness that somehow made it worse.

You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah. Okay.”

A pause stretched across the line. Then, softer: “Are you two okay?”

Your hand tightened around the phone, glancing down the hallway like the sound of his voice might give something away. You caught sight of the display again—the glass case, the weapons, the skull-like helmet and the burnt suit. You didn’t even know who it belonged to. But you’d still taken the knives.

That probably said something about where your head was at. Obviously not good.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah. We’re okay.”

“Good,” Sam said. “When do you think you’ll be back?”

You hesitated. “Tonight, for sure.”

There was another small beat. “Alright. We’ll talk more then. Maybe we can clean up this mess of yours, yeah?”

“Okay.”

“Stay out of any more trouble.”

You broke a smile, frankly a little panicked. “We’ll try.”

The call ended with a soft click, and you stood there for a second longer, your thumb still resting against your phone as if it might ring again.

You did feel better. Not safe, but... better. Like you’d finally caught your breath after running too long on adrenaline and guilt. The tightness in your chest had lessened, the weight of what you’d said to Sam lifting enough for you to think clearly again.

You slid your phone back into your jacket pocket, already piecing together an escape route in your head. Get Joaquín. Get out of this tower. Back to the hotel and then home, away from politicians and new-age Avengers and whatever the hell this place really was.

But when you turned around, someone was already waiting for you.

Yelena Belova stood by the mouth of the hallway you’d come in from, arms at her sides, not moving. Her blonde hair was loose now, falling messily around her face, not the slicked-back style from last night. She wore a worn grey hoodie and loose pants, a silver chain glinting at her collarbone, and faint smudges of yesterday’s eyeliner still clung stubbornly beneath her eyes. Her hands were tucked deep into the kangaroo pocket of her sweater, shoulders propped casually against the wall like she’d been there a while.

“Hey,” she said, nodding once.

You froze, your entire body tensing instinctively. “Uh… hi.”

You didn’t move toward her. The space between you was the only thing keeping your pulse from skyrocketing. It wasn’t fear, not really—not the kind you’d feel around someone like Walker. It was more like wariness. The same kind you’d feel staring down a loaded gun with the safety off.

She straightened slowly like she could sense your unease. Her hands slipped from her pocket, fingers spread slightly, palms open like a silent I’m-not-here-to-fight gesture.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt or anything,” she said carefully, her voice thick with a Russian accent, stepping forward just once. “Sorry.”

You didn’t reply. Didn’t flinch either, though your muscles stayed tight. There was something different about her, something calmer than the confusion of last night. Something that made you hesitate before writing her off completely. She was a lot shorter than you expected now that you had a better look.

She pointed vaguely to herself. “I’m Yelena.”

“I know,” you said.

“Oh.” She gave a slight nod. “I know you too, then.”

“You were spying on us.” The accusation left your mouth before you could stop it, sharp as a blade. She had been, her eyes on you the moment you’d stepped out of that gala, leading Walker and Ava right to your heels. You decided to leave out the part that you and Joaquín had been spying on them too, before the gala.

Yelena winced, visibly. “They told you about that?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry,” she said again, and this time she took another step forward. You didn’t move back. She noticed. “It wasn’t personal. Everything happened so fast…” she trailed off, not bothering to lie.

You remembered the brief, icy introduction last night. The short nod. The way she kept her distance but still watched. You remembered the moment she looked at you like she already knew what mistake you made by just being there.

“And sorry about my dad,” she added, nodding toward the lounge. Confetti still clung to the floor. “I tried to tell him. But he’s, you know… dense.”

You stared at her for a second, “It’s fine.”

Her shoulders dropped slightly, as though your words had released a little pressure she’d been holding in.

“I was hoping we could talk.”

You narrowed your eyes. “About what?”

She hesitated—just for a second. Then: “Valentina.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want your help,” she said, voice low now, the trace of her accent curling around each word. “To take her down.”

If someone had told you two hours ago that you’d willingly be sitting in the residential level of the New Avengers Tower—with John Walker of all people—you probably would’ve laughed, then punched them in the throat for saying something so profoundly stupid.

But here you were.

Your footsteps echoed on polished floors as you followed Yelena into the common space, sunlight spilling in through massive, floor-to-ceiling windows that made the entire room glow. The city stretched far below in every direction. The furniture was modern and the air smelled like lemon polish.

You didn’t sit right away. You stood behind the couch with your arms crossed as Yelena handed Joaquín a small USB stick like it was a grenade. You were halfway through convincing yourself to walk out when he plugged it in. And then… you stayed. Not because you trusted them. Not because they’d earned anything. But because if what they were saying about Valentina was true, if this was the crack in her foundation, you needed to see it for yourself.

So now you were seated stiffly on a sprawling U-shaped couch, the leather cool against your legs. Joaquín sat beside you, his knee brushing yours every now and then as the two of you leaned in toward his laptop screen, silent. He scrolled slowly, eyes narrowing at every pixelated image, every fragmented document. Your jaw ached from clenching it too long.

“Holy shit,” Joaquín muttered under his breath. “How did you get this?”

“Mel left her laptop open and I snooped,” Yelena said casually, shrugging.

There wasn’t much—a few blacked-out files with top-secret headers, jagged audio clips spliced together, blurry footage from surveillance drones and security cams—but it was enough. Enough to start mapping connections between government disappearances and political scandals, between untraceable funding and medical supply routes that didn’t quite add up. The FBI had been speculating De Fontaine’s place in the CIA for years.

“This confirms it,” Joaquín said quietly, glancing back at the others. “Valentina’s the chairwoman behind the O.X.E. Everything Bucky said… about human experimentation, black-site trials, illegal trafficking, missing personnel…”

Yelena stood a few feet away, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her posture was tense and Ava sat on the armrest beside her, fingers curled tightly into her knee, expression locked somewhere between guilt and resolve. Walker hovered by the window, pretending to be disinterested as he squished a stress ball, probably taken from a therapy office.

At least you hoped he was going to therapy. You hoped all of them were, actually. They peculiar group with a lot of... problems. You did not have to be a genius to know that.

The tension between them all was heavy, but not disorderly. Rehearsed, maybe. Like they’d already had this conversation among themselves a hundred times, and now they were looping you in it.

“Great,” Yelena said, straight to the point. “So you’ll give it to Sam Wilson? Say a friend slipped it to you?”

You and Joaquín exchanged a look. Just one. That was all it took. If you handed this over, if you made it official, if Sam went public, it would burn everything down, this false sense of security Valentina had built to the press, this twisted team parading as heroes. This was it. The key. The proof.

And even though part of you wanted to spit in every face in this room and walk away, you also wanted Valentina Allegra de Fontaine to fall. To rot for what she’d done and gotten away with.

“Sure,” you said slowly, “we could.”

“But,” Joaquín added, eyes narrowing, “if we turn this in, you’re all going down with her.”

Walker straightened from where he was loitering, his arms dropping to his sides. “How’s that?”

You glanced at him, your patience thinning. You figured he would understand the most since he was in the Army, a decorated officer at that. But then again, all he ever knew how to do was take orders from someone else, no questions asked.

“Because you didn’t just work under Valentina. You were her operatives. Whether you realized it or not, you were complicit. You consented to all of this. You willingly helped execute illegal missions. You helped bury all traces of O.X.E.. Mind you, an illegal corporatization.”

Walk huffed bitterly, “Thought I was doing the right thing.”

“By stealing? Hiding evidence? Killing people?”

Ava shifted uncomfortably, and Walker’s stress ball nearly popped.

“We were her clean-up crew,” Yelena said finally.

“Right,” you replied, the corner of your mouth lifting bitterly. “Clean-up crew. Wiping traces. Silencing threats. Tying off loose ends. If someone tried to go public with O.X.E., whistleblow, or even just poked their head into the wrong corridor—what then?”

Ava spoke up, quiet and dry. “We were sent in.”

“Exactly,” Joaquín said. “What you’re describing? That’s illegal black ops. Domestic and international interference. Unregistered kill orders. You were running operations that not even the Pentagon would dare put in writing.”

Walker frowned. “Okay, but—”

“You don’t understand,” you cut in, voice tightening. “You show up in these files, in this footage. As long as you're in it, you’re leverage.”

Joaquín leaned back slightly, arms crossed now. “We could have you arrested right now. Everything you just gave us is enough for a military tribunal. Long-term sentences. Treason, obstruction, conspiracy. Pick your flavour.”

Yelena didn’t flinch. “But you won’t.”

You couldn’t help but frown at such confidence. “Is that a threat?”

She let out a snort. “No. You would know if I was making a threat. I’m very clear. You also won’t arrest us.” 

“You sure about that?”

She nodded once. “I’m willing to be. Because if you’re sitting here, reading this, it means you care about stopping Valentina... maybe helping new friends along the way. Because that is what you do. You help people, yes?”

You rolled your eyes, you could hardly consider them your friends.

“That’s what we’re trying to tell you, even if we help there isn’t much we can do to keep you out of trouble,” Joaquín said, “You think you’ve been using De Fontaine? This evidence goes both ways—and if she falls, she’s not going alone.”

“She probably knew you'd kill her if you could.” You said, “That’s why she gave you everything. The tower. The team. The illusion of purpose. Something that felt clean and heroic. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Across from you, the shift was subtle but telling.

For the first time since you stepped into the room, these guys looked… uncertain.

Ava glanced down, studying the tile beneath her boots like it might give her a way out. Walker crossed his arms and chewed at the inside of his cheek, jaw working, but saying nothing. Even Yelena, unmoving as a statue, had a muscle twitching along her jawline.

Silence settled in—tense and humming, like the room itself was holding its breath.

Then Walker broke it.

“If that’s the case,” he muttered, tone flat, “you might as well arrest Bucky too. Y’know—for his Winter Soldier days.”

You didn’t like that. Not just the deflection, but the name. It struck a nerve.

You hated that Walker brought Bucky into it now. Hated even more that the drive you’d been digging through for the last hour or so had nothing about him. No trail. Nothing to explain why he’d joined the team. No answer for why he was there the day everything went to hell—why he was helping them when the sky turned black and New York vanished into chaos for twenty agonizing minutes.

No one had explained a thing. No one had tried.

Joaquín’s mouth twitched. “Bucky was pardoned. Publicly.”

“So was I.”

“Yeah,” you said, “For killing a man in a public square three years ago. But we’re not talking about that. We’re talking about everything you’ve done since then. The black ops. The cover-ups. Evidence tampering. Political interference. Murder. Do you think a pardon protects you from three years of new crimes? Of acts of terrorism?”

Yelena scoffed, “Terrorism?”

“Did you or did you not bomb a building in Malaysia?”

“It was just one floor…” she muttered. “and Valentina owned it and the lab. Hardly an act of terror… or what you said.”

“Civilians were hurt.”

She didn’t say anything at that.

No one spoke.

Not because they didn’t have something to say, but because they weren’t sure how to say it anymore.

You could feel it now—how fragile the balance was. The way this whole thing had felt so certain when you walked in. Like the truth would be enough. Like justice could be clear-cut.

But now, it was murky.

You glanced back at the laptop, watching Joaquín continue to open new folders, skimming through them. One of the files showed grainy security footage from the vault they’d mentioned—one of Valentina’s archives. You could make out the three of them, half-lit in the shadows and red emergency lights, walking through sealed crates. Just behind them, in the back of the frame, was someone else. A body dressed in hospital scrubs.

You blinked. “Wait. What’s that?”

Ava followed your gaze, her expression unreadable. “It’s just a test dummy.”

“That looks like a man—”

“We need to focus,” Yelena interrupted, suddenly stepping forward, distracting your view of the screen. “If we waste time worrying about the wrong things, we’ll all lose.”

“You could try for a sympathy pardon,” Joaquín said eventually, eyes back on the drive.

Ava looked up, confused. “Sympathy pardon?”

You nodded. “If you turn yourselves in. Cooperate. Help take Valentina down, publicly and completely. There’s precedent for it. Limited sentencing in exchange for full debriefs. If you start working with the courts instead of hiding behind her money—”

Walker snorted. Loud and dismissive. “Turn ourselves in? For what—saving New York?”

“Congrats,” Joaquín said. “You’re heroes. You and every other vigilante in this city. The only thing that makes you different is that Valentina can market you. And you let her instead of coming clean right away.”

“You might see ten years,” you counted. “Maybe eight. Less with good behaviour. But keep hiding behind her... it’s just gonna get worse.”

Walker paced now, muttering something under his breath.

“Awesome,” he said louder. “Awesome. So this was a waste of time. Thanks a lot, Yelena. Now we’ve gotta worry about these two running off to Wilson with this. Then the press. Then all this?” he waved around the space surrounding you all, “All this is gone!”

Ava raised her voice carefully, almost hesitant, glancing at the short blonde. “What happens to… you know. If we do turn ourselves in? Where will he go?”

Yelena’s expression shifted for the first time.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, quiet now. Her hands drifted to her hips, fingertips twitching like she was resisting the urge to fold in on herself. Her head dipped low, eyes on the floor.

You weren’t sure who they meant. But it was clear from the way everyone avoided eye contact that whoever he was, he wasn’t just another asset.

Joaquín sat up straighter, eyebrows pinching. “What’s Project Sentry?”

Ava flinched. “Lena, I thought you cut that out.”

She moved fast, hand darting toward Joaquín’s laptop. He tried to pull it away, but she was faster—phasing into thin air and reappearing at his side, yanking the drive from the port and slipping it into her pocket like it hadn’t happened at all.

You never even got the chance to see what he was talking about.

You stood up, preparing for a fight. “You can’t pick and choose what gets turned in or not.”

“Are you serious right now?” Alexei’s voice boomed from the hallway as he stormed back in. He had disappeared a few minutes ago under the pretense of “getting snacks for the guests,” and now he returned with arms overflowing—half-crushed bags of potato chips, trail mix, something suspiciously resembling astronaut food.

He dumped the haul onto the coffee table and glared at Yelena.

“Lena, you said you wanted purpose. This—” He gestured around the room like it held meaning. “This is our purpose!”

But Yelena still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“It’s built on lies, Dad.”

That made Alexei bark out a laugh, one with no humour in it—just tired frustration.

“Everything is. The whole country runs on lies. At least we did something good. We saved people. Because we’re the Avengers!”

The word Avengers didn’t sit right in your mouth anymore. It felt hollow coming from them like they’d tried to slap a fresh coat of paint over a burned-out house.

Joaquín’s tone was dry as he leaned forward again. “I mean, technically, there’s enough on the drive to bury De Fontaine for a long time without bringing you guys into it directly. But if any half-decent detective picks it apart, it’ll all start to unravel. Eventually, it’s going to lead back here.”

You saw the doubt flash behind Ava’s eyes.

“And even if Valentina is arrested,” Joaquín added, “then what? The funding still stands. The CIA owns the New Avengers. Someone else just like her will take her place. Same game, new face.”

You were just about to speak, something sharp about this group’s complete lack of accountability and morality, how their so-called heroism was held together by delusion and money when the elevator chimed.

A soft ding. Too soft to mean anything, and yet it sliced straight through the tension like a blade.

You stiffened on instinct.

Joaquín reacted just as fast, snapping his laptop shut with a harsh click that echoed louder than it should’ve. You didn’t move, couldn’t. Your breath caught in your throat as the rest of the room stilled. Not a sound. Not a single goddamn sound.

A slow, creeping dread tightened in your chest.

“Shit,” Yelena muttered under her breath, almost too quiet to catch.

And then chaos in silence: hands on your shoulders, your back, Ava’s voice in your ear, sharp and focused.

“Move. Now.”

The next second blurred. Joaquín was pulled off the couch beside you, your hands and knees hitting the expensive carpet before you fully processed what was happening. The couch loomed above you. Your back scraped along the base as you were shoved beneath it, knees pressed awkwardly into the floor, spine hunched to fit.

Your breath hitched as the space closed in, dim, and a little dusty, the underside of the furniture creaking against your weight. You could see the stretch of rug in front of you, Walker’s boots retreating as he kicked Joaquín’s bag under the coffee table. He shoved the laptop in after it with even less care.

Above you: Yelena’s fuzzy purple socks. Ava’s boots, planted like guards. Their stance wide. Ready.

The heels came first. A sharp, deliberate cadence—click-click-click—on the marble. The sound bounced through the space with the confidence of someone who had never once questioned their right to be heard.

And then the voice of the very woman you hated most at the moment. Familiar. Arrogant.

“Bob, what do you need a phone for?”

The name alone felt like a gut punch.

Bob?

Fucking Bob?

The shock didn’t register right away. It slid in sideways, a slow prickle along your spine before crashing into you all at once. You hadn’t even considered him—not since the whirlwind of last night, not in the scramble of digging through drives and false leads, not in the silent fear of what might still be buried. Bob Reynolds had slipped your mind entirely the moment Yelena showed you those files.

And now, here he was.

You twisted your head toward Joaquín, who was already looking at you. His jaw clenched tight. Eyes wide. Shoulders wound like a coiled spring. You could see the thought flash behind his stare—both of you thinking the same thing.

Holy shit.

Then you heard it. His voice confirmed that he was there, too. Low, quiet. Soft in that uncanny, almost youthful way. Still his.

“…to talk to people.” he said.

Your stomach sank. For a beat, you could only stare at the ground, your mind racing. An image flitters through your mind’s eye. A dark balcony. Warm fire light. Big suit. Dark, tussled hair. That nice smile of his.

Above you, the sharp click of stilettos came to a sudden halt at his words.

Through the sliver of space beneath the couch, you spotted the edge of Valentina’s pencil skirt. Sleek black, tailored to a blade-sharp silhouette. Her shoes were thin and spiked, gleaming slightly under the overhead lights. Beside her, a pair of soft bunny slippers, nearly swallowed by the cuffs of soft-looking, faded baby blue pyjama pants.

That was him.

Bob.

And someone else. A third pair of feet, neatly poised in polished flats. Pressed trousers. You couldn’t tell who, only that they stood slightly apart.

Valentina’s voice again, laced with sweet condescension. “To talk to people?”

Bob seemed to hesitate now, his voice smaller. “I just thought—”

“What’s all this?” she cut him off before he could finish. “Did someone give Alexei another confetti cannon? Seriously? You know the cleaners are going to start charging us combat pay. Just look at this place.”

A beat of silence.

Then the soft shuffling of someone stepping around the coffee table. You held your breath, instinctively pressing yourself flatter to the floor. Your shoulder brushed against Joaquín’s chest. You felt him suck in a quiet, sharp breath. You wondered what would happen if you were caught.

Above you, the room shifted.

Yelena’s voice came first, Russian-rough and stripped of patience. “What are you doing here?”

There was a pause. Just long enough to feel it.

“I’m sorry?”

“We thought you were en route to California,” Ava chimed in. Her tone was light, but the edges were too clean. She was trying too hard. That alone made your stomach twist.

“Oh. Right. California. Mel—?”

“The jet will be ready in one hour,” a smooth, polished voice cut in. Feminine. A little anxious. Definitely not one of theirs. It must be the third person.

You turned your head slightly toward Joaquín, careful not to make a sound. He didn’t move—only lifted his brows, then mouthed: the assistant.

Of course. Mel.

You nodded once, your heart hammering.

“See?” Valentina said breezily. “We’ve got time. So tell me… what’s this mess about?”

A clumsy chorus followed:

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

“Just messing around.”

“Nothing?” Valentina echoed, with just enough doubt in her voice to rattle the moment.

And then, soft again, Bob.

“Val…?”

“Yes, Bob, honey. What is it?”

“The phone.”

“You want a phone?”

“…yes, please.”

“Okay. Fine. Mel, get him a phone. We have plenty.”

“What kind?” Mel asked.

Valentina exhaled. You could practically feel the irritation coming off the woman in waves, even though you couldn’t see her. “What kind—? Any kind. I don’t care.” There was a pause, and then her voice dipped again into that overly sweet register that set your teeth on edge. “Bob, what colour do you want?”

“Oh. Any colour’s fine. Thanks, Mel.”

“Sure thing, Bob.”

You heard Mel’s shoes retreating. Then the doors dinged again, distant, followed by the mechanical swoosh of the elevator sliding shut.

“So…” Valentina said, dragging the word. “Who’s the banner for?”

Alexei jumped in too fast. “Banner? What banner?”

“The big one. By the elevator.”

More shuffling. A murmur of uncomfortable voices scrambling for footing.

“Oh, that banner,” Yelena said.

“The one by the elevator, yes,” Alexei added, awkwardly.

“Missed it earlier,” Walker threw in, humming with forced casualness.

Your breath caught. They were bad liars. Terrible liars that were going to have you and Joaquín caught. You felt your body instinctively press closer to his, every part of you suddenly aware of how fragile this moment was. If one of them slipped up... shit.

“What’s the deal with that?” Valentina pressed.

Silence.

You could feel the group faltering. And for a moment, you were sure someone would fold.

Then Yelena’s voice again. “We thought… with the headlines today...”

“There might be a new addition,” Ava said, cutting in with a cleaner tone.

“A new team member,” Walker followed, steady, trying to cover the tracks.

Valentina laughed. A quiet little thing, amused and bitter all at once. “Oh, well isn’t that sweet.”

A pause.

Then Yelena pushed: “What’s… what’s the deal with that?”

“Nothing’s confirmed yet. It’s still in the air,” Valentina said. The click of her nails against a screen followed. You imagined her scrolling through messages, “She’s a tough cookie, isn’t she, Walker?”

His answer was dry. “Right.”

“I just thought this team could use someone a little less…” She trailed off, teeth behind her voice.

“Less what?” Ava asked, carefully.

“…like you guys.”

“Like us?” Walker repeated.

“Melodramatic,” Valentina said, and you could hear the malice in her voice. “No offence.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ava asked.

The sound of Valentina shifting again, heels clicking softly against the marble, the dull swish of her skirt brushing behind her. “Well, it’s not a secret that all of you have done some pretty messed up shit. People don’t trust you. And trust is branding. It’s everything. If we bring in someone tied to Wilson—one of Captain America’s right hands—suddenly, we’re legit. We’re palatable.”

You’d already suspected that was her idea, that selling you out had been nothing more than strategy. Calculated. Self-serving. You hadn’t believed a single word of the bullshit she fed you last night, not the part about being “special,” or the vague promises of a bigger purpose. It had all been smoke.

Still, something about hearing it confirmed, hearing her say it so plainly, like she was already pulling your strings, lit a fire low in your chest.

You weren’t her puppet.

You weren’t anyone’s.

And the fact that she thought you were that easy to bend, that she saw you as just another tool to wield when convenient, made your skin crawl.

“And how do you plan on pulling that off?” Yelena asked, her voice a notch sharper now. Less curious, more hostile. Defensive.

“Aren’t you full of questions today?” Valentina didn’t even try to mask the irritation in her tone. “That’s for me to worry about, hun. Not you. Why don’t you all relax? Enjoy yourselves. Kick your feet up. Make the most of it until the next villain of the week shows up.”

Her words lingered like a smirk in the air, condescending, smug, and venomous.

It was only then you realized how cold the floor had become beneath you. The chill was creeping into your skin, seeping through your clothes, biting at your joints. Your hands had curled into fists without meaning to, nails digging into your palms, the tension wound so tight in your chest it hurt to breathe. Beside you, Joaquín was breathing fast and shallow, barely audible, but enough that you could feel it.

You released your fist and your fingers started to move on instinct, brushing against the knife you’d taken from the display case earlier. You hadn’t even realized you’d been reaching for it. The cool metal kissed your fingertips, grounding you. You closed your hand around the hilt, the weight of it settling in your palm like muscle memory.

Across the room, Valentina’s heels clicked softly on the marble as she began to walk away, casual, unhurried. “Where are you guys keeping the liquor now?” she asked airily. “I can’t fly sober, and there hasn’t been a restock in the kitchen since last night…”

Her voice trailed off as she disappeared around the corner.

Then you heard the soft shuffle of slippers on tile, a nervous fidget. “W-wait. Who’s joining our team?”

Walker answered, bone-dry. “That girlfriend of yours from last night. You know, the one you scared off?”

There was a pause.

“Oh. No. It’s not—” Bob stammered, his voice flustered, uncertain. “We’re not… You think I scared her off?”

You hated that something about the way he asked that fluttered against your ribs, like a moth against a windowpane. Ridiculous, considering the circumstances. You bit down on the feeling.

He didn’t get an answer before Valentina returned, heels striking the floor like punctuation. “Found it,” she announced. You heard the clink of glass. “Alright, Mel and I will be gone for a few days. Don’t do anything stupid. And Bob, your phone will be downstairs.”

And just like that, she was heading back toward the elevator. You watched her feet vanish from view. Then the soft ding of the lift. The whisper of the doors sliding shut. Gone.

You exhaled for the first time in minutes. The pressure in your chest finally let go, but you still didn’t release the knife. Even when Joaquín began shifting beside you, his legs uncoiling. Yelena’s voice came from above, low but audible: “It’s clear.”

Joaquín started crawling out from under the couch, but you reached for his sleeve, grabbing him without thinking. Just for a second. He glanced back at you.

Then you nodded. He moved. You followed.

Your hand stayed in your pocket, curled tight around the blade.

“Were—were you there this whole time?” Bob asked, his voice cracking on the question. He stepped closer to the centre of the room, joining the others.

You finally looked at him.

Gone was the suit. Instead: a grey sweatshirt, soft and clean, and thrown over a pair of baby-blue pyjama pants. And on his feet, bunny slippers. Actual bunny slippers. You had thought maybe you made it up in your head. But no. You blinked. Then you looked back up at his face.

“Hey,” you said.

“Hi,” That same, dopey grin split his face and you almost felt your own lips move to return it. But you stopped yourself and pushed the feeling back down, “What are you doing here?” He had that same bemusement from yesterday as if he was just happy to be here. Wherever here is. 

“We were just leaving,” you said, crouching to grab Joaquín’s bag and laptop from under the coffee table. You shoved them at him.

This time, he didn’t argue.

Maybe the brush with Valentina had knocked the fight out of him, or maybe he finally saw the writing on the wall. Either way, Joaquín was already jamming the laptop into the bag and pulling the strap over his shoulder.

“Leaving?” Yelena echoed, surprised.

“But I just woke up.” Bob frowned.

You didn’t answer.

You had heard enough.

Valentina was still a manipulative bitch, and now you had proof sitting on an old drive tucked into Ava Starr’s pocket. But this team? These people? They weren’t exactly running to stop her. Didn’t seem nearly as willing to hand over that evidence now that they knew it’d be trading their own freedom and newfound fame and luxury. You also knew they weren’t being entirely honest with most of it, so what was the point?

And Bucky?

He could eat shit for all you cared.

“You said you’d help us,” Yelena said, voice quieter now, tight, trembling at the edges like a thread pulled too taut.

“No,” you shot back, sharper than intended. “We said we’d listen.”

Joaquín stepped up beside you, his voice steadier. “Unless you hand over that drive, there’s nothing we can do for you.”

Ava’s stance hardened. Her hand flexed at her side. “You can leave,” she said. “But the drive stays here.”

That made Walker flinch. “Wait—what?” he barked, stepping forward. “You’re just gonna let them walk? After what they know? They’ll have us on The Raft by tomorrow.”

Alexei groaned, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I can’t go back to prison.”

“Prison? Wait—what are we talking about?” Bob interjected, blinking between everyone.

“God forbid you ever take responsibility for anything, Walker,” you said coolly, your eyes on the blonde man. “That there are consqueneces for your actions.”

His jaw twitched. You could see the pressure building in him like steam behind glass, his shoulders shaking. “Don’t get smart with me. You think I don’t know about consequences?”

Your fingers curled tighter around the handle of the knife in your coat. Cold steel kissed your palm, grounding you. You didn’t flinch as Walker loomed over you, not even when the heat of his breath hit your face.

“I’m sure you were starting to get it once your wife left,” you murmured bitterly.

Walker squared his shoulders like he was about to make good on the threat behind his scowl, or maybe hit you hard enough to knock your teeth out.

“Woah, woah—no fights here!” Yelena suddenly launched herself over the couch, landing between you with a firm thud. Her socks scuffed slightly on the rug as she extended both arms, placing one hand on your chest,.

It was oddly gentle—so soft you almost forgot that those same hands had likely killed thousands. Her palm rested right over your heart. You wondered if she could feel how fast it was beating.

“No fights,” she said again, a note of pleading curling into her voice. “We can’t get blood on the carpet. It’s new.”

Her words were light, but her eyes weren’t. They were serious—tired, even. Like someone who’d already bled for too many causes and was still waiting to find one worth it.

“I don’t want this,” she said firmly, now addressing the whole room. “None of us do. We’re on the same side. We’re just… on different pages.”

“That’s generous,” Ava muttered.

“No. It’s the truth,” Yelena shot back. “Valentina wins when we fight. That’s how she does it—she divides, she confuses, she corrupts.”

You met her gaze. And there it was: the flicker of desperation she was too proud to hide. Not fear, just a weariness, like she was sick of surviving in a world built on grey lines and crossed wires.

“…She’s right,” Joaquín said reluctantly. There was a tightness to his jaw as if it pained him to agree with any of this.

A heavy pause settled. Dust hung in the sunlight pouring through the tall windows, undisturbed.

Then Yelena turned back to you, her voice softer this time, almost hollow. “Is there really no other way to stop her?”

You hesitated, your mouth opening before the words were fully formed. You wanted to have an answer, something solid, something certain. But all you could offer was the truth.

“I don’t know,” you said quietly.

Because you didn’t. You weren’t a strategist. You didn’t sit in war rooms or comb through legal loopholes. Your background was in the Navy—flying jets, executing orders, staying alive. Similar to the work of every other person in this room. The closest you’d ever come to investigative work was chasing the Flag Smashers, or trying to clear Isaiah’s name when the system nearly buried him for something he didn’t do.

Your grip on the knife loosened. You hadn’t realized how hard you’d been holding it until your fingers started to throb, blood returning like a warning. You let it fall back into your jacket pocket.

“We’re not lawyers,” you added.

Walker took a step back—not far, but enough. Just enough to mark the shift. His breathing was loud in the quiet, uneven. His fists were still balled tight at his sides, like tension waiting for an excuse to spark again.

But he didn’t come closer. You almost felt bad for bringing up his wife.

Yelena nodded slowly, “Do you think Sam Wilson could help?”

That question hung in the room. It was different from the others. More personal.

You caught it in her voice first, a crack in her composure. Distress, raw and unpolished. Her eyes searched yours, not for strategy, but for hope. She was asking you to believe in something, even if she couldn’t anymore.

And the others were watching too—Ava, still guarded but listening; Alexei, wringing his hands; even Bob, with wide, unknowing eyes.

You looked at Joaquín. He met your gaze and nodded once.

“He could,” he said.

“But will he?” Yelena pressed. She needed an answer that sounded like a promise.

You hesitated, shoulders sinking under the weight of everything unsaid. The silence stretched, heavy with reluctant hope, weak trust and a dozen unspoken things. Then finally, with a sigh that felt like it pulled from the base of your spine:

“…Yeah,” you murmured. “He’s pretty understanding.”

Yelena nodded once, slowly, like that alone was enough to make something shift. Then she extended her arm behind her, her fingers flicking in silent command.

“Ava.”

“What?” came the flat reply, bristling with suspicion.

“Give them the drive,” Yelena said, jerking her chin toward you and Joaquín.

Ava blinked, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“Give it.” Yelena didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. The words landed sharp and sure, heavy with a quiet authority. Whether it was her posture, the chill in her accent, or the way she stared Ava down without blinking, it worked.

Ava rolled her eyes hard enough that you were sure she saw her own brain. But still, she stomped over, pulling the small drive from her pocket and shoving it into Joaquín’s hand.

He took it wordlessly, slipping it into his jacket without fanfare.

Yelena turned back to you. “I trust you’ll do what’s right.” Her voice softened, “I just… I want to do good. Be good. Like my sister.”

You blinked. The honesty in her tone caught you off guard. You stared at her for a beat, the brows on your face knitting together. There hadn’t been a moment yet where you felt like you couldn’t trust Yelena—if anything, she was the only one in this dysfunctional little collective who seemed a little more grounded in reality than the others. Steady in her beliefs.

You nodded slowly. Not just to acknowledge her, but because you understood. You wanted to be good too. Like Sam.

“Sure,” you said.

“Unbelievable,” Walker muttered. He threw his hands up and stormed toward the spiral staircase, his boots thudding too loudly for the steps.

You met Yelena’s eyes one last time. She raised her brows at you funnily, a silent ignore him written across her face. That earned the smallest smile from you, which she returned, not quite warmly, but not unkindly either.

“Bye, guys,” Joaquín called, already moving past you toward the elevator with an urge to get the fuck out of this place.

“Bye,” Ava called back with a lazy wave.

Alexei flopped onto the couch like a man ready for retirement. “We will see you later, new friends,” he announced, already unlocking an iPad and flicking through apps with surprising focus. Only then did you notice the ridiculous shirt stretched across his chest—his own face beaming up at you.

Of course he owned a shirt like that.

Yelena gave you one final nod as if to say I’ll handle things here. You held her gaze a moment longer before turning toward the elevator.

And there was Bob.

Still standing there quietly by the steps of the sunken living room like he didn’t quite know where to go next. His hands hung awkwardly at his sides, and when your eyes met, he gave you a shy little wave.

You raised your hand and waved back.

What a strange turn of events, you thought, stepping into the elevator beside Joaquín.

It felt like your world had been flipped upside down, spun sideways, and then set back upright—all before noon. Great. So much for Walker flying you back to D.C. Not that you were exactly heartbroken about it. At least you were finally getting out, and better yet, leaving with more than you'd hoped for. Thanks to Yelena.

Joaquín pressed the button to the lobby, his movements brisk but silent, like he was still trying to catch up to the emotional weight of the last hour or so.

You both stood in silence as the doors began to slide shut.

And then suddenly they didn’t.

Another body slipped through the narrowing space.

“Jesus!” Joaquín hissed, jerking half a step to the side. “What the hell—?”

“Sorry!” came the quick, sheepish yelp.

It was Bob.

His eyes were wide, hands lifted like he’d just stumbled into a hostage situation instead of an elevator. “Val said my phone’s downstairs…” he offered lamely, voice trailing as he glanced between the two of you. “Hey.”

“Hey, man, ”Joaquín huffed out a breathless sigh, “Scared the shit out of us.”

That made Bob crack a grin. He gestured toward himself like he was still catching up to the social rhythm. “I’m Bob.”

“Joaquín,” came the reply, quick and warm.

You couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. The three of you must’ve looked like the beginning of a joke: two randos and a guy in bunny slippers walk into an elevator. Bob’s pyjamas looked like they hadn’t seen the outside of a laundry basket in days, wrinkled in all places, but you thought the slippers were undeniably cute.

“Yeah, you’re the Falcon, right?” Bob asked, turning to Joaquín with a genuine light in his eyes.

Joaquín puffed up slightly, the pride flickering across his face before he nodded. “Yeah, I am.”

You rolled your eyes, but the fondness came easy.

“That’s cool,” Bob said, his grin stretching even wider—until it didn’t. Until it faltered just enough for you to catch the flicker of something behind it. He glanced at you again, eyes darting nervously before he dropped his gaze to the floor. “So um… I guess you know about me now.”

The elevator hummed beneath your feet, descending gradually.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he continued, voice quieter. “I wasn’t sure if… I was allowed. Or if I should. Are you… afraid of me now?”

Your heart thudded once, harder than expected.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Joaquín shift slightly, his body tense, watching, waiting to see what you’d say.

You drew in a breath, trying to steady yourself before you looked at Bob again. His posture had crumpled slightly under his own words. Shoulders curled in. Smile gone.

“Why would I be afraid of you, Bob?”

His gaze lifted, hopeful, but guarded.

“Because of what I did.”

That brought you up short.

You’d thought you’d had enough surprises for one day. Apparently not. Apparently Bob Reynolds had more where that came from, like some twisted magic trick where he kept pulling the rug out from under you, over and over again.

The elevator hummed. The floor numbers kept ticking down, steady and oblivious.

You swallowed. Almost afraid to ask.

“…What’d you do?”

He winced, rolling his shoulder like it physically pained him to answer. “That thing… in New York.”

You blinked, trying to process. When you didn’t respond, he looked at you, hesitant. “You read my file, right?”

“We didn’t… get that far,” you muttered.

But your brain was already scrambling to fill in the blanks. Every major incident in New York flashed behind your eyes—there were too many to count. Alien invasions. Robot uprisings. Sorcerer nonsense. But then you narrowed in. The one that had involved the New Avengers. The one the news had dubbed The Darkest Day. The terrifying grainy footage you’d seen during the hearings. The impossible collapse of light, sound, and structure. The city submerged in absolute darkness.

You stared at him.

“I’m sorry,” Joaquín said slowly, “You’re telling me you’re the one who turned New York into a black hole? You?”

Bob scratched the back of his neck, visibly squirming under the weight of it. Another awkward move, nervous, even. “…I didn’t mean to. I swear.”

And that was the kicker. That was when the full weight of who he was finally settled on your chest.

Bob. The Bob who tripped over your dress last night. The Bob who sat by a fireplace and made you smile until your face hurt. The Bob with an Instagram account full of second-hand paperbacks and soft, orange-pink Florida sunsets. That Bob—was the same man who apparently swallowed half of Manhattan into a void.

And now he was standing in the elevator, right between you and Joaquín, in bunny slippers.

It took all your effort not to show how much that messed you up. It set your heart racing, made it pound a tattoo against the underside of your ribs hard enough that you can feel it all the way up in your throat like it was trying to get your attention: this isn’t normal. This isn’t safe.

But then Bob gave you the exact same, uneasy, shy smile as before. Only this time, it’s much harder to meet it with one of your own. You forced a tiny twitch of your mouth upward, barely there, because Joaquín was right beside him too, and you were almost certain he was freaking out enough for the both of you.

You’d seen the footage. You’d read the transcripts. Sat in on court hearings. Heard survivors speak. The sheer level of devastation. The fear. The unanswerable questions.

And that was him. This man in the elevator. The man who smiled at you like he still hoped you didn’t hate him.

The elevator dinged, and the doors parted to reveal the glossy, open expanse of the lobby. Joaquín stepped out first, more hurried than usual. You followed on autopilot, your head still spinning.

The three of you drifted toward the grand lounge area, hovering near the secretary’s desk, not quite ready to separate. Like no one knew what to say next.

“So,” You begin awkwardly, “Bob. That’s... that’s pretty... uh, how’d that happen?”

He winced again, more out of embarrassment than pain. “Um. I don’t really know. My memory’s been foggy since I went through the experimental program,” he admitted slowly. “It… it comes back in pieces sometimes.”

Your brows rose. “Experimental program?”

“Project Sentry,” Joaquín muttered, eyes narrowing as if the puzzle was finally clicking together in his head.

You blinked. You’d known of De Fontaine’s side projects. Rumours of off-the-books enhancements and reconditioning efforts. Human experimentation. Yelena’s files had confirmed them, but you never knew the name of it. You never knew it was called Project Sentry.

You looked at Bob again. Jesus. Bob was one of Valentina’s experiments. That realization settled cold and sharp in your gut.

“Yeah, that one.” Bob nodded sheepishly. “But I don’t remember all of it. I get flashes. I remember getting injected with stuff... being blonde… getting killed.”

You stared, concerned, “You… remember dying?”

He blinked hard like he was trying to shake the static off his brain, or maybe trying to forget it. Then he looked at you—really looked—and something softened again in his expression.

The corners of his mouth twitched up and a blush grew on his cheeks.

“…Don’t worry, though,” he added, voice softer now, more tentative. “I remember you. Don’t think I’ll be able to forget you, actually.”

This time, you did manage a smile.

God. That line shouldn’t have hit the way it did, but it did. Somehow, it fractured the version of him you were just starting to piece together again. Mysterious World Ending Shadow Guy and Sweet Bob From Party were the same fucking person. And you weren’t sure if that was comforting or horrifying because you were growing flustered at his comment.

From the side, Joaquín snorted. “Smooth.”

You caught the way Bob’s blush deepened, the colour rising visibly along his cheekbones. He ducked his head, clearly flustered.

You shook yours gently. “Don’t listen to him.”

“…Okay,” he said earnestly. Then, after a beat: “So… you never got to the part about the experiments?”

You inhaled, slow and careful, trying to find the right words, trying not to sound like someone who’d had the wind knocked out of them several times over in the span of an hour.

“I don’t think your friends wanted us to know,” you admitted.

“Oh.”

Just that. One word. But it carried something heavy, something almost brittle underneath. A quiet, hollow kind of disappointment.

It stopped you cold.

Part of it was guilt. Upsetting Bob felt like kicking a puppy that didn’t even know what it had done wrong. But the other part, the more rational, still-on-edge part of your brain, reminded you of who you were talking to. Of what he’d done. And maybe it wasn’t a great idea to make someone who once tore a city in half feel unwanted.

“Bob?”

The sudden voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You flinched. Joaquín immediately straightened beside you—his hand half-rising on instinct. Both of you spun, the tension surging through your limbs once more.

A woman dressed in black was already walking toward you, shoes clicking lightly across the lobby floor. She faltered slightly when she took in the three of you together, but her smile held firm. Calm. Polite. Her hands extended a small box toward Bob.

“Um, here’s your new phone,” she said.

You recognized the voice. Mel. Valentina’s assistant. Which meant someone—likely everyone—was about to find out that you and Joaquín were here.

You returned her smile with one of your own, both of you sharing the kind of strained politeness that only came from being on opposite sides of a very expensive, very fragile chessboard.

“Thanks,” Bob said, taking the box carefully. Mel nodded once and turned, gliding away as quickly as she’d arrived.

Bob looked at the box like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Then his gaze drifted to Joaquín—just a glance—but when his eyes found yours again, he was flushed and fidgeting, all over again.

“Phone,” he chuckled nervously, rubbing this thumb over the side of the box, “yeah, um… I asked for a phone because I—Walker said I should just ask you—uh,” he huffed, blinking hard as if to gather his thoughts. “I know you’re leaving and all, but… it was really nice to see you.”

He gave a kind of half-shrug like he wasn’t sure what he meant by that until it was already out.

“I honestly thought I wouldn’t—see you again, I mean,” he went on. “I thought I’d messed it up. Back when I brought up… uh. Bucky.”

Yeah. That moment had soured everything fast. You hadn’t thought you’d see Bob again either, not after that mess. For a while, you’d convinced yourself you didn’t want to. But you also knew that no matter how many hours the drive back to Washington took, you’d probably spend all of them scrolling through his old Instagram posts—those quiet book reviews, those blurry sunset photos, that one stupid post about jelly beans you think he posted when he was high.

You didn’t crush on people easily. Even less so on people tied to your work. But with Bob, it had happened fast, softly, then all at once.

His honesty caught you off guard again, and you felt a flush rise to your own cheeks. Joaquín’s head turned toward you, a little too quickly, a little too hopeful, and you could practically hear the gears in his nosy little brain turning. That bastard.

You ignored him.

“Yeah,” you said quietly, eyes on Bob. “It was nice to see you too.”

And God, wasn’t that the understatement of the year?

“Can I—um…” he shifted on his feet, thumb brushing over the edge of the box in his hands. “Do you think I could have your number? For when I finish setting up my phone. In case you… still want to talk.” His voice softened, almost hopeful. “I really did like talking to you yesterday. You can say no, that’s alright.”

You weren’t going to say no. And honestly? You doubted Joaquín would let you. He’d been silently rooting for this since he stepped on your dress—he was a hopeless romantic under all that tactical gear.

Still, that didn’t stop the soft, fluttery weight building in your chest. Like your stomach had filled with butterflies in mid-takeoff. It made you feel… like a teenager. God, when was the last time something had made you feel like that?

“Sure, Bob.”

You must’ve caught him off guard. His eyes widened a little. “Really?”

“Yeah.” You smiled. “Do you have a pen?”

His whole face lit up in panic. “Uh—no. Wait, hold on—” He spun, glancing around frantically.

Joaquín, bless him, was already halfway to the secretary’s desk, digging through an Avengers-themed mug filled with pens. He came back triumphantly, tossing one to Bob, who fumbled it slightly before returning to you, grinning like an idiot.

“Here,” he said, holding it out.

You reached for it. Your fingers brushed his—warm, solid, and really soft—and the moment was small, fleeting, but it sent a pulse through your wrist all the same.

“Where can I write—?”

Bob didn’t hesitate. He rolled up the sleeve of his sweater, tugging it past his elbow in one smooth motion before offering his bare arm to you.

You stared.

Not because you were trying to be weird. But holy shit.

He was built like a statue someone forgot to put on a pedestal. Long forearms, defined muscle, a vein trailing up the centre of his arm like it’d been drawn there on purpose. His skin was golden and warm and very, very nice to look at.

“My arm’s fine,” he offered casually, but his voice cracked just enough to betray him.

You blinked, pulling your gaze back up to his face. He looked away, sheepish. Maybe he caught you staring. Okay, he definitely caught you staring. But then again, he was also sneaking glances of his own. His eyes lingered on your mouth for a second too long. A tiny flick down your neck, then away.

He had more shame about it than you did.

“Alright,” you said, trying not to grin like a fool. “Don’t move.”

You stepped in, gently taking his wrist in one hand and steadying the pen with the other. The contact sent another flutter up your arm, but you focused, carefully writing your number across the warm stretch of skin.

One, two, three digits at a time.

By the time you finished, you felt a little breathless.

You let go, reluctantly, and stepped back.

Bob was red. Visibly, unapologetically flushed from his cheeks down to the base of his neck. Still, he gave a quick, grateful nod and tugged the sleeve back down, much to your disappointment.

He took the pen from you, fingers brushing again, and gave you a soft, “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll, uh… I’ll text you. Once I figure this out.” He lifted the phone box with an amused smile. You realized you could have written your number on the box instead, but you refused to say anything about it. His voice was still quiet, but it held a kind of warmth you hadn’t expected to hear again so soon.

“I’ll be waiting,” you said.

He laughed under his breath. Then, almost like he didn’t trust himself to say anything else, he gave a short nod and turned away. You watched him cross the floor toward the elevators.

Halfway there, he paused. Turned slightly. You thought he was going to say something, another goodbye, maybe a joke, something. But he just gave you a little wave. Kind. A little bashful.

You waved back, lips still curved in a smile.

“And they say romance is dead,” Joaquín snorted into your ear, slinging an arm dramatically around your shoulders as soon as the elevator doors shut.

You groaned, but it came out more like a laugh. “Oh my God, shut up.”

He leaned all his weight onto you like an overgrown, smug barnacle. “You were totally about to kiss him. Don’t lie. I saw the look on your face. So did he. I’m kinda disappointed, actually. Was fully expecting a public display of—you know, soul-consuming makeout rage.”

“Shut. Up.”

“You’re smiling,” he said in a sing-song voice. “You like him.”

“I will kill you.”

“You like him.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it actually hurt. But your cheeks were warm, and the flutter in your chest hadn’t totally calmed down. You weren’t even that mad. Not like you had been this morning when your entire life felt like it was fracturing under the weight of secrets, lies, and political backstabbing.

Now? You were still exhausted. Still confused. But something about Bob—awkward, charming, possibly world-ending Bob—had given you a moment of quiet in the middle of all of it.

“I bet you’re glad we stayed longer.”

“I lost a few years of my life from stress,” you muttered. “But yeah. Sure. I’m glad.”

Joaquín finally stopped leaning on you, but he kept his arm there, resting it across your shoulders like a shield. You fell into step with him, the two of you weaving through the flow of people on the sidewalk, the city alive around you in a way that felt almost… normal again.

Then, softer, “So what now?”

You glanced sideways. His joking edge had slipped off somewhere between steps, and now you could see the fatigue settling over his face. He looked as drained as you felt—eyes tired, jaw clenched slightly like he was holding something unspoken just behind his teeth.

You didn’t blame him. You were both running on fumes.

“We get the fuck out of here,” you said simply.

He let out a hum of agreement, nodding once as if the idea itself was a balm. But then he hesitated, giving you a sidelong glance.

“We’re not telling Sam about any of this, right?” he asked. “Like, the whole… following Walker into the tower part.”

“God, no,” you said immediately. “We’ll tell him I found the drive last night.”

“Perfect.” He grinned, satisfied. “He doesn’t need to know you almost got swept off your feet by a guy in a chicken costume.”

“Joaquín.”

He laughed and pulled you a little closer, and the two of you kept walking, two specks swallowed by the sprawl of Manhattan at noon, leaving behind the kind of chaos you weren’t sure you could ever fully explain. But for now, you had your answer, and you’d get the hell out of here.

text messages with bob!

[kfa-343]

AHHH!! I loved this and I loved how you wrote Bob<3<3 you did such a great job!!

[sunsburns]

the complete knock — bob reynolds

⟢ synopsis. you’re only here to try and understand why bucky’s suddenly gone off the rails and joined a new team, leaving you, sam and joaquín in radio silence. the last thing you expected was to find comfort in a stranger. a kind stranger named bob.

⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, takes place during the 14 month later period. nothing too crazy, mostly plot. reader is described as female. bob is a cutie!! reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :(

⟢ wc: 9.7k+

⟢ author’s note. wrote this with a vague idea and a dream. i don't know. don't ask pls.

You were here strictly for business.

The lobby was all polished glass, military-grade charm, and propaganda dressed in gold. Cameras flashed like fireworks along the crimson carpet, catching every inch of shine from designer suits and sharp smiles. A towering digital screen looped the promo again: "The New Avengers: Built for Tomorrow." You watched from the fringe as the montage played, the images slicing together in quick succession—John Walker throwing the shield with over-practised precision, Yelena Belova dismantling a room of dummies in under twelve seconds, and Ava Starr phasing through a concrete wall with a smirk. Hero shots. Sanitized. Manufactured. All of them.

You didn’t blink as you were ushered to an elevator.

Growing up, the Avengers Tower never really felt real to you. Sure, you’d seen the photos, the documentaries, the endless footage of press conferences held on its front steps. Hell, you’d even walked past it with your parents whenever you visited New York—but it still felt like it belonged to another world entirely. Untouchable. Almost mythic.

You never imagined you’d walk inside.

And yet now, riding the elevator up with a slow-climbing hum and nerves that prickled beneath your skin, all you felt was dread.

It was a strange kind of emptiness—the feeling of finally reaching something you once admired, only to realize it had been gutted and repainted in someone else’s image. The marble floors had been waxed clean, but the history here wasn’t. You could still feel the ghosts under the polish. Somewhere between the seams of the rebuilt walls and reprogrammed elevators, there was once a legacy. Real one. But it didn’t belong to the people in charge of this event.

You were crammed in with a handful of Congress members and defence contractors, all of whom smelled like cologne and quiet greed. Congressman Gary was there too, smiling too much, already half-drunk from the limo ride there. (He said it would be the only way he’d survive an entire night listening to people praise Valentina Allegra de Fontaine). Gary had been the one to suggest your attendance might smooth things over. It might make the New Avengers feel like someone from Sam’s camp was willing to listen. Get on their good side—that whole thing.

But you were here for an entirely different reason. His invitation was exactly what you needed to get in, though.

Underneath your gown—sleek, formal, and designed to draw no conclusions—you had a mic stitched into the seam of your strapless bodice. Hidden, but live. Your earpiece buzzed softly with Joaquín’s voice, casual as ever.

“If Sam finds out we’re doing this, we’re so dead.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be overheard as the elevator operator gave a rehearsed speech about the tower’s restoration—how it stood now as a symbol of “unity, rebirth, and strength.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. The tower didn’t feel like a symbol. It felt like a stage.

“He’ll take away your wings at most,” you murmured, gaze fixed forward. “Relax.”

You could practically hear Joaquín pouting through the comms.

“I just got them back.”

“Then let’s not make a scene. Gary said it’d be good optics to have someone on our side here. We’re doing Sam a favour.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I’m surprised you didn’t want to come with me. You’re cleared for field work.”

“No, thanks. As much as I adore red carpet politics, I don’t think I can be in the same room as de Fontaine without committing a felony. Might get myself in trouble.”

“And I won’t?”

“You’re better at smiling.”

“You’ve never seen me smile.”

“Exactly.”

You exhaled through your nose, the tiniest edge of a grin forming before you could stop it.

“Just... try not to piss anyone off for five minutes, yeah?”

You didn’t answer. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open with a muted ding, and you stepped into a wall of flashing lights and artificial warmth.

The event space had been reconstructed on the upper floors, a showroom designed to impress donors and government officials alike. White marble floors stretched endlessly beneath towering banners that hung from the ceilings like monuments. Each one bore the new emblem of the team—sleek and stylized, but hollow. You could see the press eating it up already.

A digital display behind the podium read:

WELCOME TO THE FUTURE.

MEET EARTH’S NEWEST MIGHTIEST HEROES.

Your stomach turned.

“You still with me?” Joaquín asked.

“Yeah.” You nodded once, moving deeper into the room as your eyes scanned the crowd for familiar faces. “I’m here.”

“I’m gonna need camera access,” he said. “There’s a chip tucked under the gem on your bracelet. If you can slide that into an outlet somewhere, I’ll be able to map out the floor’s electrical system. Should help me locate the control room.”

“Guy in the chair,” you muttered, lips twitching into a faint grin. It was impressive—his gadgets, his confidence. Typical Joaquín.

Congressman Gary had vanished into the crowd, but you didn’t mind. Better alone than attached to a man who introduced you as a pet project. You plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray, the cold stem grounding in your fingers, and sidestepped toward the edge of the room.

An outlet revealed itself by a floor-length curtain. You knelt, as if adjusting your heel, and casually broke the gem from your bracelet, slipping it into the socket with practiced ease.

“Okay,” Joaquín said, voice clearer now. “Give me a minute to get my bearings. While I’m working on this, try not to look like a loser in the corner. Mingle or something.”

You scoffed under your breath. “Easy for you to say—you can talk anyone’s ear off.”

“You calling me annoying?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Go see if you can find Bucky while I work on this, would you?”

Right. Bucky Barnes.

You weren’t here to mingle. You weren’t here to sip champagne or shake hands or sweet-talk your way into the New Avengers’ good graces. You were here for Sam. And more specifically—for Bucky. Wherever the hell he was hiding.

The plan was simple enough in theory: Get a read on what Valentina was playing at. Try to talk to Bucky. Get ahead of whatever fallout was brewing between him and Sam before it turned into a full-blown civil war again. You’d offered to go because no one else would.

Joaquín was trying to stay neutral (and failing). Isaiah had dismissed Bucky as a long-lost white man with too many ghosts. And Sam refused to speak to Bucky since the news broke about the New Avengers. And Bucky hadn’t said a damn word back.

So here you were. You were the only one left who might still be able to stand in the space between them without setting off alarms, even if you were biased.

You still didn’t understand how Bucky could do it. How he could go from testifying before Congress about accountability and reform, to standing beside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine like she hadn’t personally undone everything they’d fought for. Like he hadn’t been there when Ross tried to throw his friends all in cells. (Sure, you weren't there for it either, but Sam told you all about it; the accords were one of the reasons the Avengers broke up.)

Valentina wasn’t just dangerous—she was calculated. Clever. The kind of dangerous that worked in the shadows, smiling for cameras while quietly tying strings around people’s necks. She had her ex-husband arrested, sabotaged Wakandan outreach missions, and picked through the wreckage of post-blip heroes like she was drafting a fantasy football team. The fact that she now had a unit of enhanced individuals marching under her payroll and calling themselves the New Avengers made your stomach turn.

And Bucky was one of them.

You believed Valentina was guilty the second Bucky first mentioned she’d recruited John Walker. Walker—who had murdered a man in public, with blood still wet on the shield—and somehow walked free. Charges vanished. Headlines redirected. Now he was being repackaged as a hero again, and Bucky was standing next to him like nothing had happened.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. No matter how many angles you looked at it from, it didn’t make sense. And the more you thought about it, the more it burned in your chest.

What was he thinking?

Why hadn’t he said anything?

Why wasn’t he here?

You pulled in a slow breath as you stepped further into the room, letting the sound of clinking glasses and diplomatic small talk wash over you like static.

The room was grand in a gaudy way—shiny surfaces and marble floors that reflected the chandelier light too harshly. Everything screamed polished excess, like they were trying to distract from the blood under the polish.

You tried to scan the crowd for Bucky, but there were too many faces, too many government suits and PR smiles, none of them him. You told yourself that when you did find Bucky, he’d have some kind of explanation—something to loosen the knot in your chest, something that could push down the rising anxiety. Something that could explain how the man you once trusted was now parading around in a suit under Valentina’s thumb.

Instead, you found Congressman Gary. Or rather, he found you.

He was already three glasses of champagne deep—five, if you counted the shots you’d seen him down on the way—and he beamed like he’d found a shiny toy in a sea of suits.

“There she is,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulder like you hadn’t just been avoiding him for fifteen minutes. “You have got to meet some of these people. Big names. Big wallets.”

You were too polite to shrug him off, even as he dragged you into a circle of De Fontaine’s investors. Their grins were just a little too sharp, their eyes a little too eager. The way they looked at you made your skin crawl, like you were a chess piece they hadn’t quite decided how to play yet.

You smiled tightly. Shook clammy hands. Answered vague questions. Nodded while they spoke about “opportunities,” “rebuilding legacy,” and “rebranding heroism.”

One man leaned in closer, his breath thick with bourbon. “You know,” he said, voice oily, “with your background, you’d be a perfect candidate for the new team. Valentina has a real eye for talent, and we’re building something bigger than what came before. Something better. You could help shape it from the inside.”

You swallowed your disgust with a sip of champagne. “I’m not really looking to join anything right now.” That was a lie. You already had a seat in the team Sam was putting together. But he did not need to know that.

He chuckled, as if that wasn’t an answer.

“Okay, I’ve got eyes,” Joaquín said suddenly in your ear. His voice broke through the haze like a rope thrown across stormy water.

You exhaled in relief. “Excuse me,” you told the group, already turning away. “I need to grab a drink.”

They nodded, already moving on to the next opportunity in heels. Gary wasn’t too happy, though.

You drifted from the circle, walking slowly toward the open bar. On the way, you passed a tray of themed hors d’oeuvres—tiny “Avenger” sliders with edible logos, cupcakes shaped like shields and guns.

A mounted camera in the corner caught your eye, its red light blinking lazily above a velvet-draped sculpture.

“See me?” you muttered.

“Yeah, I see you,” Joaquín replied.

“Still no sign of Barnes.”

“Scanning crowd pings now,” he said. “Either he’s ghosting the place or he got another haircut and I can’t recognize him. Which would be so like him, by the way.”

You sighed and accepted another drink from a passing server, something dry and too expensive, and kept moving.

You figured you’d shaken at least six hands tonight that belonged to people who’d love to see your head on a stick—if not for the lucrative optics of you standing here at all. You were an opportunity to them. A symbol. A bargaining chip in a war they didn’t even understand.

Your dress caught suddenly.

You stumbled—only a step, but enough for the chilled drink to slosh dangerously near the edge of the glass. You turned on instinct, hand rising to fix the silk scarf that had slipped from your neck and shoulder.

A man stood behind you, wide-eyed, hand half-raised like he’d been about to catch you.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he stammered. His voice was low, a subtle rumble barely audible over the layers of clinking glass, conversation, and ambient music. “—stepped on your dress. Sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He looked like he didn’t belong here. Not in the way the others did. No glossy name tag, no designer smugness. His suit was clean, but not flashy. Understated.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, instinctively adjusting your scarf where it had slipped from your shoulder. You shook out the fabric of your dress around the ankles, heart skipping in the echo of that voice. Something about the way he said it—apologetic, soft, like he genuinely meant it—caught you off guard.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again, even quieter this time, eyes dropping to the floor. His dark hair fell over his face, almost like he was trying to shrink three sizes. You could hear a faint, awkward laugh in his voice. “Uhm… yeah. Sorry.”

He didn’t linger. Just turned and slipped back into the crowd before you could even process anything. No second glance. Just a gentle pivot and a few long strides back into the crowd, swallowed instantly by the sea of shoulder pads, press passes, and sharp perfume.

You stood there for a second, staring after him.

He moved differently from the others. No performative swagger. No politician’s posture. No tray in his hand, so he’s definitely not a server. He was quiet in a way that made you feel like you’d imagined him, like he’d only brushed through this reality for a second before vanishing into another.

You didn’t recognize him.

And you should have.

For all the files you’d scoured, the profiles and photos, the research you’d buried yourself in to prepare for tonight, you’d made it your job to know every player in this room. Who to watch. Who to avoid. Who might be useful.

But not him.

You turned back toward the bar, but your mind didn’t follow. Not entirely.

Who the fuck was that?

You were just about to ask Joaquín to pull a facial scan when something in your periphery stopped you cold.

John Walker.

He was only a few steps away, mid-conversation with some high-level sponsor, until his gaze landed on you. And then he froze.

The look that crossed his face was quick, recognition, discomfort, maybe a flicker of guilt, but he buried it just as fast, turning away without a word. He pivoted like a man avoiding a ghost, ignoring the way the sponsor he spoke to called after him.

“Walker just made a hard left into the hors d’oeuvres,” Joaquín muttered in your ear, low and amused. “You see that?”

You exhaled, more irritated than surprised. “We’re not here for him.”

“Yeah. I think he knows that too. That’s why he’s pretending he’s got important shrimp to eat.”

That pulled a faint smile from you, biting down the urge to laugh.

Typical. The last time you’d seen Walker in person, he was seated in a courtroom with his jaw clenched so tight you thought he’d snap a molar. You’d testified in his case, alongside Sam, Bucky, and everyone else who had to witness what happened in Madripoor—what he did to that man in the square. The shield, slick and red. The silence afterward, heavier than any explosion.

You never fought him. Never had to. But you'd been on opposite sides of that mess, and he knew it. Hell, you’d spoken directly to his discharge. Your words were probably still echoing in the back of his skull.

The way he turned away just now… yeah. He remembered you.

“I’m surprised he didn’t start barking about national security,” Joaquín quipped in your ear again. “Do you think we should trail him?”

You hesitated. You didn’t want to. Just the idea of following in Walker’s smug footsteps made your jaw clench.

But Joaquín pressed, “He might know where Bucky is.”

And that was the problem—he was right. And you hated how much sense it made. Of course, Walker would know. You also hate how Walker and Bucky were probably friends now.

A camera flash caught your eye, and you instinctively straightened your posture, smoothed your expression. No time for a scowl, even if that’s all you wanted to wear.

You adjusted your gown, tugged lightly at the hem, checked the wire hidden at your waist, and started walking in the direction Walker and that ugly barret he wore had vanished.

The crowd shifted around you like tidewater—polished politicians and strategic handshakes, investors with too-white smiles and drinks that cost more than your rent. Every few steps, someone waved. A few shook your hand like they knew you, like you were an old friend they’d been waiting for. A woman asked for a photo. Another leaned in and whispered, “Are you joining the new team?” like it were a secret worth selling.

You deflected with a nod and a vague smile, each interaction leaving a layer of static behind your eyes.

It was strange how quickly the attention shifted now that you were in the spotlight. Recently, you’d spent most of your career standing behind Isaiah while Joaquín and Sam did the talking. You liked it there. It was quieter. Easier to breathe. Now, suddenly, they were holding out chairs for you at the table.

The whole thing felt like theatre. Scripted and glassy. Lines rehearsed. Costumes ironed. Every player doing their part beneath the blinding stage lights.

You still weren’t sure what was worse—that Bucky accepted Valentina’s funding, or that he and his new friends let her call them The Avengers.

Sam was right to be angry. He should be. He’d already turned down President Ross’ private offer to hand him the reins of a military-funded global response team. The same offer that Valentina had repackaged, repurposed, and handed off to people who were too coward to say no.

“He’s on the east end, talking to Ava starr and another woman. I think she’s Valentina’s assistant. Oh—shit. He just pointed at you.”

Your chest tightened. You turned too fast, momentarily losing your bearings in the rotating lights and mirrored walls. East—east—

And then someone stepped into your path.

A wall of a man appeared in front of you so suddenly, you nearly collided with him; broad-shouldered and bearded, dressed in a burgundy suit that looked just a size too tight across his chest.

He smiled widely, eyes bright like he’d been waiting for a moment like this all night.

“I know you,” he said, voice thick with a Russian accent. “I’ve seen you on the televisions. You shake hands with the new Captain America.”

You blinked. “I—uh, yeah.”

“Ah!” He laughed, clapping one heavy hand to your shoulder with surprising gentleness for a man who looked like he could punch through drywall. “Very brave of you. Very good. You look different in person. In a strong way. Like a panther. Or mongoose.”

You tried for a diplomatic smile. “Thanks, I think.”

“Oh! Where are my manners,” he said, dramatically straightening and offering his hand. “I am Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian.”

You knew that, but you didn’t know he’d be so... loud.

You took his hand, his grip warm and firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Alexei.”

“Kind. Very kind,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You remind me of my daughter! You have same fire in eyes. Around same age, too—you could be friends! Yelena is always looking for new friends.”

Yelena Belova. That name lit something up in the back of your mind. You’d seen the files. The attempted murder of Clint Barton. Her brief status as an independent threat before being absorbed, quietly and conveniently, into Valentina’s new game.

And suddenly, Alexei’s smile widened even more.

“Yelena!” he bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth as if you weren’t standing in the middle of a very public, very polished gala. “Come meet new friend!”

Several heads turned. Cameras flashed—bright, blinding. You winced against the burst of lights, regretting everything from your dress colour to your decision to show up at all.

But it was too late. He leaned in beside you, one arm suddenly draped over your shoulder like you were posing for a family Christmas card. “Smile!” he boomed, and before you could protest, he struck a dramatic flex, biceps pressing into your back like steel girders.

You caught a whiff of expensive cologne and vodka.

In the corner of your eye, a flash of short, bleached blonde hair was making its way through the crowd with frightening determination. Elegant, yes—but there was no mistaking the sharpness in Yelena Belova’s gaze. She wore a sleek black suit like it was made of knives, a funky eyeliner design, hair slicked back and every step carved with purpose. And beside her—

Your heart dipped.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Poised. Smirking. Watching everything.

“Be careful. Yelena is coming your way with Valentina.”

Thanks for the warning, Joaquín. Delayed. But thanks nevertheless.

You stood up straighter, willing your heartbeat to slow down even as Valentina’s eyes zeroed in on you like a predator clocking a foe.

Wonderful.

You leaned slightly toward Alexei, trying not to seem as panicked as you felt. “Can I ask you something? About Bucky Barnes?”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, cutting you off before you could finish the question. “Bucky! Yes, yes. The Winter Soldier. Very cool. Very handsome. Like Soviet James Dean.”

You blinked. “I mean—do you know where he is?”

But Alexei was already on another tangent. “We fought in Uzbekistan once, did you know this? I threw him through a door. He did not like that. But I like him. I like him very much. Quiet, serious type. You know he never answers my texts?”

“Right. Yeah. That tracks.”

And then—

“Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” said a voice sharp as champagne fizz and just as bitter. De Fontaine. She cut into the conversation with the smoothness of someone who was always in control, grinning like she knew a secret you didn’t. A glass of bubbly dangled between her fingers, catching the light just enough to draw attention. As if she needed help with that.

“I was just about to introduce you all,” she said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Yelena’s arm as the blonde finally joined your little nightmare circle.

“What is this?” Yelena asked flatly, eyes flicking between you and Valentina.

Valentina didn’t bother to answer—just gave a smug little hum and tugged Yelena closer, corralling her between you and Alexei. The four of you shifted automatically into position, an unspoken reflex in rooms like this.

You could feel the cameras turning like sharks in bloodied water.

Flashes burst across your vision. The moment was already captured—your stiff shoulders, your frozen smile. A picture-perfect lineup of cooperation.

And you could feel it: this wasn’t a coincidence.

This was intentional.

Valentina leaned in, voice cool and sugary against your ear as more bulbs burst. “I am so pleased to see you here,” she cooed, “considering how close you and Sam are.”

“I mean, I had to come congratulate you,” you said tightly, lips barely moving. “Recreating the Avengers. That’s… big.”

She beamed at the cameras, teeth white and wolfish. “Someone had to.”

“Of course.”

Another flash. Another frozen pose.

You winced. Sam is going to kill you.

Valentina fielded the sudden swarm of questions like she was born in front of a podium—deflecting, redirecting, charming. Every answer was deliberate, each word chosen like a chess move. Stability. Legacy. Global confidence. Alliances.

They lapped it up like champagne, snapping photos, nodding, laughing. You stood beside her, barely blinking, jaw tight behind your polite smile.

You weren’t meant to be part of this show. You were supposed to be on the outside looking in from the in the crowd.

When the flashes finally began to die down and the clamour shifted elsewhere, Valentina turned with that too-perfect, too-white grin. She glanced at Yelena and Alexei like she were dismissing children.

“Would you two mind?” she asked, breezy as ever. “I’d like to have a quick little chat.”

Yelena’s gaze flicked toward you. Not unkind. But cautious. Reading you like a live wire.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her brows subtly knitting.

“Oh, everything’s perfectly fine,” Valentina replied before you could speak, her hand already at your back. “Go fetch a drink. Mingle.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

You barely had time to glance back at Yelena—at the slight, suspicious narrowing of her eyes—before the crowd swallowed her and Alexei whole.

Your earpiece crackled to life. “She’s taking you to the balcony,” Joaquín said, voice low and taut. “There are no cameras there. I won’t be able to see, but I can still hear you.”

There was a pause, then: “I’ll keep looking for Bucky.”

You barely managed a breath of relief before Valentina cut in, sharp and smiling.

“Bucky’s not here tonight, if that’s really why you’re here.”

You stiffened mid-step.

Joaquín swore in your ear. Something heavy hit a surface—maybe his fist against a table—and you heard the scrape of a chair.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice light, falsely sweet. “I came to celebrate you.”

You crossed the threshold to the balcony.

It was quieter out here, eerily so. The muffled pulse of the gala was dulled by glass and distance. The cold kissed your skin through your dress. You could feel it biting at your exposed arms, but you welcomed the sting. It was honest.

Below, the city stretched like a glowing circuit board. Skyscrapers hummed with light. Traffic moved in golden veins. It was beautiful in the kind of way that felt removed. Untouchable.

Valentina’s heels clicked once against the stone floor, then stopped.

“Cut the bullshit,” she scoffed, voice low now. “We both know that’s not true.”

You turned your head, slow and steady. Her eyes were already on you. Unflinching.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked casually. “The little Mexican one?”

You flinched—just barely. Your jaw clenched tight.

Valentina smiled wider at that.

You opened your mouth to answer, to lie, to throw her off, to say something clever, but she leaned forward before you could, voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips were close to your collarbone, eyes locked on your chest. On the mic she couldn’t see.

“Hola, Joaquín,” she murmured, velvet-smooth. “¿Cómo estás? How’s the arm? Still broken?”

She pulled back with a grin full of satisfaction. Joaquín didn’t respond—not a breath. But you felt the burn of it in your gut. He heard her. She knew he was listening. And that was the whole point.

She got what she wanted. You could see it in the eyes, the tilt of her head, the calm sip from her glass, the curl of smugness just under her lipstick.

Valentina turned her back to the railing, facing you fully, her glass catching the amber light of the city. Her smile didn’t crack once.

“You know,” she began, like she was catching up with an old friend, her voice silked with charm, “you don’t have to keep playing both sides. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

You said nothing. Not because you didn’t have something to say, but because the words wouldn’t form. Your brain was too busy calculating exits, signals, whether Joaquín could hear any of this, or if he was already doing something stupid like storming into the gala uninvited.

“You show up with a wire,” she continued, waving her champagne flute like it weighed nothing, “a dress like that, pretending you’re just here to smile for the cameras.”

Her eyes dipped slowly, then back up.

“You do look stunning, by the way,” she added casually. “But we both know you’re not here for the press or to butter yourself up to me or my team. You’re listening. Recording. Digging...”

The flute met her lips again. Sip. Deliberate.

“Looking for Barnes,” she said. “Like he’s going to whisper some grand truth that’ll fix whatever little crisis your friends are having.”

You could feel your jaw tighten. Every word she spoke landed like pressure against a bruise you didn’t want to admit was there.

Valentina tilted her head, studying you with the kind of gaze that belonged in an interrogation room, not a rooftop party. “You’re sharp,” she said. “Good instincts. It’s why Sam keeps you close, right?”

Still, you stayed silent. Because anything you gave her, she’d twist. She already was.

“But let me ask you something,” she said, voice a shade lower, softer. “What’s loyalty really worth—if the people you serve are always the ones left bleeding in the dirt?”

A pulse of heat shot up your neck. You didn’t move, but she saw it.

Of course, she saw it.

“And for the record,” she added, twirling the stem of her glass, “I don’t have anything against Sam Wilson. Poor guy. I pity him, actually. The shit he’s put up with just for carrying that shield—God.”

She clicked her tongue with exaggerated sympathy.

“I’d kill to have Captain America on my team. The real one. Not Walker. That man is a pathetic as it gets. Hair-trigger temper, zero emotional intelligence—”

“Sam would never work with you,” you said, sharper than intended.

Valentina’s smile widened because you finally said something worthwhile. “Oh, I know,” she said, almost gleefully. “He’s a purist. One of the last. His morals are steel-tight. Fucking unshakable. A real Boy Scout. Steve Rogers made a good choice.”

And that was the part that hurt—the part that made you swallow back a flicker of doubt you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Where’s Bucky?” you asked, voice quieter now. “I just want to talk to him.”

She didn’t even hesitate.

“Bucky’s not missing or anything,” Valentina said. “He’s busy. Doing a job for me in Pennsylvania. Cleaning up some loose ends, you know the deal.”

You felt it before you could stop it—that tiny, invisible shift in your expression. Something cracked. Something gave her an answer you hadn’t meant to give.

“That supposed to scare me?” you asked, though it already kind of did.

“No,” she said. “It’s supposed to make you think. About options. About what someone like you could do with the right resources. With the right funding. Imagine it: you with your own team. Autonomy. Access. No more red tape. You make your own shots. We clean up whatever mess you leave behind. And, get this, you even get paid for it.”

You glanced toward the city, anything to avoid her eyes. Lights. Windows. Warmth. All of it felt so far away.

“And if I say no?”

“Then someone else says yes.”

She stepped back, brushing something from her blazer sleeve. “Just think about it,” she said, all silk and sugar again. “We could use someone like you. You belong in rooms like this, you know. Not chasing ghosts, or waiting for Wilson to approve your next move. You’re already breaking. I can see it. You wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t. I’m sure Captain America won’t be happy seeing your name in the headlines tomorrow morning: The Next Potenital Avenger.”

Her smile held, framed in the cold, glittering dark of the balcony. Then she turned and walked past you, the soft graze of her shoulder against yours more intimate than it had any right to be. A mockery of closeness.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said, already stepping back through the doors. “Tell Sam I said hi.”

The glass door shut behind her with a quiet click.

And the cold came in fast.

Not just the air, but the after. The silence. The wrongness of being left alone up here, the wind biting now that you weren’t so focused on not showing fear.

Your body finally remembered it was yours. Your fingers hurt from gripping the railing too hard. You eased your hands free, flexed them, saw the white draining slowly from your knuckles. You still couldn’t feel them.

Your mic hissed faintly to life, and Joaquín’s voice filtered through the static like someone calling out to you underwater.

“…you okay?” he asked, strained. Urgent.

You didn’t answer right away. Your mind was still racing through what Valentina had said, how easily she’d dodged your defences, how easy she was to turn your presence into a publicity stunt, how well she knew you—or at least thought she did.

She must be blackmailing Bucky. That must be it.

You kept staring out at the skyline like it might give you an answer. It didn’t. Just glass and steel and lights that blinked too slow to feel alive.

“No,” you finally muttered.

It didn’t come out strong. It came out cracked. Like the inside of your chest had gone hollow, and you were just now realizing it.

Joaquín exhaled through the comm, like he’d been holding his breath.

“I think legal action is our next step,” he said, tone snapping back into focus like a lifeline. “We can sue them for the name. Trademark it. Or maybe—maybe Sam tries to talk to Bucky again? We’ve still got options.”

You didn’t respond. Not yet.

The railing under your palm felt like ice. You blinked hard, fighting back the sudden sting in your eyes. Not from fear. From frustration. From the way every word she said still echoed in your head, sticky and sharp, leaving splinters behind.

You dragged in a breath.

“…that fucking bitch,” you scoffed.

“Yeah… I don’t like Valentina either.”

You jumped.

The voice came from somewhere behind you, softer, unsure. You spun around on instinct, stepping away from the railing.

That man.

The one who stepped on your dress earlier. He was sitting now, low in one of the patio couches near a sleek electric fireplace that flickered lazily against the dark. The flames glinted off the patio doors and caught the edge of his profile—brown hair, downturned mouth, eyes wide like he was the one who got caught.

You hadn’t noticed him when you came out here. And now that you really looked… you realized why.

He wasn’t trying to be seen.

He sat in the farthest corner of the couch, hunched slightly, knees close together, hands clutched like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like someone had planted him there and told him to wait. The firelight danced across his face, softening him. He didn’t look threatening. Just... startled. And oddly apologetic for existing.

He offered a small, nervous smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, like… scare you.”

There was genuine concern in his voice—concern for you, not about you. That was rare.

“It’s fine,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to say.

“Who’s that?” Joaquín's voice cracked through your earpiece.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes stayed on the stranger, and for a moment, you debated whether or not to even breathe too loud.

“I don’t know…” You muttered.

“Okay, uh… I’ll try to do a voice match or something—see if anything comes up. Keep them talking.”

The man must’ve noticed the way you were half-turned, the way your fingers brushed against your ear.

He shifted slightly. “Who’re… who’re you talking to?”

You froze. And then, with a wince: “Uh… just… myself. Thinking out loud.”

There was a pause.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I do that too. All the time, actually.”

You weren’t sure what to do with that. You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He looked different now compared to earlier. Still awkward, still nervous—but less like he was trying to shrink into himself and more like he was trying his best to meet you where you were. His eyes held yours this time. Not for long, though. They dropped to his hands and shoes after a while. But it was long enough to feel it.

You took a cautious step forward, angling yourself toward the fire, toward him, but still keeping a healthy distance.

“You um… You know Valentina?” you asked. Stupid. Of course, he did. Everyone at this party did.

“Uh… yeah. Something like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t like… eavesdropping or anything. It’s just—there’s a lot of people in there. And it’s… quieter out here.”

He hesitated, then added: “I’m Bob, by the way.”

His voice wavered, but not from dishonesty. He said his name like he wasn’t sure it would mean anything to you. Like he just told you his name to be kind.

You gave him a nod. Not a smile. But not cold either.

“Hi, Bob.”

A beat passed.

You debated telling him your name. Joaquín would probably advise against it. But you weren’t feeling tactical anymore—you were feeling tired. Bruised in a way you couldn’t name. And maybe you just needed to feel like a real person again. Like someone who wasn’t being puppeteered.

So, after a pause, you gave him your name.

Bob blinked. Then he offered a small, shy smile that cracked at the edges.

“Cool. Hi,” he said, breathless. His brows furrowed as his gaze dropped lower, his eyes catching on your waist, your hips. “Uh—sorry again, about your dress. I didn’t mean to step on it earlier. You looked like you were in a rush and I—well, I was definitely in your way.”

You felt your lips twitch. The barest curve, not sharp or defensive. A faint grin. Delicate. “It’s alright,” you said. “Bound to happen at places like these.”

His head tilted slightly, curious. “You come to stuff like this often?”

“Not often. Just sometimes.”

And it was only then that you realized you’d stepped closer.

Your arms had casually found their place against the back of the couch across from him, hands gripping the cool metal frame as your scarf drifted with the breeze behind you. You weren’t leaning in exactly, but the distance had shrunk.

When did that happen?

You tilted your head, letting your eyes linger a little longer now, more curious than guarded. You assessed him with a little more attention now.

“I’m guessing you don’t come to these events much?”

Bob immediately shook his head, a nervous, breathy laugh escaping his lips like it was running away from him. You could see the cloud of it in the cold night air, swirling and vanishing between you.

“God, no. This is my second one and it’s—it’s been a lot. I think I’m gonna ask to just stay in my room next time.” He gave a little shrug, slouching a bit. “It’s not like I do much anyway. I mean, I’m allowed to talk to people, and I like talking to people, but I’d rather not sometimes.”

That made you blink. Allowed?

The word snagged on something in your mind. There was something disarming about the way he said it, like he didn’t mean to offer that information but also didn’t think it was worth hiding. You couldn’t tell if he was joking, oversharing, or both. But it was too strange to ignore. Like it slipped past a filter that wasn’t built right. It made you hesitate, if only for a breath.

But he wasn’t watching your reaction. He was staring at the flicker of the fire, letting the silence sit between you like it belonged there.

You folded your arms gently across your chest, the smooth material of your dress whispering beneath your fingertips.

“You seem to be talking just fine with me,” you pointed out, softer now.

Bob looked down at his hands. Then back at you. Then away again.

“I… well…” he stammered, voice catching on another shy, almost embarrassed laugh.

And then you saw it.

The blush. A warm pink crawling up from the collar of his white shirt to the apples of his cheeks. Subtle, but not subtle enough to miss. Especially not in the glow of the firelight, which danced over his skin like it had a crush of its own.

“I… yeah, I... I don’t know. Some people are easier to talk to than others, I guess.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

“Yeah,” you said, “I’d say so.”

The smile that tugged at your lips came easier than you expected. Not just polite. Not guarded. Honest. Probably the first one you’d let slip all night.

Seriously, who the hell is this guy? And why did he make the night feel a little less awful?

He was cute. Not the kind of handsome that announces itself the second someone walks in the room, but the kind that sneaks up on you, quiet, awkward, totally unsure of how much space he takes up and trying not to be a bother. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at for too long and didn’t know where to put himself when he was.

You’d seen a lot of people in this world wear confidence like a costume. Bob didn’t even try. He wore uncertainty like a second skin, and somehow, it made him feel… real.

You liked the way he didn’t crowd you. Didn’t puff out his chest or pretend to have all the answers. He sat with his knees slightly knocked together, most of his hands swallowed by the sleeves of his jacket, like even they were too bold to leave out in the open. Maybe he was anxious. Maybe a little broken in the places that never healed right, but he felt safe. Your gut told you so.

And that made you more nervous than anything else tonight.

You caught yourself watching him again. The way he kept his hands mostly hidden in his sleeves, shoulders rounded forward. His suit was clearly tailored but still seemed a size too big, like someone had tried to wrap him in something expensive just to prove he belonged. And still, it worked.

His hair was brown and shaggy, a bit longer than most people would have it at these events, barely even styled, but you kind of liked it. It gave him a strange charm, even if the loose curls hid his eyes whenever he ducked his head.

You weren’t used to thoughts like this. Not ones this soft. Not ones that fluttered in your chest like nervous birds. Not often. Not like this. Not here. Not in places like these.

You came for Bucky. That was the plan. Show up, find him, talk. Clear the air. Maybe start patching things up with your broken little found family—cracks and all. But Bucky wasn’t here. Valentina played you like a fiddle, and now the whole night had soured. Tomorrow, you’d wake up to press statements and headlines, scrambling to explain why your name wouldn’t be on the next New Avengers roster. You’d spin it clean, of course. That’s what you did.

But none of that mattered yet.

In this strange little pocket of quiet, just outside the hum of power plays and champagne politics, you kind of just wanted something normal. Not mission normal. Not cover-identity normal. Real normal. A conversation that didn’t hinge on leverage or patriotism. A moment that wasn’t already weaponized.

Maybe you could stay for another half hour before you disappeared and joined Joaquín in the van downstairs, counting your losses.

And maybe it was the firelight, a flicker here, a flicker there, warmth and glow dancing in the night that influenced you. But you found yourself leaning forward a little more, walking around the couch, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. You straightened your spine, trying to will yourself into being brave.

“Would you...” You paused, “um. Do you wanna grab a drink with me?”

Bob blinked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He sat up straighter at the invitation, startled, like a puppy hearing its name for the first time. His lips parted. For a split second, you swore he looked excited. Maybe even hopeful.

But then he deflated.

His shoulders fell, his expression shifting to a quiet sort of apology as his eyes darted away. “I... I can’t. Sorry—”

“Oh.” You blinked, trying not to let your smile falter.

“I want to,” he rushed to say, almost stumbling over the words. “I do.”

“It’s okay—”

“No. No. I would. It’s just... I’m—I’m sober now.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry—” he added quickly, like he was terrified he’d ruined something.

But you shook your head, even stepping a little closer without realizing it.

“No. Don’t be sorry,” you said gently. “Seriously. Congratulations. That’s a big deal.”

He smiled at that, small and grateful. A little crooked and thin-lipped. It was cute.

“Thanks.”

You hesitated a moment, then tilted your head. “Can I ask how long?”

“Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking upward like he was counting the months with the stars. “I think about a year now. I’ve only really started keeping track since I moved here, so... maybe like, seven? Eight months?”

You smiled softly, your heart unexpectedly warm.

“That’s still a long time.”

He gave a sheepish shrug, and his cheeks pinked again, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your praise. Like no one gave it to him often enough for it to feel normal.

“Some days feel longer than others,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching at his own tease.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, quiet, but real.

“What are you…?”

Joaquín’s voice fizzled to life in your ear, cracking the quiet like a crowbar to glass.

“Are you flirting right now?”

You froze, the smile instantly tugging at your lips again despite yourself.

When you didn’t answer, he laughed.

“Oh my god, you’re totally flirting right now! It’s so bad, but you so are! Who even is this guy?”

You turned ever so slightly, subtle as you could manage, and pressed a knuckle into your ear to mute him. Your cheeks warmed in tandem with Bob’s.

Bob blinked. “Sorry… did I, um—was that weird?”

“No, no,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “That wasn’t you.”

He just nodded, like your word was more than enough. Like you could’ve told him the moon was fake, and he’d say, huh, never really thought about that before.

You moved to take a seat across from him, the fireplace crackling softly between you like a low, slow heartbeat. The warmth of the flames painted him in golds and ambers, the flickering light catching the softness in his eyes and the loose fall of his hair.

You fidgeted with your fingers out of instinct. And across the fire, he mirrored the motion—thumb twisting around his knuckle, pinky tapping rhythmically against the inside of his sleeve. There was something strangely reassuring in that shared nervousness, like you were both waiting for the same storm to pass.

You let out a quiet breath, tension easing from your shoulders. “You said you moved here? Like, New York?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. His shoulders dipped too, visibly relaxing just a touch, like your voice permitted him to breathe. “I… uh, I lived in Malyasha for a while. But I’m from Florida. Born and raised. Where—where are you from?”

You tilted your head slightly, watching how intently he tried to keep eye contact and how quickly he broke it again. “I flew in from Washington.”

“D.C.?” he asked, and you nodded.

His eyebrows lifted, eyes wide for a split second. “Wow. Do you work in the White House or something?”

You huffed a laugh, smiling into your words. “Sure. Something like that.”

His head bobbed along with the answer.

“So you’re like… a really important person here.”

You laughed again, this time wider. Your teeth showed. It surprised you how easily you let your guard down. “I wouldn’t say that.”

But he was smiling too, softer now. Less anxious.

“You are,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I saw the way people looked at you tonight. Not—not that I was watching you or anything… just, it’s hard not to. You’re, um…”

You saw the moment he lost his words, saw them spill and scatter like marbles across a floor. His blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks in a full, unmistakable deep red colour. He ducked his head, eyes falling to his shoes again, and you watched him fight a shy, apologetic smile.

“…I can see why they’d want your picture.”

And just like that, your heart softened.

You leaned in a little, elbows resting against your knees. “Thank you, Bob. You’re really sweet, you know that?”

Bob looked up again, startled by the compliment, his mouth parting slightly like he didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t sure if anyone had ever told him that before, and if they had, you could guess they didn’t mean it the way you did now.

He didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. Not with people like Valentina, not with cold smiles and polished lies. Not with mercenaries, politicians, and millionaires who hide behind their money. You could see it in the way he sat too stiffly on a velvet chair meant for lounging, in the way he tugged at his sleeves or tucked his hands away when he felt exposed.

“What’re you doing in a place like this, Bob?”

He blinked, tilting his head like he wasn’t sure what you meant.

You smiled, eyes squinting a little as you leaned forward more. “I mean, are you like, a sponsor? Investor?”

The words didn’t even sound right on your tongue, not when directed at him. The image of him swirling champagne and talking stocks was so laughably out of sync with the shy guy currently pressing himself into the couch cushions like he wanted to disappear.

“I don’t think you’re here for the politics,” you added, and there was a touch of something playful in your voice.

He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Me? Gosh, no. I don’t… I don’t do politics.” He scratched the back of his ear, sheepish again. “That’s Bucky’s thing. I’m here for my friends.”

And just like that, your whole world tilted.

Your smile dropped before you could stop it. A subtle shift, but you felt it everywhere: in your spine, in your lungs, in the weight of your hands resting suddenly still on your knees.

You straightened. Slowly.

“…You know Bucky?”

The question came quieter than you intended, and Bob must’ve heard the change, the sudden stillness in your voice. His smile faltered, and he went still, too, sensing the tension without understanding it. His posture shrank, as if unsure what he’d stepped into, as if trying not to take up more space than he already had to upset you.

He nodded, a cautious kind of affirmation. “Yeah. He’s my friend.”

That stunned silence stretched long between you.

“I… I know he’s your friend too,” Bob added quickly, the words spilling out like he was trying to fill the void before it grew too wide. His voice was quieter now, softer around the edges, almost apologetic. “I heard you talking about him to Val, I—I thought maybe…”

You weren’t sure why he kept talking. Maybe because you hadn’t said anything. Maybe because your smile had disappeared too fast, and he could feel the way the mood had shifted even if he didn’t know why. His nervous ramble wasn’t meant to hurt, you could tell that. But it did. It did because the moment he said Val, something in you knotted tight again.

The warm glow you’d felt around him moments ago started to dim, curling in on itself like a candle snuffed out mid-flicker. Your heart gave a small, stupid lurch—embarrassed at how quickly you’d let your guard down. Of course he knew Bucky. Of course he was close to Valentina. The pieces slid together too easily now, fitting into a picture you didn’t want to look at.

You tried to pull yourself back together, quickly and quietly. You reminded yourself this wasn’t supposed to be about comfort. It wasn’t about soft smiles or normal conversations or maybe asking someone out for a drink. You came here with a mission, no matter how personal it was. To find Bucky. To set the record straight. This—this moment of peace with a stranger who felt safe—wasn’t supposed to happen.

He called her Val. Like they were friends. Like they knew each other beyond just work. Like he wasn’t just some shy, nice guy who complimented you under his breath and blushed when you smiled at him. Jesus, were you that easy?

A strange bitterness bloomed in your mouth. Not anger, more like disappointment. At yourself, maybe. For forgetting, even just for a second, what kind of place this really was.

You stood up.

The decision was sudden, impulsive, a small motion made louder by the way Bob flinched. His eyes followed you, something tentative and uncertain flickering across his face.

You reached for your earpiece, thumb brushing over the button to unmute Joaquín.

But Bob stood, too. Slowly, almost clumsily, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow you or stay where he was.

“Did I—did I say something wrong?” he asked.

You froze. Your fingers stilled over the earpiece. You hadn’t expected that.

You turned, not quite facing him fully, but enough to catch the look on his face. His brows had drawn together, confusion etched faintly into his expression, and one of his hands was lifted just slightly, hovering in the air between you like he’d started to reach out and changed his mind halfway through. There were still several feet of space between you. The fire crackled low between you both, casting shadows across the expensive furniture and marble tiles.

“I’m sorry if I did,” he said, voice smaller now. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

That stopped you. “No… you didn’t…” You said, the words stumbling out, half-formed. You didn’t know why you tried to soothe him. Maybe it was the way his eyes had gone wide or the way he seemed to dread the thought of you walking away just when he was finally starting to settle into himself. It stirred something in you. Something that made your chest tighten.

You could’ve said never mind. You wanted to. Pretend his words hadn’t struck a nerve, hadn’t made your heart twist in your chest. But they did. It bothered you.

“You didn’t upset me,” you repeated, softer now. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

Bob blinked at you. “Oh,” he said, so gently it almost got carried off by the breeze.

A silence fell between you again. You wrapped your arms around yourself against the wind as you turned to look at him.

“Who are you, Bob?”

He straightened, caught off guard. “I’m... I’m Bob,” he said. “Just... just Bob.”

You tilted your head. “That’s it?”

He opened his mouth like he was about to say more, but nothing came out. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, the words retreating back into him like they were scared to be seen. He just shrugged helplessly. Like that’s all he had left.

And yet he kept looking at you like he was begging you not to go. Not yet.

You sighed, bringing your fingers up to your temple, pressing cold skin to your warm forehead. There was a pulse pounding there now, dull and insistent.

“I just…” You started, voice cracking faintly. “I came here looking for Bucky. I thought maybe I could get him to come home.”

“Home?” Bob asked carefully, his eyes soft.

“Yeah. With Sam. With us.” You hesitated, glancing through the tall windows behind him. The light inside spilled gold across the floor, where laughter echoed and people clinked glasses without a care in the world. Your eyes landed on the group you’d been avoiding all night—Bucky’s new team, huddled together with drinks, grinning like it was just another night to celebrate.

It made your chest hollow out.

“Ever since he joined Valentina’s little fuckass team or... whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the gala behind you, “everything’s just been so... shitty.”

You looked back at Bob, surprised to find that he’d stepped a little closer. Just enough that you could see the way his jaw twitched, like he was working through something he didn’t know how to say.

“Sorry,” you muttered, suddenly self-conscious. “Not to, like, dump all that on you.”

The cold bit into your arms. You rubbed them quickly, wishing you’d brought a coat.

“It’s not...” Bob started, and then, more firmly, “It’s not a fuckass team.”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“They saved me,” he said, voice trembling just a bit. “Lena. Bucky. The others. They’re my family. We... we take care of each other.”

You stared at him, something icy curling low in your stomach. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said again, earnest. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it from the outside, but... they gave me a chance when no one else would. They didn’t treat me like I was broken. They... saw me.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But it felt like trying to swallow glass.

“Right,” you muttered, too tired to argue. “I have to go.”

You turned, reaching for your earpiece.

“Wait,” Bob said suddenly, like he’d only just realized this was goodbye. “Will I... will I see you again?”

You paused, fingers still hovering near your ear. The balcony lights flickered faintly behind you, and the sound of the city buzzed low in the background, as if the world were holding its breath.

You didn’t turn around right away.

Part of you wanted to say no. Make it easy. Clean.

But when you finally looked back at him, at the boyish worry carved into his face, the way he stood there with his hands half-raised like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go, you felt that ache again. The one that whispered that maybe, despite everything, he meant what he said. That maybe there was still something worth salvaging in the strange, quiet warmth you’d felt earlier. Something real.

And you desperately wanted it to be real. You wanted it to mean something.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Bob swallowed. Nodded like he understood.

But his eyes lingered on you like he hoped the answer might change.

part two.

[kfa-343]

“You saw the moment he lost his words, saw them spill and scatter like marbles across a floor.” Omg. Amazing use of a simile. This line hit me so hard because I could just envision exactly what you meant by that description. I also feel like I don’t see this type of comparison very often but it was very well said!!

10/10 fic. Great job. I loved reading this and I can’t wait to read the second part<3<3<3

[sakunai]

A COVERT OPERATION . you’re not jason’s girl, except you kinda are. pairing ! ex!jason todd x fem!reader wc ! 4.5k warnings ! sfw. fluff. written like a disaster rom com with more com than rom, jealous ex bf! jason, mr. spanky appearance sorta, a creepy unnamed guy appears + a misogynist asshole. reader does not take any shit. so yeah. mentions of alcohol consumption, cigarette smoking (reader & jason) + nicknames used : baby & amore (towards reader).

🗒️ based on this request and italian-american bf jason i & ii. also yeah, he’s pathetic and grovels a little.

art creds : @/shr0uds

now playing ! why don’t you do right — peggy lee 🎧

The first time it happened, you felt bad for the poor guy.

“Jay’s girl, huh?” You turned at the sound of the voice, the warm bar lights casting a harsh glow over the man’s frame.

Sly, slimeball, or whatever the hell the guy told the bartender his name was as he racked up his tab — eyed you up and down, dark hair gelled to the side and a finger idling at the rim of his glass. He was huge, even from where he sat hunched against the side of the bar, his head tilted to the side and legs open in your direction.

You ignored him, plucking the toothpick from your glass and sinking your teeth into the cherry. How long had it been since you and Jason broke up? A week? Two maybe? Not that you’d seen him around lately to keep the score.

He was like that, with his profound ability of becoming a ghost and slinking away to the darkest crevices of the world, never to be seen unless he willed it, which you cursed the son of a bitch for because here you were with the utter bad luck of not being able to do the same.

His neighborhood was also your neighborhood.

His friends were your friends — some who you consider family, and while it might’ve been cute at first to be known as Jay’s Girl™ from here in some washed up family owned bar all the way to the best food joints in Little Italy then to every bookstore in the Bowery and back — it afforded you no anonymity. Or rather, no time to mourn your failed relationship while pretending not to, because God forbid a girl just wants to get a drink at 9 PM without someone mentioning Jay.

“This guy givin’ you trouble?” Paulie, sweet, pure hearted Paulie who’d never hurt a fly — except for that one time he put three guys in the hospital for casing his joint sometime last Christmas — murmured to you, his hands busy drying a glass with the fluffy white towel slung over his shoulder.

“Cause I can get him outta here if he’s giving you a hard time.”

“I’m all good, thanks P,” you smiled, lifting your glass over the bartop to nudge his wrist. “Buuuut, you can top me up again.”

“You’re out of it, kid,” he laughed, but took the glass from you anyway. He hadn’t asked you about Jason the whole night, and despite how refreshing it was, it still felt sort of odd.

Did everybody know where he was except you? Or was the alcohol finally turning you into the pitiful sap you always knew you were?

That solace turned reflection was cut short however.

“I’m just saying, everybody’s skirtin’ around it and looking at me sideways.” The Slimeball chuckled to himself, as if he expected the tiny crowd to join in his amusement. “But you’re a good looking girl… like a fine piece a’ somethin’ you know?”

Paulie, in the middle of mixing your drink, looked to you, then to the guy, and back to you again.

You only shrugged. Not tonight. Please, not tonight.

“What? Are you shy?” The guy turned to face you now, the sleazy grin of his face growing by the second. “Don’t pay attention to them, baby, focus on me.” His stool scraped the floor with a high pitched squeak and in the next second he was on his feet towards you.

Immediately, you tensed, but he leaned forward just as quickly. “You actually need to back up—”

“Hey, man— you need to watch it. Jace doesn’t play about that one,” came a random voice you’re sure you recognize, another neighborhood cousin or something.

“And you need to mind your fuckin’ business,” Grimey Guy whipped his head around. “Cause if that’s true, it’s his fault for not watching his girl.”

Upon turning around though, he reached a hand out to touch you.

Your drink was already raised halfway when Paulie and another guy rounded the counter and practically yanked the guy out of his chair. For good measure — and some well needed release of frustration — you downed half your drink then threw the rest in his face, after which he was dragged out back and kicked out — and maybe kicked around a bit, who knows?

But, Jay’s Girl remained triumphant, and the fairytale lived on, until it didn’t. Sort of.

“Well, that sure is a sight.” Roy whistled long and low over the thumping bass. He twirled a Marlboro Red between his fingers idly, grinning like the cat that caught the canary.

Meanwhile, Dick’s mouth fell open, eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets as a hand reached up to clutch his chest. “No way... isn’t that…?”

“Shut up,” Jason, who stood only a few steps away from their little wives-at-teatime gossip huddle grumbled. His lips were set in a deep frown, eyebrows knitted tight and gaze dark.

A humorous sight, if one were to take into consideration that all three of them were in ‘disguise’ for tonight, gathering intel on some high profile guest here at Eden, aka The Cathouse, one of if not the most popular nightclub in East End.

It was alive, electric, bass vibrating through the floorboards and the scent of fruity liquor cloaking the air.

Across the sea of bodies was you, dressed in a silky little thing that was borderline obscene, and the very picture of everything Jason did not want to see, but so desperately needed to.

In truth, this was supposed to be Roy’s job but the fuck-up fucked up and so now he’s here with reinforcements — a bored Dick Grayson who should’ve been back in Blüdhaven yesterday but caught wind of the breakup, which he called ‘The Great Departure’ and figured he’d stick around to boost his poor little bro’s morale — so now Jason is here.

He’s here in this shitty club where some illiterate hog had his hand inching closer to your ass by the second.

You were dancing, hips swaying and chest heaving with the rhythm, yet despite the effort you looked perfect, every bit of you.

From the slight staticky halo of your hair to the soft shine of sweat on your collarbone that looked like glitter and stardust and all things sweet, to your lips that moved in sync with the lyrics of the loud music — those lips, even when painted or lined or plain he can remember the exact curve and shape of them around the syllables of his name, the hiccup of a ti amo, the whisper of an amore mio, the shout of a fuck you, when he suggested that maybe another break is what you two needed.

“Wow,” a whisper came from Roy and Dick nudged him so hard with his elbow that the fake mustache he was wearing hung loose on one side.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Jason huffed, downing the last of a shot of something whoever left on the bar counter. And that fucking mustache just kept itching him, Jesus Christ.

The hog in question, God forgive him, had his hands on your hips, chest pressed tight against your back — a little bird’s chest, Jason thought.

His uncle, or really his neighbor that he called Zio Laurenzo because it was just how he grew up — would say it’s a cardinal sin to not have some meat on your bones to keep a woman warm.

Did he keep you warm? Jason wondered. He knew he always ran cold, you’d tease him for it all the time but he didn’t even know why he was wondering about that now. Zio Laurenzo was a bum with a beer belly and two divorces under his belt. The only thing warm about him was his zuppa di pollo.

Madonna, he cursed in his head. He’d been listening to punks and bums all his life, no wonder he messed up with you.

“You’re a natural,” the guy whose name you’d already forgotten murmured against your ear. “You related to Lola Falana maybe?”

You laughed loud and loose, just the slightest bit tipsy and feeling yourself too much. It’s been a minute since you’ve gone out, a couple more minutes since you’ve entertained a guy just for the sake of it.

“Maybe.” It felt good. Not exactly fulfilling, but fun. You needed fun.

His hands guided your hips into a steady rhythm, your heartbeat matching each bump of the heavy bass.

You got lost in the music, in the heat rather quickly, your collarbones and forearms slightly slick with sweat and cold to touch but the alcohol hot inside your veins, the bumping and grinding of your hips against his even hotter.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” he shouted near your ear over the music, taking a gentle hold of your hand and spinning you around to face him. And oh boy, was he fine.

You told him your name with a playful smirk teasing at your lips, eyes hung low and a hand on his bicep.

The moment the last syllable left your mouth, the guy looked at you as if he’d seen a ghost, the heat of the club long diffused and an expression on his face that read bewilderment instead of sex.

“Repeat that?”

You said your name again and a hand came over his mouth instantaneously in utter shock. You could hardly believe it. “Woman, you tryin’ to get me killed?” He exclaimed in horror.

“What the hell are you even talking about?” Your lips curved into a frown.

He drew in a sharp inhale through his nostrils. “Look, you’re a nice girl and all…” he met your gaze and cringed just a little, fearful. “Like what I mean is, you’re nice— in a friend kinda way— like I wasn’t tryin’ to put no kind of word to you or nothing like that—”

The longer he spoke, the more your shoulders slumped and your nose scrunched up in confusion. Was this guy one of those fucking mood-swing-having kind of drunks, because the fuck?

“It’s just… you know, I don’t know what’s the situation with you two and if you’re steppin’ out,” he went on, scratching the back of his neck. “But I can’t go there— not that I was trying to, of course! Let’s get that solid— cause you’re Jay’s girl and I—”

“Excuse me?”

“Nah, I’m good.” He shook his head firmly. “Everybody knows he doesn’t play about you.”

“Everybody knows this?” Your face screwed up in a mix of disbelief and offense. “Listen, we broke up—”

He barked a laugh, right in your face. “Look, dolly, I came for a good time, not to get my ass beat. So I suggest you sing that little freshly divorced song with like, I don’t know, at least six feet between us.”

“Are you serious right now?”

“You have a good night,” he shrugged. “And congrats when you two get back together,” he said, giving you a quick nod before he walked away, easing between swaying bodies in the direction of the bar.

“Fucking punk!” You yelled after him. What a drag.

“Do I have to keep wearing this mustache?” Dick groaned, index finger itching at his upper lip. He was sitting on one of the barstools, attempting to survey the crowd.

“Oh, lookey here!” Roy’s posture straightened and his teeth shone in a grin, a tiny umbrella that he plucked from a glass idly twirling between his forefinger and thumb. “Cassio is steadily approaching.”

He turned to Dick who gave him a quizzical look.

“You’re not well read at all, man,” he continued, tossing the umbrella towards a brooding Jason, leaning against the bar with his hands crossed over his chest.

“And who are you supposed to be, Bianca?” Jason’s brows rose, then his expression shifted as he realized who Cassio was in question — the fucker that was dancing with you earlier.

A silence fell over the group as the guy rounded the bar and ordered a drink, scratching at his brow. He looked at Roy, then at Dick, both pretending not to look back at him.

Then he looked at Jason who was staring him head on.

“Do I know you?” The guy squinted, brows furrowed and head tilted forward. “You from around here?”

“No.” Jason responded, voice a little deeper for his disguise, or maybe something else entirely. Either way, it was fucking hilarious.

“Ah,” the guy nodded, looking away. The air was heavy and awkward, and Roy’s lips pursed with the effort of holding back a laugh.

“So, uh,” Dick cleared his throat, fingers thrumming against the bartop. “That’s a nice necklace, man.”

The guy looked up at him oddly. “You tryna rob me or something?”

There was a pause, and Dick stuttered slightly before the guy chuckled. “Just fucking with you, sorry. But, yeah, thanks,” he reached a hand up to finger the chain. It was a silver cross with a few tiny diamonds. “My girl got it for me.”

Jason’s jaw ticked.

“Oh, you don’t say?” Roy grinned. Dick turned away to stifle a laugh under his mustache. “Damn. That’s real sweet, huh, Johnny?”

Johnny — or Jason, grunted under his breath in response. “Li mortacci tua.”

No way you moved on already. And least of all with BirdChest. No way, there’s just no way.

He reached for the Marlboro Red that Roy abandoned on the bartop and fished a lighter out of his pants pocket. Before he could light it, Dick snatched it from his hands.

“Yeah, she’s a real nice girl… nags like hell though,” Random guy who you might’ve possibly moved on with, said. “Just the way these broads are, I guess.”

“It’s a bit much talkin’ shit about a lady who can’t defend herself ‘cause she’s across the room,” Jason intervened. Which he might as well, now that the scrub was calling you out of your name and he didn’t have a cigarette between his teeth because somebody felt like parenting him on what should be a covert operation.

“Oh, that one? Nah, not her.” The guy shrugged, sipping his drink. “That one just set me up to fucking die, can you believe that shit? Came out to escape the nagging and what I get instead is a one way ticket to Death Row.”

“What do you mean?” Dick leaned closer, and when Roy looked at him with a bottom lip drawn between his teeth to hold a laugh, he only shrugged. Good goss is good goss.

“She’s a real cute thing, you saw her right?” Roy and Dick nodded simultaneously. Jason scoffed. “We’re dancing, right? And I’m feeling her and she’s feeling me—”

“Yeah, fuckin’ stunad…” Jason grumbled to himself.

“Then I go and ask her name, she tells me, and I’m thinking to myself, where do I know this piece from, y’know?” The guy continued. He shook his head. “Man, would you believe that’s Jay’s girl?”

Dick and Roy exchanged a look, then shrugged in faux ignorance.

“Jay? You know how many Jays are in Gotham—” Roy started.

“Fuckin’ Jay from the Alley, man,” the guy exclaimed. “Big, burly son of a bitch. The one with the scar on his face. Motherfucker’s built like a matador—”

“Oh, really?” Dick rested a hand against his jaw.

“Really,” the guy huffed. “And she’s just out here looking like that and dancing on people— have you seen the size of that guy’s fist? Fuck’s sake… I could’ve lost my life...”

Jason smirked to himself then shook his head to get rid of it. You weren’t his girl, you weren’t. Not really and not in all the ways that mattered.

Was he wrong for feeling a liiitle bit on cloud nine at the notion of Bird Chest the Handsy Hog fucking off because of two words? Maybe. But he’d been wrong about plenty of things in his life, he could do with another on his conscience.

“Yo, Benny!” Came a shout and the guy in question whipped his head around. Oh, Bird Chest Benny. You would’ve loved to witness this in real time, he thought.

“Go easy, fellas,” Benny said, downing the last of his drink and stuffing a few bills under the glass. “And watch out for that girl I told you about. Wouldn’t wanna see any of you on the Missing Persons’ list.”

When Benny left the bar there was silence between the trio, a heavy, amused silence as Dick cradled his stomach to keep from bursting out into a guffaw.

Roy was the first to speak, and he sighed, long and dramatic, rising from his stool to stretch his aching arms. “O beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green eyed monster, which doth mock the meat it feeds on—”

“—You’re done.” Jason interrupted, damn near lunging towards Roy who cackled with mischief, and Dick, who was still sitting there holding his stomach, had his lips pursed in intense thought.

“Oh, wait a minute, I get it now!” Dick shouted, rising from his seat. “Othello!”

“Need a light?”

Your entire body went stiff for a moment and a yelp escaped your throat. “Fuckin’ hell,” you whipped your head around, cigarette dangling carelessly between your fingers and eyes wide with momentary fright.

“Announce yourself first, Dracula.”

Jason could only fix his face in a sheepish little smile, stuffing a hand into his jacket pocket to fish out the lighter he’d intended to use earlier but didn’t have the chance.

The music from inside the club was muffled, the bass reduced to something like a tickle under your feet from where you both stood at the darkened back entrance.

You leaned forward, hands cupped and raised up to the click of his calloused thumb against the lighter, the small flame warming your fingertips.

“You got a ride home?” Jason asked, one hand cradling both of yours and raising them nearer to the flame, the tip of the cigarette finally catching light.

“Something like that,” you murmured, drawing in a puff, a soft plume of smoke leaving your nostrils. You withdrew your hands from his and he nodded, shoving the lighter back into his pocket.

He understood why. Of course, this wasn’t a thing, not exactly and not anymore. So he kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, still unable to hide the long gaze that raked over your features from where the timid light of the cigarette and the brightness of the moon cast shadows over your face. You were beautiful.

“What’s with the mustache?”

He blinked. “Huh?”

You were so beautiful and he was so stupid.

“Oh, that… that, uh…” Jason reached up to peel the embarrassingly fluffy, hairy thing off his face. “That was part of a covert operation,” he said, his voice coming out a little higher than he intended it to.

You laughed despite yourself. “A covert operation?”

“What’s it to you, Columbo?” He grumbled, a smile stretching on his mouth. He missed you. You hadn’t even been apart for long and he missed you.

You dug your heels into the asphalt, taking a deep drag of the cigarette between your fingers. With a long exhale, you looked over at him then looked away, but he caught your gaze in between, his gaze shooting to the ground.

“So… you and that guy in there—”

“Is that seriously how you wanna start right now?” You turned to look at him. “You were watching me?”

“I was gonna say sorry,” he looked up at you. “For ruining your night. He didn’t seem to stick around long, so I figured…”

“No, you’re not.” You shook your head, an almost bitter laugh of disbelief leaving your mouth in huffs of smoke. “No, you’re not, you fucking asshole—”

You were laughing, hiccuping through each harsh draw of breath and wheeze of laughter. Jason bit back a shit eating grin because of course you knew him well enough to call his bluff.

“You’re right,” he nodded, the words coming as a brief mumble under his breath. “I… I don’t know, I just can’t remember why we broke up.”

“If I remember correctly, you were the one who wanted a break—”

He turned his body towards you and interrupted. “A break, not a break up.” Jason sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “And then you just started throwing shit at me, what was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, Jason,” you flicked your cigarette away, outing the meek flame under your shoe. “Maybe call? Maybe come look for me? Maybe don’t spy on me with the Jay sanctioned protection squad?”

He straightened his posture, blinking slowly. “If this is about what happened at Paulie’s…”

You scoffed. “What happened at Paulie’s was none of your business. I can handle myself.”

Jason’s eyebrows rose in mock pride. “Yeah, word on the street is you waterboarded the guy with a glass of rum and coke.” The smile on his face faltered slightly, and his voice came quieter. “I know you can. I know that. It’s just different because—”

“Because I’m yours?” Your gaze met his, and you’d be lying if you said he didn’t look the slightest bit pathetic. Good, he deserved that. You wasted half a rum and coke because of his stupid ass. “Don’t make me laugh.”

He swallowed, taking his hands from his pockets and wiping them on his jeans. Okay, so yeah, he did deserve that. “I was an idiot. I’m still an idiot… And I didn’t mean to disappear on you like that.”

“But you did.”

“But I did,” he hung his head. “I did, and I fucked up, and you shouldn’t even hear me out. Because I was too much of a fuckin’ coward to come find you but seeing you here tonight, I just….”

“You just what?” He watched the way your mouth curved over the syllables. “Got jealous?”

“Follia,” he huffed. “Don’t get hasty, I didn’t say all that—”

“Oh my God, you were jealous,” you grinned wolfishly, eyes bright with amusement as you stepped closer to him. “You thought I was with that guy in there.”

“As if,” Jason rolled his eyes. “Look at him and look at you, in what world would you ever go for that sorta—”

“But I was with him and not you,” your lips pursed just the slightest, a tease, but nothing short of the truth. “Did it make you mad?”

A brief silence passed between you two, his dark blue eyes drifting from your eyes down to your lips, then back up again.

“What do you think?”

“Jealous, mad,” you raised two fingers, wiggling them slightly as you counted. “Mad or jealous. Uno dei due.”

“Brava,” he hummed. “You’re a natural.”

You tried to ignore the way your stomach did a somersault. “I’m still mad at you, and probably will be for a long time,” you said, lifting your head and pointing your nose at him firmly. “So, if you felt jealous, boo fuckin’ hoo, that’s your penance to pay.”

“I know that,” he nodded. “And I wouldn’t expect you to forgive me, not unless I really worked for it, I’m sure.” Jason reached for your hand and you let him, a calloused thumb stroking the back of your hand.

He was so warm compared to you right now, even though he ran cold. “But I do want to apologize, if you’ll let me.”

You pretended to think about it, your other hand reaching up to scratch the side of your head. “I mean, it really depends on the quality of your apology. You did leave me high and dry to go dress up as Mr. Potato Head—”

“Again, it was a covert operation—”

“I just don’t think a little apology is gonna cut it…” you sighed with faux hurt.

“I swear to God, I will get on my knees right now.” Jason said, deadpan.

You quirked a brow at him. “You wouldn’t.”

Before the last syllable had left your mouth, his knees hit the cold asphalt in front of you, those dark blue eyes staring up at you, electric and determined. Your heartbeat roared all the way up to your throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Jesus Christ, Jason—” you ducked your head in embarrassment, a shameful heat prickling your skin. You were suddenly aware of everyone and everything that could witness this display. A car driving by, a girl slipping outside to answer her phone, a guy idling on a bike parked a decent few feet away.

“Guardarmi,” he whispered. You looked up at him immediately. “Focus on me. Let me fix this.”

Your breath stuttered but you nodded all the same. “Apologize,” you said.

“I was wrong,” he scooted closer. “I was wrong and I’m sorry and I swear to you—”

“Don’t promise me anything,” you interrupted, looking down at him. The faintest redness dusted the flesh of his cheeks. “Apologize, better.”

“I messed up,” he continued. His hands rested on the dips of your waist. “I should’ve called or come to you but I didn’t. But I’ll fix it, I’ll do better by you. I know I don’t own you… I know that, but when you take me back—”

“If I take you back,” you clarified firmly. “I’m not your girl—”

Jason pressed a kiss to the hem of your shirt. “And if you don’t like it, I’ll set it straight so no one calls you that again, you know? I never need you to be my girl — maybe not even mine, I just need you.”

“Not your girl yet,” you murmured, finishing your previous sentence. “I don’t hear you apologizing.”

“Madonna Santa,” Jason nuzzled his forehead against your stomach. “I know, I fuckin’ know and I’m begging on my knees here, doll,” he groaned. “Mi dispiace, mi perdoni…”

He looked up at you with those eyes and you covered your face in defense. “Don’t… don’t look at me like that, it’s cheating.”

“Amore,” he whispered but you shook your head with a muffled mm-mm. “Ho bisogno del suo perdono.”

You peeked down at him from between your fingers, and he was still staring up at you with those big, wet eyes.

“Oh my God, get up, you look stupid,” you huffed, but a smile played at the corner of your mouth the whole time.

“Does this mean—?” Jason shifted, rising onto one knee.

“Fuck no,” you rolled your eyes. “At least take me home first,” you grumbled and he deflated slightly, the sadness evident in the smallest downturn of his lips. You had to bite back a laugh.

“But, you do owe me a rum and coke,” you continued as he rose to his feet, already walking ahead of him. Jason tried and failed to hide his enthusiasm, a grin blooming on his features.

“Yeah?”

“What about your little entourage?” You asked and he looked at you quizzically. “The rest of Mustache Incorporated.”

Jason’s brows rose in realization. Roy and Dick were still inside. Nevertheless, he shrugged. “They’re uh… working on some notes about Othello for me.”

“Othello?” You chuckled, and he caught up to your side.

“Covert operation, remember?” Jason whistled. “We have to have codenames.”

[cheekybarnes]

comms interference | bucky barnes x reader

Summary: The team knew something was off about you, the one who kept hijacking their comms and saving their asses with pop music and precision. What they don’t know is that you’re Bucky Barnes’ secret wife.

MCU Timeline Placement: Thunderbolts*

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: blood and injury detail, combat violence, gunfire, language, references to past trauma, mentions of HYDRA and Red Room conditioning, high-adrenaline tension, implied PTSD, emotionally repressed idiots in love

Word Count: 9.3k

Author’s Note: ok this was unhinged levels of fun to write and i regret nothing. i love the chaos. thank you again to the incredible request!! will i be writing more of this flavor of secret marriage? absolutely. also: i’m working through more requests soon so if i haven’t gotten to yours yet, i promise i haven’t forgotten!! thank you for being here and screaming with me always <3

The mission had gone to shit six minutes ago.

Yelena had called it first, with that vicious kind of sarcasm she reserved for the moments just before blood hit the concrete. “Ah, yes. Reinforcements. Wonderful. So glad we were not warned about that.” Somewhere ahead of her, gunfire cracked in frantic bursts, too far left for the recon drone’s range. The team had split off in the chaos. Ava had gone radio silent, Alexei had wandered too far into the smoke, and John—somewhere in the middle of it all—was bleeding too much for someone who insisted he had it handled.

Bucky moved like a phantom, silent and sharp, pulse pacing steadily with the beat of crisis. Not panic. Not anymore. He’d spent too many years being the last line between chaos and carnage to waste energy on nerves. But this was the kind of mission that reeked. Hasty intel. Unexpected players. A mess of underpaid mercenaries with too much firepower and no clear objective.

Something was wrong. And it wasn’t just the lack of backup.

He ducked behind a half-collapsed column, adjusting the comms in his ear. “Ghost, come in.”

Nothing.

“Belova, status?”

“Busy,” Yelena snapped back, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting concrete.

“Walker?”

Crackling. Then, “Still upright. Not loving it.”

Not a lot to love. Their extraction point had been pushed back two miles, and the enemies just kept coming. Sloppy formation, uncoordinated, like someone was using them to smoke them out. But why? Sure, they were the newly named “Avengers”, but they weren’t even a proper unit yet. Just a bandage stretched too tight across a bleeding world.

A second burst of gunfire lit up the smoke ahead of him. Bucky pressed forward, adjusting the rifle over his shoulder. 

His ribs ached. Something had cracked when he hit the wall earlier, but he was used to working broken. There wasn’t time to slow down. Another figure emerged from the mist and he recognized the clumsy footwork, the huffing breath. Walker. He was limping, red blooming across his arm, jaw clenched tight enough to crack enamel.

“They’re circling back,” he growled. “Either we regroup or we go down swinging.”

“We’re not dying here,” Bucky said simply.

The comms hissed.

Just a stutter of static at first. Barely enough to make anyone flinch. Then a pulse. Faint. Rhythmic. Almost like—

“Oh god,” Bucky breathed, just as the bass dropped.

It was unmistakable. Blown-out, over-compressed pop blaring directly into his left ear. Not military comms. Not interference. Music. High-energy, aggressively hyper-feminine, shamelessly catchy.

“Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me…”

“Are you—what is that?” Walker barked, slapping at his ear like the sound had crawled inside it.

Yelena’s voice buzzed back into the channel. “Is someone playing Pussycat Dolls on our frequency?”

Bucky didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His blood had turned to static. That song. That voice—not the lyrics, but the one threaded over the top of it, smooth and low and familiar. One he hadn’t heard in weeks and one he wasn’t supposed to be hearing for another few days.

“Miss me?”

Bucky turned and it was like watching the opening beat of a nightmare you hadn’t allowed yourself to dream in years.

The smoke curled around you first—black against the pale concrete, shivering in the aftermath of a concussion blast—and then you stepped through. Leather at your thighs, a familiar half-mask pulled just low enough to show your mouth, batons already swinging. One of the mercenaries clocked you too late. You dropped him with a strike to the temple, pivoted cleanly into another, ducked a swing and hit back twice as hard.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Not in this fight, not in this city, not in this life.

At least, not anymore.

You had promised. Not with words, never with words, but in the quiet, liminal moments between missions. The soft touches passed like contraband between bodies that only knew how to break things. The way you said enough without ever needing to say it. The way you’d disappeared, with him, years ago, when it became clear the world didn’t need you anymore.

But you’d always needed him.

That much, apparently, hadn’t changed.

“Who the hell—” John started, eyes wide as he tracked your path through the battlefield.

“Shut up,” Bucky snapped. Too loud. Too fast. Too revealing. He kept his eyes on you. Didn’t dare blink.

You moved like you’d never stopped. Like the years hadn’t dulled you. Like civilian life had been a dream someone else lived for you.

Another merc tried to grab you from behind. You shattered his kneecap without looking, then tased him mid-collapse with a baton charged enough to light his vision up for a week. You were grinning now. Not wide. Not cocky. But with the same edge he’d seen years ago when you’d told him you didn’t believe in peace, just long stretches of boredom between moments worth bleeding for.

The team closed in slowly, instinct dragging them toward you without understanding why. Ava reappeared from a wall, phasing in with her hand on her weapon. Alexei lumbered forward, red suit charred at the edges. No one said a word. They all watched as you handled the remaining mercs like it was nothing. Like it was fun.

Then came more boots.

Bucky heard them before anyone else did, just barely, just over the last distorted chorus still crackling through the comms. A dull percussion of heavy soles slamming rhythmically into the concrete, coming fast through the fog of gunpowder and ruin. More reinforcements. He didn’t need eyes on them to know they weren’t freelancers this time. These steps were uniform. Trained. Unrushed.

Whatever this operation had started as, it had just shifted into something colder. Measured. Intentional.

“Movement,” he said, sharp into the mic. “East side. Full formation.”

Ava phased halfway through a concrete wall, scanning. “Tactical gear. Gas masks. No insignia.”

“Of course,” Yelena muttered. “Because today wasn’t already a flaming dumpster.”

They were boxed in. Walker had maybe one clip left. Ava was half in and half out of phase, red bleeding under her ribs. Yelena’s shoulder was hit. Alexei’s arm was dislocated again and he kept wrenching it back into place like it was a door hinge.

And then there was you.

Standing calmly in the center of the chaos, blood on your knuckles, mask cracked at the jawline. Not tense. Not afraid. Just… assessing. Like you’d seen this play out already.

The first soldier in the oncoming wave raised a weapon.

And you moved.

Not back. Not for cover. Forward.

The stereo signal shifted with you, leaping from Bucky’s comms to the mercenaries’ headsets, hijacking every open frequency on-site. A different song—now louder, sharper, folding itself into the space like a knife into bone. The bass thudded through the pavement, disorienting, impossible to ignore.

“This place’s about to blow—”

The lyric hit just as you sprinted toward the advancing line, coat flaring behind you, batons tucked back into your belt. You didn’t need them now.

Two soldiers opened fire. You dropped low into a slide beneath their aim, boots skimming waterlogged concrete. You came up spinning, driving an elbow into one throat, then swinging around to knee the second across the jaw with enough force to crack his visor.

Bucky couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

You were in the center of it now, alone. Completely surrounded.

And utterly untouchable.

One mercenary tried to grab you in a bearhold from behind. Your head snapped back into his face before he could tighten the grip, cartilage crunching under the blow. You twisted free, used his moment of stunned pain to launch yourself off his chest, flipping backward into a double-leg kick that sent two more sprawling.

They were trying to flank you. Six at once now. You moved too fast to corner, slipped between them like smoke through fingers.

You caught a rifle midair—torn from one man’s grip—then swung it by the barrel, not to shoot but to break. Shattered it across another soldier’s helmet. Sparks flew. He screamed.

You tossed the ruined weapon aside like trash.

Another tried for a taser jab. You caught his wrist in one hand, yanked it forward, and let your forehead crack against his temple with a sickening thunk. He dropped. You rolled over his body, grabbed a sidearm from his hip, twisted the battery cell out of it mid-motion, and used the casing as a projectile. Hurled it into the next man’s throat with such force that he stumbled backward coughing blood.

You weren’t improvising. You were performing. A display in violence so surgical, it felt rehearsed.

There was nothing showy about it. No wasted breath. No excess.

But it was beautiful.

More than one of them hesitated now. The last cluster fell back into each other’s lines, rifles up—but jittering. Off-sync. Unsteady. You were outnumbered five-to-one and you looked like you were winning.

No comms. No backup. No partner on your six, despite Bucky standing right there.

And still, no one could touch you.

Alexei had frozen, one hand still holding his dislocated shoulder. He squinted through the haze. “Is that—are they doing this without a gun?”

“She’s using a speaker and spite,” Yelena said, breathless.

Bucky barely heard them. Every atom in him had locked onto you.

He hadn’t seen you like this in years. Not since the war-torn corners of places no one dared map. Not since missions that left no record. He’d watched you walk away from this life—bloody, ragged, swearing you were done with men who handed out orders and didn’t come home.

But here you were.

“This place's about to blow—oh oh oh—”

The beat peaked again. You moved with it.

Bucky didn’t realize until later, until the playback logs came through, that you’d used the signal bounce from the comm hijack to trigger a proximity ping in one of the mercenaries’ own mines. Subtle. Elegant. Just a single pressure charge set beneath the concrete underpass.

You’d timed it to the music.

The explosions hit not with a flash, but a boom—a deep, guttural bass that ripped through the center of the formation. It threw bodies. Concrete cracked. Rebar snapped like bones. The wave of force didn’t kill anyone outright—it was too clean for that. But it sent the force scattering, screaming, radios buzzing with confused shouts in languages the translation software couldn’t keep up with.

You walked through the smoke, now. No urgency.

One of the last men standing raised a trembling pistol.

You were on him in a breath—disarmed him with a spin, yanked the weapon apart in two brutal motions, and slammed the butt of the magazine into his vest until he collapsed, gasping, eyes wide with disbelief.

Bucky took a step forward. And then another. He didn’t know he was moving until the smoke curled at his boots.

Silence followed like a held breath.

When the last one fell, your music still bumping faintly over the comms, you finally looked at Bucky.

“Hi, baby.”

It wasn’t breathless. It wasn’t mocking. Just a quiet, dangerous kind of intimacy.

His heart felt like it stopped.

You moved to him casually, eyes raking over the bruise at his temple, the smear of blood under his collar. You tilted your head, inspecting him like he was a car you’d loaned out and found parked crooked in the wrong neighborhood.

The mask muffled your voice slightly, but not enough to hide the dryness in your tone. “Now that was a proper encore.”

The comms crackled again, faint and dazed.

“…Okay,” Walker muttered. “What the fuck just happened.”

No answer. Not from anyone.

Bucky approached you like someone walking through a minefield he already knew was active. Your eyes met his, slow and deliberate, as you reached up and peeled the broken edge of your mask back enough to speak.

“You look like shit,” you said simply.

“You blew up a fucking parking garage.”

“I nudged the pressure plate,” you corrected. “The garage blew itself up. Poor structural planning.”

Yelena finally spoke, somewhere off to the right. “Who are you?”

You didn’t look at her. Just exhaled through your nose like the question barely warranted a pause. “Old friend,” you said simply. “Fewer ethics, better taste in music.”

It hung there, ambiguous enough to pass but barbed enough that it didn’t invite further questions. You knew exactly how to deflect. How to disappear even while standing in plain sight.

You turned back to Bucky. The tilt of your head, the shift of your voice—both softened, only fractionally, but enough that he would feel it in his ribs. That awful, aching familiarity.

“You weren’t going to tell me about this op,” you said flatly, voice low, just for him.

“You're not supposed to be tracking me.”

You hummed. “And yet.” You tapped a gloved finger to his chest. Right above the hidden seam of his tac vest. He knew there was a tracker there. Or, he would now.

Behind you, the others were beginning to recover, weapons slack in their hands, confusion settling in like dust.

“Again, who is that?” Ava asked, still half in phase, her eyes narrowed.

“Nobody,” Bucky said quickly.

You turned to him again, one brow lifted.

He didn’t flinch.

The silence pressed in again. You could hear Walker muttering something—something about vigilantes, unregistered allies, probably some offhand comment about being underpaid—but it didn’t matter. Not right now.

You leaned in close enough for only Bucky to hear. “I don’t care who you work for now,” you murmured. “But if you’re going to keep playing hero, I’m not going to sit at home hoping you come back with all your pieces. You trained me better than that.”

“I didn’t train you to break into comms systems mid-op and hijack the sound system with—what was that?”

“Don’t Cha.” You smiled faintly. “It slaps.”

He closed his eyes for half a second. Breathed deep. Then opened them again. “You can’t do this.”

“Sure I can. I’m not a part of your team. I don’t need clearance. I just need one good signal bounce and an encrypted network to patch into.”

“And a speaker,” he added, dry.

You shrugged. “I improvise.”

Another pause.

“I’m not here to start saving the world again,” you said. “But I will show up when you’re two seconds from bleeding out in a parking garage in Bratislava because your team has shit intel and someone decided not to bring extra clips.”

He didn’t argue.

You patted his cheek briefly. Nothing overt, just enough to make the breath catch in his throat.

Then you turned, vanishing into the smoke just as casually as you’d arrived, music still pulsing faintly behind you.

Yelena said what everyone was thinking.

“What the fuck just happened?”

No one had an answer.

Bucky didn’t offer one either.

He just stood there, aching in every limb, and wondered how many more of his missions were going to end with Pussycat Dolls blaring through government-issued earpieces—and how many more trackers he was going to have to tear out of his suit.

The debrief had ended thirty minutes ago.

No one had left.

Yelena sat cross-legged in one of the overstuffed chairs, a protein bar crumpled in her palm like she’d forgotten she was holding it. Her blonde hair was scraped back in a half-twisted bun that had begun to unravel midway through the meeting, and her expression had only grown more pointed with every breath Bucky refused to waste explaining you.

Across from her, Walker was pacing—slow, agitated, like a caged animal that hadn’t quite figured out what corner to piss in yet. He’d ditched the tac vest but kept the sleeves rolled, flexing a bruised bicep every time he turned. Alexei had already snagged half of the post-mission snacks from the shared kitchenette and was now loudly crunching on something suspiciously orange. Ava sat against the far wall next to Bob, legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded, as silent and sharp as a scalpel.

Bucky sat alone near the far end of the table, arms folded loosely across his chest, gaze fixed on the blacked-out screen of a wall monitor.

“So,” Yelena said, picking at the wrapper. “Are you going to tell us who they were, or do I have to keep guessing?”

Bucky didn’t move.

Alexei pointed a carrot stick in his direction. “They knew you. Very well. This is not up for debate. They called you ‘baby.’” A pause. “Is that normal? Do coworkers in America do that now?”

“She hijacked our comms with bubblegum pop and flipped a full tactical team without breaking a sweat,” Ava said quietly. “I’d like to know who’s training with that kind of precision and not wearing a uniform.”

“She’s not on any registry,” Yelena added. “I checked. No files. No background. No facial ID. She doesn’t exist.”

“She’s not a threat,” Bucky said. Flat. Final. The tone of someone who’d been interrogated before and wasn’t interested in playing along.

“No. You don’t get to do that,” Yelena said, sliding off the table with a thud. “You don’t get to stand there all quiet and broody after someone cartwheeled through an active war zone, made our entire unit look like unpaid interns, and then blew up a parking garage with what I’m pretty sure was a Bluetooth speaker.”

Walker let out a bark of laughter and didn’t bother hiding it. “Thank you. Finally. I thought I’d imagined that.”

“You did not,” Ava said flatly, still watching the skyline. “I checked the audio logs. She used a frequency bounce to route music through nine of their channels simultaneously. Bounced it again to mask her own comm signature. She was using earpieces as echo chambers.”

“That’s not even real,” Walker scoffed. “That’s comic book shit.”

“So are we,” Yelena shot back.

Bucky rubbed his jaw, said nothing.

Bob looked up from where he’d been twiddling with the strap of his watch in the corner of the room. “I liked the song.”

Four heads turned toward him.

He blinked slowly. “I listened to the audio logs too. It was catchy.”

Alexei made a noise like he was preparing to argue with the furniture itself. “She took out twenty-five men, minimum. With her hands. And rhythm. I am sorry, but this is not someone who just wandered in from the street. This is not some random playlist enthusiast. You know her.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “Yeah.”

That answer hung there, not quite satisfying.

Yelena stepped closer, arms folded, chin tilted like she was examining a lie for cracks. “Okay. So who is she. What’s her name.”

“I don’t know if she’s using one right now,” Bucky lied easily. “We worked together a long time ago. That’s all.”

Walker barked out another laugh. “Bullshit.”

“We ran ops in a couple regions,” Bucky said. “Mostly when things got too quiet for comfort. Off-books. Years ago. She walked away before everything really came apart.”

“She tracked you across a continent,” Yelena said.

He met her eyes. “She likes to be thorough.”

“Was she CIA?” Ava asked. “Because I’ve seen their psychological profiles and that was not the average ex-operative response to stress.”

Bucky shook his head. “No. Not Langley.”

“HYDRA?” Walker said too quickly.

“Jesus,” Yelena muttered.

“She moved like someone from a program,” Ava said, voice quiet but deliberate. “Someone conditioned. That kind of precision doesn’t come from basic black-ops.”

“She trained under someone worse than HYDRA,” Bucky said.

And just like that, the room shifted. The quiet got heavier. Bob looked away. Alexei stopped fidgeting. Ava stilled completely.

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “Red Room?”

“I didn’t ask,” Bucky said. “Didn’t need to.”

“But she knew you.” Ava again, calm, focused. “That kind of familiarity doesn’t just show up after a few jobs.”

Bucky looked up at her. “I didn’t say it was just a few.”

“You said she walked away.”

He paused.

“She did.”

Silence again.

Walker shifted, elbow on the back of his chair. “Well, wherever she walked to, she kept your damn tracking frequency. I still can’t get the ringing out of my left ear.”

Bucky didn’t look at him. “You’re welcome, by the way. For being alive.”

“Sure,” Walker said dryly. “Thanks to your mystery friend with a war crime mixtape.”

“And now she’s… what? A rogue asset?” Ava asked, tilting her head. “A merc? A vigilante with a playlist?”

“She’s not on anyone’s leash,” Bucky said simply.

“Except yours,” Walker muttered.

Bucky’s glare snapped to him. “She doesn’t answer to anyone. Not to me. Not to you.”

Alexei muttered something in Russian under his breath that sounded vaguely admiring and possibly inappropriate.

Bob finally spoke again, more alert this time. “She’s not joining us, is she?”

“No,” Bucky said.

He said it fast.

A beat.

“I’m sorry, why not,” Alexei said, throwing both hands into the air. “We have room! We have so much room! She could have the bunk above mine, I would even switch.”

“She doesn’t want to be on a team,” Bucky said. “She’s not the type.”

“You mean she’s not the type to follow orders,” Yelena said, eyes narrowing again.

“No,” he said slowly. “I mean she doesn’t give a shit about headlines, or missions, or doing this the right way. She shows up because she wants to. That’s it.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Ava asked. “Someone that volatile just showing up whenever she decides?”

“She’s not volatile,” Bucky said, the words a little sharper than intended.

Yelena caught it. Instantly.

She stepped forward, crossing into his space—not aggressive, but direct. Like someone circling a bruise. “You trust her.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No,” she said, “but you didn’t have to.”

Bucky didn’t speak.

“She’s not just an old op,” Yelena said, eyes still locked on his. “That wasn’t nostalgia out there. That was instinct. You moved like someone watching something yours walk into fire.”

Ava glanced between them. “She did save your life.”

“She saved all of us,” Bucky threw back.

“Okay, but why doesn’t she have a file,” Walker cut in. “Why doesn’t anyone know about her? If she’s that good, someone would’ve picked her up.”

“She’s good at disappearing,” Bucky said.

“And you just let her go?” Walker said. “After she pulls a fucking Mission: Impossible and struts off into the fog like a Bond girl?”

“I don’t let her do anything,” Bucky said. “She’s not mine to handle.”

Yelena leaned back in her chair. The protein bar wrapper crinkled in her palm.

“She’s not going to show up again, is she?”

Bucky shrugged. “Depends on whether I do something stupid again.”

He didn’t mention that you’d texted him two hours ago asking if he wanted to stop for groceries on his way back. He didn’t mention that the front porch light would be on tonight. That you’d probably be curled on the couch in socks and one of his old shirts, pretending you hadn’t crossed any borders this week.

They didn’t need to know that.

He rose from the table and grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. The room watched him like he was walking out of an interrogation and back into something no one else could follow.

“Tell Val I’ll finish the debrief report tomorrow,” he said.

Yelena tilted her head. “And where are you going?”

Bucky paused in the doorway.

He didn’t look back.

“Home,” he said.

And then he was gone.

The porch light was on.

Not a floodlight, not a security cam. Just the soft golden bulb above the narrow step that flickered twice when the wind caught it wrong. One of the screws had loosened a few months back during a storm. Bucky had said he’d fix it. You’d said it didn’t bother you. It still hadn’t been fixed.

His boots were scuffed and his shoulder ached and there was probably still smoke in his hair, but he stood on the welcome mat for a second longer than necessary anyway, hand resting on the doorframe like he needed to feel something solid.

Then he unlocked it. Quiet. Familiar. Two clicks, one turn.

Inside smelled like clean laundry and old books and that lemongrass balm you always used for burns.

The record player was humming in the background, stylus long since run dry. You must’ve forgotten to turn it off again. He stepped into the living room and shrugged off his jacket, moving through the space like muscle memory. His eyes caught on the half-finished mug on the end table, a folded blanket on the couch, the sleeves of one of his shirts pushed up over your forearms where you were curled up sideways, knees tucked, reading a book with your bare feet propped against the armrest.

You didn’t look up. Just turned a page.

“I thought you’d be home earlier,” you said softly.

“Got cornered by the team.”

Your voice was light, almost teasing. “They want answers?”

“They want blood.”

You snorted and finally glanced over the edge of the book. “Yelena first?”

“Obviously.”

“Did she throw anything?”

“Just looks.”

You hummed and set the book aside, leaning forward to make room as he collapsed onto the couch beside you. He sat like a man whose bones hadn’t stopped vibrating. You shifted, swung your legs over his lap, and rested one arm lazily across his chest like it had always belonged there.

He didn’t speak. Just closed his eyes for a moment, the side of his head tilted toward yours.

You let the silence stretch. He needed that.

Then—

“Bob said he liked the song.”

You grinned against his shoulder. “He’s got taste.”

“He said it was catchy.”

“He’s not wrong.”

“Again, you blew up a parking garage.”

“I was subtle.”

“You were wearing a speaker rig stitched into your coat.”

“I didn’t say I was quiet.”

He huffed, a small thing. Almost a laugh.

You leaned your head back against the cushion and studied the ceiling. “They’ll figure it out eventually.”

He didn’t ask what.

You didn’t clarify.

“They’ll dig,” you continued, “because that’s what they do. Not because they don’t trust you. But because they can’t afford not to. You don’t keep ghosts around without asking where they sleep at night.”

“They’re not stupid.”

“No,” you said. “Just loyal.”

He rubbed a thumb along the inside of your wrist. You’d skinned it, just barely, probably during that slide beneath the gunfire. 

“They think we’re ex-coworkers,” he said after a beat.

“Mm. That won’t last.”

“I know.”

You shifted to look at him, gaze steady. “You want me to stay gone next time?”

“No.”

It came out faster than he meant it to. And quieter.

You didn’t say anything.

His fingers ghosted across the edge of your thigh. “I just—this thing with the team. It’s still new. Messy. They’re watching me like I might snap. Or disappear.”

“You’ve earned that,” you said, not unkindly.

He nodded.

“They trust you more than they think,” you added after a moment. “Even Walker.”

“Walker thinks I’m one fight away from dragging a metal arm through a convenience store and snapping someone in half over a cereal shelf.”

You smiled. “You did that once.”

“I was sleep-deprived and the guy had it coming.”

“I’m just saying,” you murmured. “They’re not wrong to wonder.”

He let the silence settle again, the weight of your legs grounding him where he sat. Then he glanced over at you. “And you?”

You raised a brow. “Do I think you’re going to snap and kill the team in a cereal aisle?”

“Do you think you’re going to keep crashing my missions with bubblegum pop and a body count?”

You smiled, sharp and warm at once. “Only if you keep making it interesting.”

He stared at you for a moment. Then he reached out, brushed his fingers under your jaw—light, thoughtful, like he was confirming you were still here.

“I meant what I said,” you added, quiet now. “I wasn’t there to play hero. I’m not looking for redemption. Or recognition. That world chewed me up and spat me out long before I met you. I’m not going back.”

“I know.”

“But I’ll always come back. For you.”

His throat tightened.

You felt the shift before he said anything. The way his fingers stilled just under your jaw, how his gaze dropped for the barest second, like whatever he was about to admit weighed more than it should have.

“They’re going to find out,” he said finally. Voice low. Steady, but only just. “Not just who you are. What we are.”

You didn’t look away. “You sound like you’re bracing for it.”

“I am.” He leaned back slightly, enough to study your face. “I’ve kept a lot of things buried over the years. Some of it for good reason. Some of it because I didn’t know how to tell anyone without it sounding like a confession. But this—us—it’s not something I want in the crosshairs.”

You tilted your head. “You think they’ll aim at it?”

“I think people don’t like what they can’t label. And right now, you’re an anomaly with a body count, a comms breach, and no file. Add in a secret marriage to someone like me, and that’s a storm waiting to happen.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then: “You really didn’t tell them anything?”

“No.”

“Not even that we live together?”

“No.”

You nodded. Not in judgment. Just understanding.

“You scared they’ll treat me like a threat?”

He hesitated. “No. I’m scared they’ll treat us like one. Like I’ve been compromised. Like I’m… hiding something dangerous.”

“You are,” you said, with a small, lopsided smile. “But that’s never stopped you before.”

He didn’t smile back. Just ran a hand down his face, thumb braced at his temple. “Yelena’s already circling. Ava’s not far behind. Walker’s an idiot, but even he knows something’s off. And Alexei—Christ, I think he’s trying to adopt you.”

“I could do worse,” you deadpanned.

“He asked if you wanted the bunk above his. Said he’d move.”

You laughed, soft and sharp. “God, he’s going to be crushed when he finds out I’m not single.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “That’s not funny.”

You reached for his hand, interlaced your fingers with his. His skin was calloused, palms scarred, familiar in ways your body had memorized years ago.

“James,” you said, and your voice gentled, “I don’t care if they like me. Or believe in this. Or approve. I don’t need them to. I didn’t marry them. I married you.”

His eyes flicked to yours, something fierce and unspoken just behind them.

“You’re not a risk I regret,” you added. “And if they want to dig, let them dig. We’ve survived worse than a nosy debrief room.”

He leaned forward again, this time slower, and rested his forehead against yours. The press of skin, the shared breath, the quiet tension wound tight between your ribs—none of it felt like surrender. Just something harder to name.

He spoke quietly. “If this gets out, they’ll question my judgment.”

“Let them.”

“They’ll dig into your past.”

“Let them.”

“They’ll—” He cut himself off, exhaled. “They’ll try to separate us.”

You tilted your chin. “They can’t.”

It wasn’t a challenge. It was a fact. Solid. Unmoving.

Bucky didn’t answer, but you felt the way his breath dragged out through his nose, how his grip on your hand shifted—fingers tightening, not like fear, but habit. Like holding onto you was muscle memory. Like letting go wasn’t an option he entertained anymore.

You reached up with your free hand and pushed your fingers into his hair, slow and loose at the nape where it was just starting to curl from the heat. It was damp. He hadn’t showered yet. He hadn’t really come home yet. Just crossed the threshold.

“Go wash off the garage dust,” you said. “You smell like diesel and nerves.”

“Thought you liked how I smelled.”

“I do,” you murmured. “But I like it better when it’s under cedar soap and not post-combat sweat.”

He stayed where he was for another beat, forehead still resting against yours. Then he pulled back enough to look at you, just long enough for his gaze to drop to your mouth. He didn’t kiss you. Just studied you the way he always did when you told him the truth—like he was adding it to some invisible tally, a list only he kept track of.

Then he rose without a word.

You watched him walk down the hallway, unzipping the tactical vest as he went, shoulder muscles moving beneath the black fabric like tension still hadn’t learned how to let go. The bathroom door clicked open. You heard the water pressure shift in the pipes before the sound of the shower started.

You waited thirty seconds. Then you stood, peeled his shirt off your frame, and followed.

It had been nearly five months since Bratislava.

Since the parking garage. Since the Pussycat Dolls. Since you’d lit up half a mercenary task force with a smirk and a frequency bounce. Since you’d vanished again into the smoke like a goddamn myth, only to be curled up on the couch that next night asking if he wanted to split a sandwich or order out after the two of you spent far too long in the shower.

In that time, the team had gotten better. Not good, no one in that unit would ever be clean enough to call themselves that, but sharper. More in sync. Intel got vetted. Missions ran smoother. Yelena had even stopped threatening to stab Walker more than once per week.

But the bruises still came. The blood still dried in the seams of their suits. And when shit did go sideways, which it inevitably did, it was always in ways that no one could predict.

The second time you showed up, Bucky had barely made it through the post-mission patch-up before Yelena cornered him outside medical with her arms crossed and murder in her eyes.

“Was that Britney Spears?”

He didn’t answer.

She didn’t need him to. Ava had already ID’d the audio footprint as a hacked signal ping bounced from a cell tower two miles outside the safe zone. Alexei had hummed the song for three days afterward. Walker sulked about it until Bob offered him a playlist of his own.

Three weeks after that, you crashed an op in the Balkans with the entirety of Beyoncé’s Renaissance album queued up in reverse order. You landed halfway through “Pure/Honey,” took down thirteen hostiles, winked at the drone cam, and disappeared before the satellite feed could reorient.

By the time mission four hit, some remote hellhole near the Georgian border with shit reception and worse exits, the team was already halfway joking about which track you’d use next.

It was Kesha again. Naturally.

You’d popped out of a burning APC with "TiK ToK" already mid-chorus and a grin like you’d been waiting for someone to hit the big red button. That time, you didn't leave right away. You passed Bucky a protein bar before the team got on the extraction chopper, kissed his temple, and told Alexei he had a nice ass. He hadn't shut up since.

They were still digging, of course. Yelena and Ava, mostly. Alexei kept making increasingly unhinged guesses about your background—sometimes Russian ballet, sometimes MI6, sometimes something about Vatican ninjas that no one had the heart to correct. Bob just watched. Always quiet. Always listening. And Walker…

Walker had developed a twitch.

He’d started referring to you—loudly, bitterly—as “Bucky’s little bat-signal,” like if he said it enough times it’d turn into a punchline and not an ache. It never landed. Not really.

No one could prove anything. Not about your identity. Not about your methods. You moved too fast. You left nothing behind.

And Bucky never said much.

He never needed to.

But they were all watching. Closer. Louder. Testing the tension in every mission like they were waiting for it to snap.

Which is why, when everything finally went to hell, no one was surprised when Yelena snapped first.

The op was supposed to be simple. In and out. A weapons drop moving across eastern borders, underground tech funneled through an abandoned train yard. Bucky had checked the coordinates himself. The team had split into pairs. Ava and Walker on overwatch. Alexei by the perimeter with a surveillance drone. Yelena at Bucky’s six, teeth gritted, gun loaded.

It wasn’t an ambush.

It was an execution.

There had been too many of them, real mercenaries this time. Not freelancers. Not idiots. Not chaos agents looking for a payout. These ones moved together. Synchronized. Coordinated. Ava had gone down first, wounded. Not out, but down. Phasing between pain. Walker had followed, clipped hard in the leg, trying to cover her.

Alexei was pinned.

And Bucky was breathing too hard, right arm shattered at the elbow, the sound of blood slapping metal every time he moved.

Yelena was cursing. Loud and vicious. Ducking behind rusted train cars as bullets slammed through metal and concrete like the world had narrowed to pure impact.

“Fuck,” she spat, reloading. “We are going to die in a parking lot for stolen tech and Valentina’s shitty paycheck—”

Bucky’s teeth were red. His side was worse.

He grunted, low. “We’ve been through worse.”

“Speak for yourself,” she hissed. “This is bad. This is the bad kind. Unless your little friend plans to show up again with backup dancers and a boom box, we’re dead.”

Bucky would have replied—maybe something bitter, something deflective—but his jaw locked before he could open his mouth. His vision was graying at the edges, muscles refusing to follow orders. His right arm was entirely dead weight now, slung awkwardly against his chest, blood still slick at the wrist. He couldn’t tell if the warmth in his boots was from a burst vein or just the heat of the rail yard’s scorched concrete.

And you weren’t here.

That was the thought that hit him hardest. Not the pain, not the bodies, not the brutal math of angles and ammunition. You weren’t here.

You’d always been here before.

Not early. Not announced. But you showed up. On the edge of disaster, somewhere between the breaking point and the fallout, wrapped in leather and snatched frequencies and songs that shouldn’t have made sense on a battlefield but always did when it was you. And he never called you, never asked. You just came.

Because you always found him.

Because you tracked him.

Because you always knew.

He’d grown used to it without realizing. The hum of music bleeding in when the comms got too quiet. The shape of you moving through smoke like it wasn’t a threat but a threshold. He’d never said it aloud, but it had comforted him. Knowing you were out there, watching, waiting. Knowing he couldn’t disappear without you noticing.

But this time?

This was the worst it had been in months.

And still… nothing.

A part of him, the part that hadn’t already fractured under the pressure, felt it like abandonment. A dull edge of fear pressed hard to his sternum. Not because he doubted you, but because it meant something was wrong. Maybe the tracker hadn’t worked. Maybe the jet wasn’t prepped. Maybe you were late. Maybe you were hurt.

Before Bucky could fully spiral into his own thoughts, a sound split the air.

A low, dull rumble that climbed too fast, too smooth, to be more gunfire.

His head snapped toward the east quadrant of the yard, vision still smeared at the edges from blood loss. The others heard it next—Yelena ducked lower, muttering another string of obscenities. Walker flinched, dragging Ava back behind a stack of rusted shipping containers, weapon raised. Alexei braced one arm against a splintered wall of aluminum and groaned something about incoming air support.

“Jet,” Ava gritted out, barely upright. “No clearance on the feed. That’s not ours.”

Bucky blinked once. Hard.

The shape sliced low across the clouds. A short-range VTOL, clearly military-grade, but gutted and rebuilt. Fast. Loud. 

Yours.

And then the music hit.

“Let’s go, girls.”

“Is that—” Walker squinted, staggering.

“I swear to God,” Yelena muttered, slapping another magazine into place. “If that hatch opens and she’s wearing denim, I’m going to cry.”

The jet didn’t touch down gently. It landed loud and hot, braking hard against concrete and kicking up a storm of soot that coated every blown-out car and corpse in a hundred-foot radius. The engines hadn’t even cooled before the rear hatch cracked open with a hiss and the speakers ratcheted louder.

“Man, I feel like a woman…”

And there you stood.

Framed by smoke and floodlights, one hand braced on the hydraulic frame, the other already holding a med bag like you’d jumped in from a dream with combat boots and a temper.

No weapons. No fanfare. Just get in the fucking jet energy radiating off your entire body.

“Everyone in,” you barked. “Now.”

Walker didn’t wait. He hauled Ava toward the ramp with one arm slung around her waist. She was still phasing in and out, blood coating her knuckles, the blur of her shoulder wound sparking faint with tech static.

Alexei limped next, muttering something about Canadian pop singers and spinal trauma. Bucky barely registered it. He couldn’t feel his arm. Could barely hear the pounding in his ears over the scream of the engines and the bassline.

You moved before he could, stepping off the ramp and into the smoke, boots crunching across grit and glass as you crossed the yard at a dead sprint.

“Jesus,” you snapped as you reached him, one hand already going to the blood-soaked hem of his jacket. “What the fuck, James.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You pressed one palm to his side, felt the heat radiating off his ribs, and looped your other arm under him to carry him to the jet.

“I couldn’t get the signal,” you said, voice tight. “The tracker was acting up.”

He hissed through his teeth as you shifted his weight, setting him down on one of the jet seats. “Where was it this time?”

You didn’t blink. “The right boot. Back corner. You never put your shoes back in the closet, so I figured I’d stick one there.”

Yelena turned her head so sharply it was audible. “What?”

You ignored her.

Bucky narrowed his eyes, breath still ragged. “I hadn’t even worn those boots in a week.”

“Yeah,” you said, voice edged and sharp, as you tugged off his jacket, “and you left them by the dryer again, James, so guess what? That’s where I put it. Along with three aspirin packets, a ten-dollar bill, and the spare keys you keep forgetting to bring with you.”

Yelena’s eyes went wide. “Wait. Wait, what?”

“Not now,” you snapped. “Stitches first, questions later.”

Yelena froze.

She had just stepped into the bay behind Alexei, one arm looped around a support pole, blood streaked down her left cheek. Her head turned slowly—very slowly—back toward the now closing loading ramp, where you were currently pressing gauze to Bucky’s side and muttering something about his inability to buy new med kits even though you were the one who’d asked for them on the last Target run.

“Hold on. Spare keys,” Yelena repeated, voice pitching up like a red flag had just gone up in her brain and she was sprinting to catch it.

You didn’t look up.

Neither did Bucky.

There was a beat—just one—but Bucky felt it ripple through the cabin like a hairline fracture under pressure. Yelena didn’t blink. Ava, still bleeding and silent, lifted her head just an inch off the headrest. Walker muttered something low under his breath, too quiet to catch. Alexei stilled completely.

You were still working.

You’d stripped back the ruined plate of his tac vest, fingers moving fast over the gauze tape. Your hands weren’t shaking, but they weren’t calm either—tight at the knuckles, decisive in that way they always were when someone you cared about had bled more than they should have.

Bucky sucked in a breath. It rattled at the end.

He could feel it happening. The shift. The attention tilting, zeroing in. It was like watching a tripwire get brushed in real time.

“Did you just say Target run?” Yelena’s voice cracked straight through the tension. “Like the store?”

You didn’t respond.

Walker made a strangled sound. “Hold on. You’re telling me this—this frequency-hacking psycho just casually shops for med kits in her downtime for you?”

“I didn’t say I shopped,” you muttered. “I said I asked. He’s the one who keeps forgetting the list.”

“I got the shampoo,” Bucky said through his teeth.

“You got the wrong shampoo.”

“It had the same label!”

“It was 3-in-1.”

“That’s efficient—”

“It’s disgusting, James.”

And just like that, the whole jet tilted again—only this time it wasn’t from blood loss or the pitch of the wind. It was the silence. The stunned, dawning silence that came from realizing something was very, very off.

Ava blinked. “James?”

Yelena’s mouth opened.

Then: “No, no. You don’t get to just drop a spare key confession mid-evac and not explain. What the fuck are you two on about?”

“Explain what?” Bucky barked, more out of pain than defensiveness, but it landed anyway.

Alexei staggered up from his seat, bleeding from the shoulder and grinning like he’d just watched his favorite soap opera hit a mid-season twist. “You two live together, yes?”

“No,” you said, at the same time Bucky said, “Yes.”

Yelena stopped cold. “What.”

“Fine. She has a drawer,” Bucky muttered, wincing as you pressed harder with the gauze.

“You have a drawer?” Yelena repeated, voice rising. “Do you have a shared grocery list too? Matching towels?”

“Technically,” you said, “we share an Amazon account, but only because I hate ads—”

“You share an address?”

You didn’t answer.

Walker limped past, dragging himself into the seat across the aisle. “I swear to God, if this turns into some Mr. and Mrs. Smith bullshit, I’m out.”

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like,” Yelena snapped. “Because the last I checked, secret girlfriends don’t get comm access and personal extraction aircraft with customized playlists!”

“She’s not—” Bucky started, then stopped.

You paused, fingers frozen just inside his tac vest as you reached for the dressing pack in his inner lining. “James.”

His jaw flexed. “She’s not some secret girlfriend.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Yelena said, eyes wide now, practically vibrating with the sudden thrill of someone else’s exposed personal business. “Are you saying she’s not a girlfriend because she’s a roommate with benefits, or because she’s a literal government ghost you, what? Accidentally fell into bed with during an overseas op and neglected to tell us for five fucking months—”

“She’s my wife.”

The words snapped out like a misfired round—loud, brutal, final.

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

You straightened slowly, the antiseptic wipe still in your hand, now hovering somewhere between the edge of Bucky’s ribs and the cratered hole in his bloodstained shirt.

No one moved.

No one spoke.

Then Walker, voice hoarse and stunned: “I’m sorry. Wife?”

Ava, barely conscious, cracked one eye open. “What?”

Alexei groaned from the corner. “I knew it. I said they were either married or psychic. Maybe both.”

“Wait. Wait, no,” Walker held up a hand, bleeding. “You’re married? Like—married married? To her?”

You finally looked up. “Do you have another her in mind?”

Bucky winced. “Now’s not the time—”

“No, no, I think it is exactly the time,” Yelena said, stepping forward, pointing between the two of you. “Because we’ve all been getting tossed around like ragdolls for months while you two have been playing he’s mine, she’s chaos behind the scenes.”

You rose slowly, blood on your palms, face shadowed by the hatch lighting.

“We weren’t hiding it,” you said simply.

Yelena threw both arms in the air. “You were absolutely hiding it!”

“We were keeping it quiet,” you corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Walker sat down hard on the floor. “I’m gonna pass out.”

Ava, leaning against the wall, finally let out a low breath that might have been a laugh. “That explains so much.”

“I—what the fuck?” Walker’s mouth opened and closed twice. “Like with rings and vows and tax brackets?”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered. “It was a courthouse in Budapest. No photographer. No playlist. Not even a Pinterest board.”

Alexei, who had been silently mouthing tax brackets, perked up. “How long?”

“None of your business,” Bucky said immediately.

“Four years,” you said, at the exact same time.

Yelena made a noise like a cat being punched.

“Four years?” she barked. “You’ve been married for four years and not one of us knew? Not even a hint? Not even a bad fake name on your emergency contact form?”

“Technically, it’s under her alias,” Bucky said, wincing as you pressed gauze to his side with more force than strictly necessary.

“Her alias,” Ava echoed from the back, eyebrows barely raised but eyes locked on you. “That’s comforting.”

Yelena dragged her hands down her face. “I need to sit down.”

“You’re already sitting down,” Walker said numbly. “We’re all sitting down. In hell.”

Alexei was shaking his head slowly, staring at you like you’d sprouted horns. “I can’t believe we have been flying into death zones with Captain Popsicle and his mystery combat Barbie and the two of you have been married this whole time?”

“Don’t call her that,” Bucky snapped.

“I meant it with admiration!”

“She’s a human being,” Ava said flatly.

“And his wife,” Yelena added, throwing her hands up again. “Which apparently gives her license to break every rule of engagement we’ve ever signed.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you bit out, finally stepping away from Bucky just long enough to snap a fresh syringe out of the case and toss it to Ava. “Would you have preferred I not show up with an extraction vehicle and leave you all dying in a pile of your own egos?”

“You’re not even cleared!” Walker said, still stuck somewhere between disbelief and cardiac arrest. “You don’t have files. You don’t have a record. You married a former Hydra asset with no fucking paper trail—”

“John,” Bucky said, and his voice didn’t rise, didn’t shout. But the threat in it stopped everything.

Dead.

Walker’s mouth clamped shut.

You turned your back and crouched again, cracking open a package of suture strips with steady, sharp fingers. He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t move away either.

“You married him,” Yelena said slowly, like she was putting the last piece into a conspiracy board. “And you didn’t tell anyone.”

“Correct,” you said, without looking up.

“Why?”

You paused. For the first time since stepping onto the jet, you were still.

Then, quieter: “Because it was ours.”

Yelena blinked.

Walker slumped sideways, muttering something that sounded like Jesus Christ, I’m too concussed for this.

Ava didn’t say anything. She just studied you like she was adding this new truth to a map no one else could read yet.

Alexei, voice quieter now: “You could’ve told us.”

You straightened again, turned, met his eyes.

“We didn’t owe you that.”

And no one, not one of them, could argue with that.

No one said anything for a long time.

The jet rumbled beneath them, steady now. Altitude rising. Stabilizers evening out. The air had gone colder, thinner. Bucky could feel it in his lungs. How the heat of the rail yard had been replaced by that sterile chill of recycled pressurized air and drying blood.

He sat slumped against the inner wall of the aircraft, the pain at his side dulled but ever-present, a pulse of heat beneath the bandages. The lights overhead buzzed faintly. Across from him, Walker had gone quiet. Not passed out, just silent. That silence that came when you didn’t know how to re-enter a world that had just rearranged itself without warning.

Yelena didn’t have that problem.

“Where are the rings?”

You didn’t even blink. Just kept pressing the edge of a suture strip flat against Bucky’s ribs, calm as ever. “We don’t wear them on missions.”

“No, I mean—where are they. What are they. Are they like, hidden daggers? Laser-tracking nanotech? Poison darts? Do they explode?”

“We got tungsten bands off a street vendor in Pest,” you said, flicking the end of the strip down with surgical precision. “Ten bucks each. Mine’s probably under the couch.”

Yelena stared. “You’re telling me you got married with street metal and hid it like it was a war crime?”

You finally looked up. “We didn’t hide it. We protected it. There’s a difference.”

“Yeah,” Yelena muttered, flopping back against the padded bulkhead, “try that line at our next psych eval.”

Alexei perked up slightly. “Did you write vows?”

“Alexei—”

“No, I’m curious! Was it romantic? Did she threaten him? Did he cry?”

You turned to Bucky then, not grinning, not smirking—just steady. “Did you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

He remembered the cold marble floor of the consulate. The cheap pen. The tension in your hand when you signed. The way you didn’t smile, not once, but your shoulders had dropped like something finally let go. He remembered how you’d kissed him afterward, not like a new beginning but like something that had already been burned into your bones and you were just honoring the facts of it now.

He hadn't cried.

But he remembered feeling something break open inside his chest that hadn’t fully closed since.

“No,” he said quietly. “You did.”

That earned a scoff from Walker, who still looked half-sick. “You people are insane.”

“And you’re alive, you’re welcome,” you shot back, not even looking at him.

That shut him up.

Ava tilted her head slightly from where she sat, chin resting against her shoulder. “Are there any other secrets we should be aware of? Kids? A bunker in the Alps? Shared Spotify?”

“We don’t talk about the Spotify,” you said immediately, too flat to be joking.

“I knew you had a playlist,” Yelena muttered.

“Who do you think you’re talking to? I have several,” you corrected.

Bucky let the rhythm of your voice wash over him, the way it always had. It calmed something in him he didn’t have the words for. He wasn't sure he'd ever have the words for it. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? You’d never asked for the language of it. You just stayed. When everything else fractured. When he did.

He let his head tip back against the wall, the throb of the flight engines a dull hum against his skull.

You kept talking.

Yelena asked about Budapest—what song was playing in the cab, what flavor the celebratory gelato was, whether you’d told anyone or if you’d just ghosted the next assignment like it never happened. You didn’t flinch under any of it. You answered what you wanted to. Dodged the rest with a precision that made it clear you'd spent years doing exactly that.

And Bucky watched you.

Listened to the cadences you used with the team—how they shifted only slightly when you got tired, how your sarcasm always dulled at the edges when you were checking someone's wound without being obvious about it. How you deferred to Ava without making it feel like yielding. How you redirected Yelena’s prying with just enough detail to satisfy, just enough space to stay unreadable.

They’d come around.

Eventually.

They always did.

But it wasn’t for them that you showed up in a jet at the eleventh hour. It wasn’t for glory. Or redemption. Or to earn your seat.

It was for him.

And that, Bucky thought, pressing a blood-soaked gauze pad tighter against his ribs, was something no intel report could ever quantify.

He let his eyes slip shut, your voice still in his ears, arguing now with Yelena about the legality of impersonating air traffic control in four different countries. He didn’t smile. Not really.

But he breathed easier.

For the first time in hours.

Maybe days.

Maybe longer.

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[fawnindawn]

phrases that get the batboys. includes: damian wayne, jason todd, dick grayson, tim drake.

damian wayne — "you're enough."

damian does not ask for reassurance. he would rather stab himself with a blade than ever admit that. when he came home from a difficult patrol, his fingers numb (not trembling, he insists) and the silence deafeningly thick, you did not shy away from his brooding intensity. no, you sat by his side, and when he was lost in the shadows of his expectations and the weight of his mistakes, you took his face between your palms and forced his gaze to meet yours. "stop. you're enough." two words, and it disarms him immediately. not because you sound reprimanding, but because of how earnest you believe it. without him needing to give you a reason to believe that he is worthy. he doesn't think he's ever heard those words directed towards him before you. not ever, from anyone. it should've filled him with shame, the way relief swarmed his body and how he leaned further into your touch. yet, your warmth did not feel like weakness, your firm reassurance quietening his inner demons. he'll never forget this, how with you, he feels it is not punishment to exist and be worthy simply for doing so.

jason todd — "i'm in."

jason is someone who has lost nearly everything, including a person who he could rely on. he's used to doing things alone—patrol, errands, groceries, till you. he doesn't even realise how big of a gap he had for a companion till he notices you putting on your jacket when he mentioned going out to buy some groceries to restock the fridge. when he casts you a questioning brow, you merely reply "i'm in." it hits him harder than expected, how you slotted yourself into his daily life, and suddenly, that empty numbness he carried in his life faded. he starts to linger a second longer than necessary whenever he needs to head out, or when he wants to read a book—and his heart swells when you slot yourself easily by his side to join him. you're his person, and you reminding him by sharing the simple mundane moments is jason's secret favourite thing.

dick grayson — "pretty boy."

listen, dick's used to the term. whether used teasingly, mockingly—it's not his first rodeo at being called that. by gotham's latest headlines, by criminals who don't know any better, it brushes off his shoulders with an easy shrug. he's used to it meaning nothing more than a cheap trick or a generalisation of everything he is. a pretty face. till you say it. you don't say it with a mocking sneer or a glazed look over his appearance. no, you say it when he's at his absolute, most disheveled worst. dark eyebags under his lashes, wearing some day-old tee thrown on half-haphazardly, you had taken his worn face into your hands, brushing away the exhaustion with a single touch. "my pretty boy." said in the softest whisper, as if it's a secret you're sharing only with him, with an innocent smile as you simply admire him for existing. it disarms him to be seen at his most vulnerable, to be loved so intimately that he swears from your mouth, the words form differently in his ears and his heart becomes a stuttering mess. he'll never get over the teasing when he stumbles over his words, ears flushing red—but it's worth it if it means you'll say it to him over and over again.

tim drake — "i believe you."

with tim, he's used to having to explain himself. why the meticulous plan he formed works, who won in the scuffle that happened down 23rd street near the coffee shop, why his words hold weight and matter. he naturally finds this habit building as he starts to overexplain a theory he's developed, to make listening to him worth your time—only for you to say it. "i believe you." so casually, your head resting in your palm as you listen to him attentively. he freezes. it rewires his brain, and he finds himself at a loss for words. it takes time for him to get used to, but as he slowly lets himself speak without rushing between the gaps of silence, you remain with that same phrase, whether in his plans, his stories, his rambles—and he starts to crave hearing it in every conversation. your utter belief in him, it soothes that ache in his chest that you didn't even cause.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist

[aliienangel]

‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎.𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐬' 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞‎ ‎ | ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎𝒔.𝒈𝒐𝒋𝒐‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎

‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈. ceo!gojo satoru / assistant!reader

𝒔𝒖𝒎. you've been working at the same company for the last five years and you'd continue to do so if your circumstances hadn't suddenly changed. after you put in your resignation, your boss is doing everything he can to make you stay. . .

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ── .✦ mdni (18+), office au ; smut ; light angst ; making out ; porn with plot ; fíngeríng ; cünnilíngus ; biting ; hickeys ; praise kink ; piv ; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it) ; dirty talk ; big díck gojo ; creampíes ; multiple orgasms ; tiny bit of overstim ; little bit of nípple play ; use of wrist restraints but like not really (it's readers shirt) ; makeshift restraint if you will ; gojo kinda pervy but that's how i like him ; gojo's a yearner (also how i like him) ; f!reader (she/her used) ; pet names used ; no use of y/n [11.6k]

For the past handful of years, you’ve been working at a large marketing company for the CEO as a personal assistant. The job is what it is and the pay makes up for any sort of… eccentricities from your boss. Despite this, it can’t change the fact that you’re struggling to pay rent and need to move back in with your parents.

You were coping before but your roommate… the guy you were… it’s complicated. Anyways he moved out and now things are just too expensive for you at the moment. It doesn’t help that anywhere else close to work is in the same range for rent, stupid fancy company in a stupid nice area. It’s frustrating because you’re attached to this job but it’s not feasible anymore.

So, as much as you’re unwilling to part from your current position, something has to give and you’ve chosen to resign. Steeling your resolve, you walk into Gojo’s empty office and gently place your two weeks’ notice on his desk. Lingering for a short moment, remembering your first day here and how intimidated you were by him.

It was never your plan to stay here so long in the first place but it’s nearly been five years now, maybe it is time to move on to something different. Think positive, you just have to think positive and things will be good. You’ll get a new job and you’ll make new friends and your boss will be kind and maybe not as weird.

Exiting the room, you sit back at your desk that’s located outside Gojo’s office. It’s hard to focus when you’ve got so much on your mind but sometimes you think that he wouldn’t get anything done if you weren’t around.

You’d gotten a text earlier about how he had an early meeting but you know he doesn’t, he’s probably just left the office to go get himself some sweets. He won’t be back for a while either because he’s going to sit in a park or somewhere quiet and eat the evidence before he gets back to the office.

Why he even bothers to lie to you at this point is beyond you but you’ll ignore it because sometimes you want to be alone for an hour too. Unlike him though, you simply don’t have the luxury of doing that on company time.

When he does get back to the office he stops by your desk and smiles at you like he wasn’t just shirking his responsibilities for the better half of the day. He waits very impatiently for you to acknowledge him, and you continue typing at your computer like he’s not there.

Gojo eventually speaks up, “Saying good morning to your boss is the polite thing to do, by the way.”

You hold up a hand while you finish up your email and send it off, only then do you look up and raise a brow at him, “Morning? Gojo… it’s nearly midday and you’re only just now coming into the office.”

“I told you I had a meeting,” he pouts because he knows he’s caught. “And how many times have I told you to call me Satoru?”

“If you had a meeting it’d go through me because no one trusts you to show up to the ones you agree to.” You look back down at your computer and continue working, ignoring the second thing he said.

Sighing dramatically at you, “You’re so mean to me.”

Not even looking up at him when you retort, “If I were nicer to you would your job get done?” He doesn’t answer and you add, “That’s what I thought.”

“I’ll get all my work done so quick you’ll be embarrassed about doubting me.”

“Uh huh,” as he walks off you call after him, “you’ve got chocolate on your tie.”

Gojo pauses, looks down to his tie and then uses his finger to try and swipe it off, “No, I don’t.” He scuttles away into his office.

It’s then that you’re remembering the letter you’d put on his desk and you decide it’s time for your break. Sneaking away, you hide a few floors down in the employee break room. Your hands cradling a cup of tea that was hot but has now gone cold in the time you’ve been holding onto it. You’re staring blankly at it, not knowing how you’re going to face Gojo when he’s read your resignation.

He’s a bit of a drama queen and you’re not sure… you don’t even want to leave so having him fuss over it might make you feel worse. Oh, but what if he doesn’t care. What if he doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t feel like you’re all that important to him. That might be worse. You’re in a hell of your own making.

You’re brought from your spiralling thoughts by a hand on your shoulder, jumping at the touch and looking up to see Nanami. His face is as stoic as ever but his eyes are laced with a mild concern for you.

You talk before he can ask, “I’m fine, just daydreaming.”

A sound of acknowledgement comes from him, not believing you but pacified enough to move on and make himself a cup of coffee. Not facing you when he says, “Gojo’s looking for you.”

Frowning, “What? How do you know?”

He sits down across from you and plainly states, “Because I walked past him and he asked where you were.”

A small grumble leaves you, it’s just not possible to avoid him for the whole day and even if you could, you couldn’t do it for two full weeks.

“What’s going on?”

Your tea is too cold to drink now and you push it away, “Do you really want to know or are you just being polite?”

He takes a sip of his coffee like he’s giving himself time to think about his answer, “…I want to know.”

“I have to resign,” is all you say.

Nanami nods, “Well, that explains the frantic look on his face.”

Scoffing at him because that sounds ridiculous, “I left the letter on his desk and then hid.”

“You can’t hide forever.”

“I can try,” you smile, “he’s always showing up late and sneaking out anyways, I’ll probably be able to avoid him.”

The look on his face conveys severe doubt but he doesn’t comment on your words, “Why are you leaving?”

“None of your business.”

“You’re the only reason why communicating with Gojo is bearable, you leaving is going to be a nightmare for so many people.”

Your eyes roll at the sentiment, “Well, gee, I’ll miss you too.” A silence falls over the two of you and you explain, “I gotta move home for financial reasons.” It’s not everything but you don’t feel like spilling your guts to him right now.

“Ask for a raise,” he shrugs, “you deserve it.”

“It’d have to be one hell of a raise,” you fold your arms on the table and lay your head on them.

His tone comes out monotonous, “There there.”

Mumbling against your arms in reply, “You’re such a comfort, Nanami.”

“I know.”

The clicking of heels alerts you to someone else in the room but you don’t bother lifting your head to look. Not that you need to, the voice letting you know it’s Shoko, “Gojo’s looking for you.”

“I’m aware,” you sigh.

She sits down next to you, “If you’re hiding from him, this was a poor choice because I’m pretty sure he’s on his way here.”

“Have I got time to run?”

There’s a hand on your head, a tight lipped, “No,” coming from above you.

Ah, you’re caught. Sitting up, you smile at Gojo like you’ve not been hiding from him, “Gojo, is there something you need me for?”

He doesn’t bother trying to get you somewhere private, “Why are you resigning?”

Shoko asks, “You’re resigning?”

Sighing out a tired, “Yes,” before getting to your feet and walking out the room.

Immediately, Gojo is hot on your tail, “Why? Why are you resigning?” He keeps pestering you despite the fact you’re not answering, “Is it something I did? Have I been a bad boss? Do you want me to show up on time more?” A pause, “Is it because I never bring you back any sweets? I’m sorry! I just get so excited to eat them…”

Your foot taps impatiently as you wait for the elevator, arms folded and feeling frustrated by him. “It’s nothing to do with you…” he’s generally a good boss, a bit odd but he’s a good person and you’re quite attached to him, “though, you should be showing up on time.”

“Are you really not going to tell me why you’re leaving me?”

“I think my letter covered it.” The elevator dings and his presence is felt looming over you as he follows you in.

“Your letter didn’t cover shit,” he grumbles, “it was all that polite corporate speak.”

“It’s not a big deal, Gojo.” Your eyes meet his properly for the first time and he looks so genuinely hurt, it’s making this harder for you. “It’s nothing you did, nothing the company did. No one did anything, it’s just time to move on.”

“I literally cannot survive without you.” He blinks, “My company is going to go bankrupt without you and then Suguru’s will be number one, is that what you want?”

“If Geto’s company is ever number one it’s because he shows up on time and doesn’t ignore calls from clients.”

He scowls. “They should be calling you anyways, the old bastards only call me because they enjoy pissing me off.”

“Poor, poor, rich boy,” you say, looking away from him.

Gojo’s brows pinch up. “There’s nothing I can do to make you stay?”

“Nope.”

The pair of you walk off the elevator together and he’s still closer than necessary, like you’re going to disappear at any minute. “I’ve got two weeks to change your mind,” he singsongs.

It’s been a few days since that awkward conversation with Gojo and he’s been in the office every day… on time. You thought maybe the first day was just a fluke but then he kept showing up and staying. His behaviour is unpredictable at the best of times but this is the first time in the five years that you’ve been here that he’s shown up on time for multiple consecutive days.  

Whatever, you’ve just been ignoring him and continuing your work. At least you would be but he’s not giving you anything to do. Suddenly, he’s interested in doing everything himself and actually staying on top of things. If this is his way of getting you to stay… it’s not working. Not only do you have nothing to do but you’re worried that he’s fucking things up.

A few hours since you’ve been in office and you’re officially bored, staring blankly at your quiet inbox. This isn’t going to work for you, you get up and walk into Gojo’s office. He’s tapping away at his keyboard and you’re a little surprised by the focus on his face.

Pursing your lips as you stand in front of his desk, feeling conflicted on whether or not you should disturb him when he’s like this. There’s papers spread out on the surface beside him, his usually clean desk now messy.

“Gojo, I’m still your assistant until the end of next week,” your voice is gentler than how you feel, taking pity on him.

He doesn’t look to you, eyes firmly on the screen. “Not if I can convince you to stay.”

“I don’t know how many times I have to say this,” you take a step closer, “but my resignation has nothing to do with you, so there is nothing you can do to change my mind.”

His eyes meet yours then, he looks tired.

Continuing to add, “All you’ve done is make me redundant, stop stealing my work and do your own.”

“I won’t hire anyone else.”

“The board will make you.” Tilting your head at him, trying to add some levity, “And there’s no way you’re not messing things up.”

He points at you, “Hey! I’ve been very diligent.”

“Which you won’t be able to keep doing long-term.” Reaching up, you tap the tip of his finger with your own.

That has him deflating, falling back into his chair and humming at you, “Okay, have all your stupid and tedious work back.”

“I will.” You glare at him as you lean over to pick up the papers off his desk.

Shuffling through them, you can see they’re a bunch of companies reaching out and trying to set up meetings or sending through complaints. Things you usually handle before he sees because it’s not worth his time.

“So much of that stuff shouldn’t be coming to me.” He’s leaned in closer, annoyance clear on his expression. “It shouldn’t even be going to you; they should be communicating through the team they’re dealing with.”

“Yes, well, a lot of companies overestimate their importance to you.” Picking through the stack quickly, you pull out the papers that are solely for him and put them down on his desk.

His brow raises to you, “Now, where did they get that idea?”

“Who knows?” You smile politely.

His people person skills are severely lacking, especially when it comes to dealing with formalities. You may or may not be making up for it.

“I’ll get back to you about these.” Hand shaking the papers, “Do not even try sneaking off, I’ll need you here while I sort through this mess you’ve no doubt made.”

“I told you I’ve been diligent.”

“And I have absolutely no reason to doubt that.” Turning to leave before stopping. “You should keep coming in on time and staying the whole day, it’s nice.”

Gojo’s groan is heard as you walk back out his office.

After you took back your workload, Gojo decided to try and make you stay through other means. It’s almost as flattering as it is distracting. The very next day and he’s taken to pulling a chair in front of your desk and sitting with you. His arm holding up his head, chin resting in his palm. It’s got you on edge, he’s just watching you. Eyes tracking your every movement, silent like he’s maybe trying to think of something to say.

“Is there something you need, sir?” Phrasing it in a certain way in hopes of reminding him he’s your boss with his own work to worry about.

“Nope.” The singular word popped back at you.

Looking to your screen, you pull up his calendar, “So… you’re all prepped for the meeting later today at three?”

It’s silent and it prompts you to look at him again. The reply you’d been expecting comes only when your eyes meet. “I’m so prepared,” his smile is easy-going and you don’t feel the same.

“Are you sure? Because you’ve just been sitting here doing nothing.”

“Don’t worry about what I’m up to.”

“All I do is worry,” you glare at him, “it’s like my whole job.”

Obviously able to tell you’re growing a bit exasperated now and switching to flattery, “And you’re very good at it.”

“I could be better at it if you’d be a more willing participant in your own company.”

“Bleh,” he pulls his head back and waves his hand at you, the expression on his face disgusted.

You ignore the fact that you don’t find him as annoying as you probably should and change the topic, “Well, while you’re here doing anything but your job, I have some applications you can look through.”

“Applications?” He looks at you curiously and takes the papers you’re handing him.

There isn’t an answer from you as he reads them, his face scrunching up more and becoming annoyed as he realises what it is he’s looking at.

“Resumes?” Gojo’s voice has lost its chirpiness, coming a bit strained, “I didn’t know we were hiring.”

“I know you won’t do it yourself, so I put up an advert yesterday,” you point at the resumes he’s holding, “those are the best applicants.”

“I don’t want anyone else.”

“I can’t stay, Gojo. It’s out of my control.”

It’s his turn to glare, it’s the first time he’s been this angry with you. You still won’t tell him why you’re leaving because you’re embarrassed and also, you’re becoming a little concerned that he’d actually give you an insane raise. You can do without that guilt.

“Fine.” He eventually says.

A breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding leaves you, “Thank you.”

He starts going through the pile, “This isn’t an entry level job,” he flicks away that applicant. “No references,” another chucked. “Wouldn’t be able to put up with me,” that one is crumpled. “This one’s messy,” gone. “This person has put under hobbies ‘organising’,” he squints like he’s weirded out before deciding, “trying too hard,” ultimately it’s chucked too. The rest of the pile discarded in much of the same manner.

You’ve watched him in disbelief, blinking at him, “They all had better resumes than I did.”

“I didn’t want an assistant before you and I won’t want one after,” he shrugs.

Fingers rubbing into your temples, “How did I even get hired when you’re this picky.”

“You’ve raised my standards,” he praises you, “and your resume was so ugly looking that I wanted to see who sent it in.”

You gape at him, shocked, “That’s why I got the interview!?”

“And you got the job because you put up with me during,” his tone has softened again, “you adjust to your surroundings well and it impressed me, even if your resume didn’t.” He thinks for a moment, “Well, your resume actually did impress me but only because it was awful—”

“—Stop,” holding a hand up, “I can’t believe you hired me because you hated my application that much.”

“Don’t leave me,” leaning in on your desk, “I don’t think I’ll ever see a resume that ugly ever again.”

Grumbling and falling back into your chair, you cross your arms. “I knew I shouldn’t have worked here.”

He grins and stands to his feet. “Don’t show me anymore applicants, they’ll immediately get thrown away.”

“Gojo—” You call after him.

“—Bye bye now.” He’d cut you off, done with this conversation and the direction it was headed.

It’s Monday again and you’re concerned about what Gojo’s going to pull this week. Last week he’d obviously stolen all your work rendering you redundant and stared at you disconcertingly for nearly an hour before revealing he’d hired you because of your shit application. He also brought you back various treats every time he left the office, not to mention the insane amounts of praise he kept sneaking into conversation.

It's not something entirely new from him but he’s taken to doing it far more often lately and you hate how much you don’t hate it. His compliments making you a little flustered every time, you weren’t aware how much you liked being reaffirmed until he started doing it so obviously and frequently.

Apparently, he must’ve caught on to you not hating it because he’s not stopped. The grin on his face self-satisfied every time he does it, pleased by your reactions. You don’t know if your heart is going to make it through this week but it’s your last, so you don’t have much of a choice either way.

In the lobby, you run into Shoko. Greeting her with a small smile, “Good morning.”

“Morning, quitter,” she smiles back.

“Ouch,” you hiss jokingly.

Her head tilts at you, “Ah, you lasted five years, it’s impressive really.”

“I’m not resigning because of him,” you roll your eyes.

The rumours in the office have been abundant to say the least, everyone blaming your leaving on Gojo. You correct people every time but they either don’t believe you or are too excited about gossip to let themselves really hear you.

“You’d be the first,” sucking on her teeth as she recounts, “I think there was… five? six? Before you. They all quit because they couldn’t put up with him.” She pauses. “Though, he didn’t hire them personally.”

“Didn’t you hear? He only hired me because he hated my resume.”

“Good luck finding another job with it then.”

You chuckle at that. “I’ll miss you, Shoko.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she brushes you off, “if you really were gonna miss me, you wouldn’t be quitting.”

“For someone who’s so unamused by Gojo, you sure sound like him sometimes.”

She side eyes you, “Take that back.”

“Nope!” You laugh as you walk away.

At your desk, the first thing you do is pull up Gojo’s calendar. Double checking that you’re remembering the itinerary for today properly. He’s got a meeting just before midday with a large company, you’ve been trying to secure a meet with them for months and they finally caved. Taking them on as a client would be a huge win for the company and it’d bring Gojo joy because he knows Geto has been trying to secure a deal with them too.

Competition isn’t something you invest a whole lot of your time in personally but you can’t help but feel happy when Gojo ‘wins’. This week is going to be gruelling; it’s getting harder to ignore how much you enjoy your job. You thought it wasn’t going to be such a big deal. It’s a job, you do it and if you need to, you find another.

Everyone here will be part of what you miss though, you won’t get to work alongside Gojo anymore… Pushing down those feelings of affection, you start your day how you often do and check your inbox. Seeing the first emails coming through as soon as business hours are official always amuses you as much as it pisses you off.

The sound of a soft tap on your desk startles you, it’s just Gojo but you’re still not quite used to his early (on time) arrivals. He’d set a coffee down for you, expression bright as he smiles at you.

You reach for the drink, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he singsongs. “Feel like staying?”

“Because you bought me a cup of coffee?”

“Among other things.”

You’re thinking of how to answer him when he yawns and stretches his shoulders back. He seems tireder than usual, “You been sleeping okay?”

He takes the opportunity to whine, “No, my favourite employee is leaving me.”

“That must be agony for you.”

“It is,” eyes sparkling, “it’s awful, I wish she would just see reason.”

Instead of replying to that, you remind, “Don’t forget your meeting at eleven.”

Dropping the pleading look, he replies, “How could I forget? Stingy bastards took forever just to agree to meet.”

“Try to have a better attitude when you talk with them.”

“You know what would make my attitude better?” Grin on his face showing that he’s clearly plotting something.

“Dare I ask?”

“You basically did.” He points at you and then himself, “You come with me.”

A range of emotions go through you at that but it’s mostly reluctance, “Do I have to?”

“I’m your boss… so, yes?” Not waiting for your reply. “Be ready by ten-thirty.”

It’s going to be a long week indeed.

By the time ten-thirty rolls around, you’re in the garage of the building with Gojo. He’s guiding you towards his car and you’re confused, “Where’s Ijichi?”

“I don’t know,” his answer is dismissive.

“Should we wait?” you frown and look at your phone, “…I don’t want you to be late.”

Clicking on the keys, the car beeps as it unlocks, “We’re not gonna be late.” He moves around to the driver’s side and opens it, stopping before getting in when he sees you’re not moving. “Get in.”

Incredulous look on you face, “Can you even drive?”

“That’s so insulting, I’m a fantastic driver.”

You’re sceptical but get in the car anyways, not willing to be late because you were squabbling with your boss.

“Why am I coming with you?”

He hums, “Because I have a surprise for after.”

“Couldn’t you have just picked me up after the meeting?”

“No. If I have to go then you do too.”

Grumbling back at him, “You’ve never made me come before.”

“If I leave you in the office you might run away before Friday,” his tone carries a playful lilt.

“You’re so dramatic.”

By the way, he is decidedly not a fantastic driver.

The surprise he was talking about was lunch, he’s taken you out for lunch. You’re overwhelmed and feel underdressed, it’s a nice place that you definitely cannot afford.

Just as he’s about to walk inside, you grab his sleeve and pull him back, “Gojo, I can’t afford lunch here.”

He snickers at you, “You thought I’d force you to a meeting with me and then take you out to lunch and make you pay?”

You say nothing.

“Seriously? What do you take me for?” A hand rests over his heart like you’ve wounded him.

Frowning at him, “I’m… I’m also a little underdressed.” Wearing business casual doesn’t feel appropriate for here.

“You look great,” he compliments, “you always look great.”

It feels like your skin grows hotter just from that simple compliment. You can’t linger on it for too long though. From just off to the side of Gojo, you spot Geto and you know this lunch is going to be on the rocks. “Please remain calm and remember that you just got new clients and how nice that feels.”

About to ask what the hell you’re going on about when Geto makes himself known, hand on Gojo’s shoulder. “What a coincidence, Satoru.” He smiles politely, nodding his head at you in acknowledgement.

You’ve always been neutral towards Geto, if you had to describe him in a word, you’d say he’s gracious. But you’re not stupid, you can tell he enjoys pressing peoples buttons. If you didn’t know any better you’d think it was merely an accident but you do know better and you can tell he does it because he gets a kick out of it. He’s similar to Gojo in that way.

“Suguru,” Gojo gives a tight smile. “What are you doing on this side of town?”

Oh, he’s already annoyed by his presence.

“This and that,” answer kept vague deliberately. “You guys about to have lunch?”

“Yes.” You answer respectfully, not forgetting your manners.

At the same time, Gojo lies, “No.”

“Perfect,” Geto ignores Gojo’s lie, “I’ll join you.”

From what you know, Gojo and Geto used to be close friends working at the same company before Gojo moved up. Geto left after that and started his own company. Usually, Gojo isn’t so annoyed by him but he’s been a little extra touchy about things ever since you put in your resignation.

“That sounds great,” you reply before Gojo can. Geto walks in ahead of you both and you tug on Gojo to get him to lean down. “It’s just lunch, we’ll both survive.”

“I’m not so sure,” he mumbles back.

It’s awkward, incredibly so. Geto knows that Gojo got the client they’ve both been angling at and it’s all grins with hidden meanings and sly jabs. It’s hard to enjoy the food when you’re stuck observing this disaster of clashing egos.

After a lull in the conversation, Geto suddenly says, “I heard you’re quitting.”

You’re taken aback, you didn’t realise that company gossip would travel so far, “Yes… I am resigning.” Putting emphasis on the last word because you don’t appreciate the attachments to quitting.

Gojo’s tense, you can tell.

Geto pushes past your slight attitude. “May I ask why?”

“You may ask,” you smile politely, taking a page out of his book.

He doesn’t even blink, “Well, if you’re looking for a new job I’d be happy to take you off Satoru’s hands.”

Gojo scoffs at that, “She’s still my employee, you know?”

“From what I hear, not for much longer.”

You hate that you even semi consider Geto’s offer, he’s unfortunately closer to your parents’ home so you could live there and travel to his company. It’d upset Gojo though and you don’t know if you have it in you, even if it is just business.

Stopping their bickering with a simple refusal. “I’m fine, thank you for the offer.”

“It doesn’t expire,” Geto pushes, “if you change your mind, you’ve got a job with me.”

“I want to remind you I’m a personal assistant, Geto, not some highly sought-after marketing whizz.” You can’t understand the push for you, other than he knows it’ll piss off Gojo and you don’t play those games.

Clearly, not one to be shaken so easily, “Oh, I wouldn’t sell yourself so short.”

“Alright, I’m done being all civil now,” Gojo stands up abruptly, “We’re leaving and you can pay the bill for pissing me off, Suguru.”

“Gojo,” you scold him lightly but he’s not budging, “I’m very sorry, Geto,” standing up as well, “lunch was nice.”

Gojo grumbles, “Don’t apologise for me, I’m not sorry.”

Geto ignores Gojo and replies to your last statement, “We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

“Over my dead body,” Gojo points at him.

And then you’re being tugged out of the restaurant, following after an uncharacteristically angry Gojo. It’s not like he’s especially polite and he’s always had little jabs with Geto but it always seemed more like a friendly rivalry to you. To have this kind of reaction isn’t usual and you don’t really know how to approach talking to him now.

It’s not until you’re back in the car that he’s huffing, “Can you believe that? He tried stealing you out from behind my back… in front of me!”

“It’s just business, don’t let it get to you.” You mean it as a comfort but his eyebrow twitches.

He starts the car and mutters, “Not to me.”

Today is your last day. It’s been a busy week so Gojo didn’t bother you as much, anytime you spoke it concerned work. Well, that’s not completely true, he was still trying to get you to stay and begged a little but otherwise.

You don’t feel ready to leave, you know all you’d have to do is say you want to stay and Gojo would welcome you with open arms but you can’t make it work… not right now. It’s already been hard on you physically with all the moving preparations and now it’s hard on you emotionally. You don’t think people usually feel this much regret about resigning, shouldn’t you be all relieved or something.

After work, you and your empty apartment have a date with lots of alcohol. Drinking before you move may not be a great idea but you thought living with a guy would be a good idea and look how that turned out. Fuck him. This situation is so draining and unfair and you wish you could go back and change things but you’re stuck with the cards you’re dealt.

It’s quitting time soon, the hour hand on the wall across from you slowly inching towards six. Your riveting clock watching is interrupted by Gojo standing in front of it, “Could you go down to the employee floor and give this to Nanami?”

He hands you over a file and you take it without complaint, what’s another few extra minutes on your last day. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

You’re restless, caught between wanting to get out of here and not wanting your last day to end. The elevator dings and opens to the employee floor, when you step out you’re confused by how dark it is. It’s borderline scary, you’ve seen enough scary movies to know that you don’t stay on an empty and ominous dark floor.

About to turn around and head back for the elevator when the lights flick on and people jump out at you. You don’t have a physical reaction aside from a slight jump, only staring blankly and screaming on the inside. Taking in your surroundings you realise it’s a bunch of familiar faces standing underneath a shoddily painted banner that reads ‘we’ll miss you’ with a very small ‘quitter’ written under that. It’s like it was added last minute in pen and you have a feeling Shoko did it.

Gojo runs up from behind you, “Holy fuck, we have so many stairs,” he looks to your face and then at everyone else, “did she scream?”

Nanami answers him, “No, she’s just been staring like that the whole time.”

Gojo moves to stand in front of you, asking, “You okay? Did we get you too good?”

Everyone starts murmuring and you’re very suddenly overwhelmed by all the emotions you’ve been stuffing down all week. Tears slipping from your waterline and trailing down your cheeks before you can stop them.

“Woah, what’s wrong?” he’s fussing over you, “Hey, I’m sorry, we just wanted to send you off properly.”

You use the back of your hands to wipe at your face, “Sorry, I need a moment.” Pushing the file Gojo had given you towards him before running off to hide in the bathroom.

Taking deep breaths, you try to calm down but it’s hard when you’re also dying of embarrassment. It was really nice of them; you weren’t expecting anything so to have so many people set up a going away party was really sweet but it’s just another reminder of your shitty situation and your reluctance to leave.

A soft tap on the door alerts you to someone’s presence, “Can I come in?” Gojo calls.

“No,” you call back.

It’s quiet and then he says, “I’m gonna come in anyways.” True to his word, he enters the bathroom but he doesn’t say anything more.

Unprompted you apologise, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I didn’t mean to cry,” sniffling, “I’m embarrassed.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he walks in closer to you, placing a hand on top of your head. “If you’re so upset you could always stay.”

You laugh a little bitterly at that. “I’m fine now, I’ll come out and we can celebrate.”

“I can send everyone home if you’re not feeling up to it.”

“No, I want to say goodbye to everyone,” you look up to him, “thank you for doing this.”

“Of course,” he tucks his hands into his pockets, expression a little shy, “I couldn’t not give my favourite employee a send-off.” His upper body moves in a little like he’s going to share a secret, “I wanted to do something bigger but Shoko told me not to.”

A smile is on your lips at that, it’s so like him to want to go big. You owe Shoko for that advice, if he’d done something grand you’d be even more embarrassed than you already are. “Let’s go back.”

It’s not rowdy, it’s an office party so it’s mostly mingling and eating some snacks but it’s nice and it beats the hell out of getting drunk alone in an empty apartment. Nanami is the only one you’d given a reason as to why you’re leaving and he’d kept it to himself so you get a bunch of questions but you field them all pretty easily.

Your eyes keep finding their way back to Gojo before you feel a pang of guilt or sadness and you look away. Things slowly die down as more and more people head home and before it becomes too obvious, you slip away back upstairs to your desk.

Gojo’s office is left slightly open and you walk inside; it’s dark. The only light entering the room is coming from the surrounding building lights. You move to stand in front of the large window and look out to appreciate the view. You’re going to miss this part of the city.

“You’re not planning on robbing me on your last day are you?” Gojo asks from the door.

Getting over the shock of him suddenly appearing, you joke, “Are you kidding? I’ve been robbing you blind since my first day here.”

He crosses the room to stand beside you, “Only cause I let you.”

“What a gentleman.”

“I’m gonna say it one more time,” he looks to you, “stay.”

You don’t know how to answer him so you just lean in and hug him.

His arms wrap around you, “This isn’t very professional of you.”

“Cause you’re so professional,” you murmur back, “also you’re not my boss anymore.”

The both of you don’t say anything, just holding each other. Probably far too intimate for a working relationship but… you really needed this. It’s nice, he’s big and warm and he holds you gently. It’s giving you a lot of comfort and at the same time it’s making you want to cry again.

“I’ll miss you, Gojo.”

“I think you’ll be the first to.”

“Not true.” As much grief as everyone gives him, they’d still miss him.

He laughs a little and lowers himself so his lips are by your ear, “I’ll miss you, too.”

A shiver goes down your spine at his voice and you pull back to look at him. His face is close to yours and your eyes linger on his lips. Doing your very best to look into his eyes, you say, “Don’t ruin the company just because I’m gone.”

“I wouldn’t want to ruin all your hard work,” he grins.

You roll your eyes and move to untangle from him. He doesn’t let you. “What are you—”

Gojo’s closed the gap between the two of you with a kiss, a large hand cradling the side of your face. His thumb strokes high on your cheekbone as his lips implore yours. It doesn’t take you long at all to react, hands grabbing onto his jacket and kissing him back.

It’s overwhelming, his kiss all consuming. Almost like he’s been waiting for the perfect opportunity to kiss you like this. Lips insistent on yours, his body coming closer with a single step forward. His hand on your face tilts you up, thumb trailing to the hinge in your jaw and pressing.

You’re opening your mouth to him more and he sighs happily, licking to deepen the kiss as much as he can. It’s dizzying, mind slowly slipping of focus the longer he holds you. Your body shudders against your will because it’s never felt this good to be kissed before.

Pushing back on him, afraid you’re about to lose your mind and all he’s done is kiss you. Gojo pulls back with a suck of your tongue and your legs nearly falter, small whine leaving you. He’s stopped but he’s not moving back, hand still on the side of your face, the other having moved down to rest on your hip.

“You want me to stop here?” He asks, thumb pulling on your lower lip teasingly.

“This isn’t really—”

“Appropriate?” He asks, closer than he was before, lips almost touching yours, “Like you said… I’m not your boss anymore.”

Fuck it.

You’re the one to close the gap this time, kissing him again. It’s messier than before, an even more heated exchange and you’re realising he was being gentle with you a moment ago. Mood suddenly changed as it feels like he’s aiming to devour you whole.

He spins you so your back is against the cold glass of the window, his lower body pressing close to you. Able to feel his erection, it’s scandalous and making you tingle. You wrap your arms around his neck and he moves his hands down lower, sliding to your lower back. His fingers twitch against you like he’s holding back from touching you more.

Lips parting again so he can trail his kisses lower, burying his face into the side of your neck. Teeth nip at your flesh and you gasp, “Gojo!”

His smile reaches his eyes, “Something to remember me by,” he laves over the mark with his tongue.

Your heart twinges when you realise that your close relationship with him is ending and suddenly you’re asking, “Leave another?”

Gojo laughs a little breathlessly at that, “Hah, don’t have to tell me twice.”

He leaves another mark at your request, and then another lower down before trailing back up, his nose brushing against your neck until his lips meet yours. Words coming mumbled as he keeps kissing you, “You smell so fucking good.”

“Just shut up…” you grumble back, “and kiss me more.”

You know he wants to make another smartass comment but your shoving your tongue in his mouth to keep him quiet, he seems to be right where he wants to be though. Hands growing bolder as he grabs your ass and tugs you closer, grinding his erection against you.

Breaths coming heavy as you comment, “Pervert.”

“If I were a pervert…” he hums happily, “I’d do something more like this.” One of his hands is off your ass and slipping into the front of your pants, fingers swiping through your folds over your underwear.

A gasp leaves you, fingers digging into his shoulders as your knees grow weak. He’s prodding at your hole through your panties, almost penetrating if it weren’t for the material of them. It’s cruel, your arousal seeping into your underwear providing a slick glide for him to slide up to your clit.

“My,” he comments as if he’s shocked, “aren’t you a little too wet over a few kisses?”

“You can’t talk,” you pout, skin warming.

His eyes are bright with mischief. “Don’t be embarrassed,” finger carefully circling your clit and keeping you on edge, “it’s cute.” Sliding back to your dripping hole, “Though…” teasing you there too and then trailing back to your clit again, “you being embarrassed is cute too.”

“Are you– hff– gonna tease me the whole time?” You blink up at him.

“Probably.”

Hips rocking slightly, needy for him to touch you more, “Aren’t you being unreasonable?”

“I don’t think so.” He’s purposefully avoiding giving you what you’re seeking.

Your head falls to rest against him, hands gripping his shirt. Pleasure that feels just a little too distant running through you, making you weak and frustrated. Legs shaky to stand on with how antsy you’re getting. You should’ve guessed that he’d be a tease by how he acts regularly.

On the brink of asking him to touch you properly when he slips his hand under your panties, fingers immediately sliding inside your weeping cunt. You’re left gasping out a pathetic moan as he borderline whines. Clinging to him desperately as he angles his digits to hit the sweetest spots inside you. Slow in his pursuit, like he’s learning what gets the best reactions from you.

Gojo’s control is slipping, the tight grip you have on his fingers making it hard to think. Not to mention just how hot and wet you are, he’s not sure how he’s going to last fucking you when you feel this divine around his fingers alone.

Moans tumble from your lips and you struggle to stifle them back down, trying to rock your hips against his hand for anything more he’ll give you. It’s messy, dripping down into the palm of his hand, no doubt ruining your panties in the process. The sound of him finger fucking you obscene and too loud. Your skin is hot and you’re embarrassed from just how horny you’ve gotten, whimpering as he crooks his digits up and hits something sweet.

“Fuck– come over here,” Gojo pulls his fingers from you and tugs you over to his desk. He lifts you to sit on top of it effortlessly, hands tugging your pants and underwear off in one go. Movements rushed, impatience clear.

He’s sitting back into his desk chair and rolling forward a bit, hands resting atop your thighs. You ask him, “What are you doing?”

The answer comes incredibly blunt, “I’m gonna make out with your pretty pussy while you sit on my desk.” All smiles as he pushes your thighs apart, “I’m gonna think about this view every time I sit here from now on.”

Tongue boldly licking through your folds and making you squeal, your hand threads through his hair for something to hold onto. Quickly discovering just how good at this he really is, sliding his tongue inside your cunt and slurping at you lewdly.

Gojo eats you like a man starved, fingers digging into your plush skin as he holds you open. Your juices drip down his chin and onto his desk and all he can think about is how good you taste and how cute you are when you twitch around his tongue and how he’s probably going to get hard just thinking about this later.

Of course, he’s also going to be playing the whines and moans you’re letting out on repeat in his head later too. Finding everything about you completely endearing, even more so in your dishevelled and aroused state. To have you melting under his touch is almost too much for his poor heart to take.

Your lungs seize in your chest at how good it feels, his nose grinding into your clit with how close he’s pressed his face into you. If you had any higher brain function in this current moment, you’d be concerned if he could even breathe.

It’s getting harder and harder to sit still, desperate to move your hips in response to his stimulation. You’re falling back onto your elbows, hoping to leverage yourself better to rut against his face but he’s stronger than you anticipated. As if in punishment for your impatience, he pulls his tongue from you and trails it up to your clit. Licking it gently before wrapping his lips around it and sucking.

The feelings that run through you are immense and head spinning, feet kicking at the shock of it. Your elbows shake and give out, back bowing up in response. Hand reaching back for his head, tugging on his hair which only has him moaning against you. The vibrations have your hole twitching. Ever observant, Gojo stuffs two of his fingers inside you. Hitting all those perfect little spots he’d found earlier. Apparently having learnt a lot about your body in a short time.

“Gojo– hng– you gotta stop– hff– I’m gonna—”

His eyes look up to you, glinting mischievously. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Mouth off you long enough to say, “I’m not gonna stop.”

Almost as soon as his lips are back around your clit are you cumming; twitching and writhing through the high flooding your senses. All sensitive and whingey as he keeps fucking you with his digits. You can’t hear anything but the blood rushing in your head, feeling as though you’re floating.

That is, until Gojo pushes you dangerously close to overstimulation. His mouth off your clit, only to stuff his tongue back inside your cunt along with his fingers. Stretching you open as he eats you in a completely debauched manner.

“Too much– hnn– Gojo.” You push back on his forehead and he relents. “Perv.”

“Sorry sorry.” He grins, looking a little less than sorry about it.

He keeps your thighs open, admiring the way fresh slick drips from you entrance. He really wants to lean in and tongue your hole some more but he’ll refrain, diverting his focus to kiss your inner thighs. Sucking hickeys into your skin as much as he can, starting on the left before moving to the right. Getting a little too into it and biting your thigh a couple times, you twitch and whine at it and he doesn’t miss the way your pussy clenches around nothing in response.

Gojo gets to his feet and leans over top of you, pecking your cheek before kissing you deep and slow. It’s not hurried, taking his time to explore your mouth carefully. You don’t even realise he’d been unbuttoning your shirt at the same time until he’s moving away and opening it. 

Hands quick to grope your tits over your bra, “Hmm… this is pretty,” he comments, fingers slipping under the strap and pulling back just to let it snap! back against your skin.

“Gojo!” you chastise, voice coming a little breathless.

He doesn’t even bother to take your bra off properly, just pushing it up and over your tits so he can gain direct access to your nipples. Head ducking back down to leave more marks on your soft skin, licking over your nipple to see what kind of reaction you’ll have. He’s not disappointed when you moan and tug at his hair.

Moving to rest his forehead against the valley between your breasts, he hums out, “You’re so perfect, from head to toe.”

“Don’t think flattery will get me to stay,” you joke, feeling bashful and trying to change his focus.

“How about a really good dick down?”

“Aren’t you a little too self-assured?”

Gojo stands up, shucking off his jacket and then beginning to unbutton his own shirt, “Ask me that again after we fuck.” He shrugs it off his shoulders and lets it fall to the ground.

You knew he was well built but seeing him shirtless is making you realise just how well built he is. All broad shoulders and toned abs, it’s a little hard to stay focused when you’re this horny and he’s that hot shirtless. Happy trail leading out of his pants to his belly button making your mouth water and you’re suddenly remembering that it’s rude to stare when you look back into his eyes.

Though obviously, Gojo takes it as a compliment. Large grin on his face at your blatant ogling. “Like what you see?” He asks.

“I didn’t say anything,” you turn away from him.

“You didn’t have to,” he laughs, “the hearts in your eyes said enough.”

“Oh, shut up.”

He starts unbuckling his belt, “Your pouting will only turn me on more.”

Sitting up as you tease, “You’ve got some weird kinks, huh?”

“Not at all, it’s just that I could get off to anything about you,” he replies smoothly.

You really shouldn’t find that as flattering as you do. “Not appropriate for the workplace, Gojo.”

“Getting tongue fucked on the CEO’s desk isn’t exactly appropriate either but here you are.” He reaches into his pants and pulls his cock out, hissing, “Plus, as you pointed out earlier, I’m not your boss anymore.”

There would definitely be some remark you’d make to that but your focus is kind of caught up on how big his dick is. You knew from it digging into you earlier that he was… well-endowed but to see it now is a little scary.

You point at it accusatorily, “There’s no way I’m taking that.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he laughs. “Don’t stress so much, it’ll fit.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him as if to ask, ‘you sure?’

“The foreplay wasn’t just for fun,” Gojo purrs, “though I definitely did have fun playing with your pussy—.”

Your hand slaps over his mouth, “Do you need to be so vulgar?”

He nods wordlessly from behind your hand, eyes bright with his enjoyment of this interaction.

You take too long to remove your palm and he’s licking it, your reaction immediate as you pull back with a grimace. “Ew, what the hell?”

“Ew? My tongue was literally in your mouth not five minutes ago,” his eyes roll at you.

“This and that are different things.”

“Uh huh,” brushing you off, “Open your legs more, I’m gonna blow my load before I even get inside you at this rate.”

Your legs cross at that, “Say pretty please.”

Gojo leans down and rests his hands on the desk either side of you, eyes level with yours, “Pretty please open your legs for me, sweetheart?”

There’s a bit of a begged tinge to his voice that makes you cave immediately, parting your legs again. He grabs your hips and pulls you closer to the edge of the desk, humming happily,  “Thank you.”

The head of his cock is dragged from your clit to your opening and back again, sliding himself through your folds a few times just to make you desperate. Ignoring the fact that you’re already desperate, needy for him to fill you to the brim.

“Stop being a tease.”

“I thought you were worried about it fitting?” He asks.

Your retort is fast, “I thought you were going to give me a good dick down?”

“I believe I said a really good dick down,” notching the head at your pussy hole, “but I’ll forgive you this time.” He doesn’t push in immediately, instead leaving a chaste peck on your lips before he murmurs against them, “Deep breath.”

About to tell him he’s ridiculous and something about his ego being heavy to carry around when your lungs are struggling, the initial slide of his cock entering you making all air knock from you. Nails clawing at his forearms either side of you, not even able to make a noise as he splits you open.

Stopping not even half-way to give you a second to breathe, “I told you to take a deep breath.”

“Hnn– I– hng—” You can’t even reply yet, stopping your attempts to fill your lungs with air.

Gojo’s head dips as he looks at where you’re both connected, “Fuuuck—” he tilts his head back to look up at the ceiling, “I’m gonna cum too early if you don’t relax.”

He’d already held off on cumming just from touching you a couple times, finally being inside you is driving him crazy. Not even at the half-way point and his dick is twitching like crazy, your cunt sucking him in greedily and clenched so tight around him. You’re still panting and struggling to wrap your head around the stretch of him and as cute as it is, it’s also a massive fucking turn on that’s making his life harder.

You’re falling forward into him, head resting on his chest, hands clinging to him desperately. Managing out through moans, “Why– hff– why is your dick so huge?”

Breathless laugh leaving him, “You’re being really cute.”

“Shut up.”

“Getting cuter.”

He wraps his arms around you, lips pressed to your ear. With the movement his cock slides just that bit more inside you. The sound of his soft, needy whine is ringing in your head and making you twitch. Practically creaming around him already, it’s embarrassingly early to be this much of a mess but he’s worked you up so much and you can’t help but fall deeper into the pleasure.

Desire is overflowing from you and you have no idea what to do with it, holding onto him tighter as a result. Turning to the side, you kiss him wherever you can, it doesn’t take long at all for him to dip and kiss you back hard. Getting lost in his lips, wishing you could somehow pull him even closer.

While distracted, Gojo takes the opportunity to fuck the rest of the way into your tight pussy. Your mouth is dropping open with a whine, feeling the tip of his dick against your cervix has you trembling. You can’t tell if you’re imagining it but you’d swear you can feel the thump thump! of the veins on his cock throbbing against your walls.

He lowers you down onto the desk but the movement has him shifting inside you and you’re whining again, back arching against the wooden surface. You wrap your legs around his waist, feeling the need to cling to him even more.

Gojo’s head tucks into the crook of your neck, his words coming out mumbled, “Ooh, you’re gonna have me dreaming about this.”

“You– hng– you have to move.” You can’t take any more of this slow pace, your pussy begging you—and him—to be fucked.

His face comes into view, expression struggling to stay cool, “You need to keep your legs open nice and wide for me then.”

Pout making its way onto your face immediately because you really want to keep him this close but you also really want to do what he says. “This better be worth the embarrassment.”

“It will be.”

He’s pulling away from you at the same time that you’re parting your legs, hoping you’ll get away with resting your inner thighs against his hips. Clearly, that’s not satisfactory enough for Gojo because he’s grabbing behind your knees and pulling your legs further apart. Manhandling you lewdly into a position that exposes you to his greedy eyes.

Sighed moan leaving him, “You’ve got such a pretty cunt.”

“You’ve– ah– got such a dirty mouth.” A laugh moves through his chest at your retort and you don’t understand why you’re feeling butterflies over it.

“I’m gonna move now, sweetheart.”

“Please.”

The heavy drag of his cock pulling back gives you a visceral reaction, fingers digging into his desk, looking for something to hold onto. Every inch of him rubbing up against something delicious with each one of his movements, no matter how small. Tuned into every sensation you’re experiencing and feeling so sensitive with it. You’re feeling everything, pussy creaming around him at it, clearly in love with his dick.

On the other hand, Gojo’s losing his fucking mind about as much as you are—if not more. His cock throbbing, pulsing inside your hot cunt. Even though he’s going insane over how sweet your pussy is, he’s still pausing when he’s pulled out. Watching how your hole twitches and convulses around the head of his dick. Fresh slick dribbling from you and sliding down his shaft, he’s not sure he’s ever going to be normal again.

Slamming his hips to yours in one movement and as soon as he starts, he can’t stop. Repeatedly fucking into you over and over, his eyes glazing over as whimpers spill from him. You’re not doing any better, whining and grabbing onto whatever’s closest, obviously needing something to keep you grounded.

He’s bullying your womb with his tip and you’re so close to cumming, only a few more thrusts and you’re finishing around him. Surprised by your own high, hips meeting his to ride it out. Teeth digging into your lower lip as your eyes roll, too involved in yourself and the pleasure to be embarrassed.

“God– hah– you’re already?– fuck!” Gojo can’t believe it, his heart hammering in his chest at how you cum. Your pussy sucking him in divinely, begging him to keep stuffing you full.

In your fucked out bliss, you slip up, “Satoru– hmf—”

It’s the first time you’ve used his given name and his brain short circuits, everything inside him excited and he can’t help himself. Whining pathetically as he cums, not a hint of shame from him. Caught up in how pretty his name sounded coming from your lips, a little slurred in your messy state.

Not able to stop his thrusts either, your mixed cum drooling down the sides of his cock as he keeps fucking you. Keeping you both on cloud nine to the point of overstimulation. The pair of you buzzing and lost in each other. Everything is hot and messy and feels so fucking good.

His brain is stuck in a loop of your pitiful voice calling for him. “You’re unbelievable– hnn– you should stay– hah– don’t leave.”

“I can’t– ngh—”

“Breaking my heart,” he sulks, hips slowing to a steady rut.

You can feel tingling all the way down to your toes. “That’d– hff– be more believable if you weren’t balls deep inside me.”

He finally stops, pelvis flush to you. Looking down his nose as he replies,  “I’m multidimensional.” Sliding his hands from your legs to your waist, “And still horny.”

His dick slips from you and then he’s using his hold on you to flip you over so you’re face down on the desk. Taking a second to admire the way his seed drips from you before plugging it with his fat dick again. Shiver going down his spine, gaze trailing up your body. Disappointed by the lack of skin showing, you’re still wearing the unbuttoned shirt he neglected to properly remove in his impatience.

Touch gentle as he slides the sleeves down your arms, initially going to take it off but changing his mind at the last second. Instead, wrapping your wrists in it haphazardly and turning it into a makeshift restraint.

When you realise what he’s done, you struggle a little against it and then huff. Forehead resting against the wood, cunt overstuffed, and now restrained in your arm movements. You feel a little helpless and it makes your insides flutter.

Gojo checks in, “You good, sweetie?”

“Pervert,” you mutter in response.

“What was that?” Fingers unclasping your bra, sliding his hand over where it’d been fastened.

“I’m good,” you reply.

He pats your ass, smiling to himself, “Then this pervert’s gonna fuck you again.”

Pace instantly brutal, angling his hips so his dick drills into your weakest point. Already having figured out your body far better than you ever have, driving you to the brink of crying from how overwhelmingly good it feels.

You have nothing to hold onto, hands trapped behind you and forced to stay there. It’s got you squirmy, unable to ground yourself with anything and it’s manifesting as you wriggling and your toes curling. Panting and writhing below Gojo, digging your nails into the cotton of your shirt as a pitiful replacement for something sturdy.

Gojo groans, hands holding you still, his fingers digging into your plush skin. “Stay still, pretty.”

“Can’t– ngh– can’t help it.” Your eyes wet from unshed tears.

He moves one of his hands up to the back of your neck, putting just enough pressure there to stop your wriggling. Immobile under him now, taking what he’s giving you. Your pussy shaking around him, consumed by him and his presence. Trusting him wholly in this moment to do what will bring you both the most pleasure, a kind of trust you’ve not given to anyone before.

There’s a creamy ring around the base of his cock from your mixed cum, a sight that makes him even more aroused. Everything you do, everything about fucking you, is only working him up even more. Thinking he’s gotten as horny as he can possibly get only for you to whine, or call his name, or twitch, or pulse around him. Causing him to fall deeper and deeper into his own insanity, borderline unhinged from how you’re making him feel.

Everything feels so much more heightened now that you can’t take it out on the furniture, brain zeroing in on exactly where his tip is hitting or the sounds he’s making for you. The soft whines and moans from him are causing your brain to fry, tingling all over and smiling a little dumbly at how he sighs your name.

It feels so good, too good, it’s almost a little scary just how good it feels. Like you’re going to fall apart at any second and you have no idea of knowing when, kept on edge and waiting for the final thrust that will do you in.

Gojo can’t believe what’s in front of him, able to feel you so vividly but still feeling like he’s dreaming because it’s just too good to be true. But you are here below him, your pussy is crying around him and begging for more. It’s real and it’s heavenly and he’s greedy for more.

“You’re so pretty,” he sighs, “so pretty– hff– and smart and your cunt sucks me in so fucking nicely.”

Managing to pant back at him, “Don’t talk.” Your pussy betrays you though, jumping at his praise.

“Why not?” Soft laugh leaving him, “Feels like you like it.” He hums softly, hand tickling down your spine, “It’s– hah– like how you got flustered by me complimenting your work.”

You’d almost forgotten that, all his words of affirmation and the kindness he’d spilled in an attempt to get you to not resign. It didn’t work but it definitely did make you feel all fuzzy inside. “I don’t know what you’re– ah!– talking about.”

“I think someone has a thing for praise,” he giggles. “That’s okay, I can give you all the praise in the world.”

“I don’t,” you deny poorly. It’s hard to sound convincing when you’re full of his cock.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” you can hear the smile on his face, “you’re doing– haa– such a good job, pussy taking me so well. Being real nice to me too, all wet and needy.”

It’s fucked up how easily he reads you, it shouldn’t be allowed. “Stop– hm– I’m gonna cum if you keep—”

“—Gonna cum because you like being told what a hot cunt you have and how great it is to fuck.”

He’s so annoying, so persistent, so stubborn, and so good at getting you off. You’re cumming around him as he gives you his nasty version of a compliment, moans loud and embarrassing. It’s the hardest you’ve ever cum and it’s knocked the wind from your lungs. A mess of shivers and whines as you ride it out. His cock prolonging your high because he’s not stopped fucking you.

Gojo’s head tips back, eyes watching how you’re squeezing around him, “Fuck– fuck– oh my god– hah– that’s it, cum around me juuust like that.”

It feels fantastic, your bliss washing over you. It won’t stop feeling good, brain all mushy and thoughtless as you barely register his words. You can feel his cock throbbing inside you, holding his own orgasm off through sheer willpower alone. “Satoru… you– hng– you gotta cum, please?”

“That’s not fair,” he whines.

You’re not playing fair. He’s trying his absolute hardest to prolong this moment, wanting it to never end and here you are asking him so very nicely to cum. He couldn’t possibly deny you, not when you’re so placid and sucking him in so lovingly. Pussy practically begging him for another one of his heavy loads.

Voice calling to him again, “Please, I want it.” And you do, you want to hear how his moans get even more pathetic as he finally lets himself go.

Not even all the way through your sentence does he fold for you, hands slamming down onto the desk as his hips jut forward, filling you to the brim with his achy dick. His pelvis keeps you so close to the edge of the desk, the wood digging into you.

Your hole flutters around him at his pretty moans and he feels every second of it, his sensitive cock reacting to it. “You feel sooo fucking good– ngh– I can’t take it, you’re killing me, sweetheart.”

He’s panting from above you, trying to catch his breath as his body shakes from aftershocks. The both of you twitchy messes, all heavy breaths and soft jerks. Your body is all limp on the desk, brain fuzzy and not thinking much of anything aside from how delightful everything feels.

In his hazy state, he manages to remember that you’re still restrained. Struggling a little to untangle the mess he made of your shirt and freeing your hands. Your arms fall to your sides, all lazy and fucked out.

Gojo slips from you and sits back onto his desk chair, taking you with him. Your head flops back onto his chest as you whine in protest but you’re too weak to stand. “Your cum is gonna get all over this chair.”

The laugh that he lets out vibrates against you, “It’s fine, I’m sure the owner won’t mind.” His big hands come around to your front, pulling your bra off properly before cupping your tits in them.

“The owner is a weird pervert.”

He’s playing with you, groping your tits how he pleases, “Oh, you’ve met him? Should I be jealous?”

You continue going along with his bit, “No, he’s some lazy guy who never shows up on time and always sneaks out to blow off work, I’d never have sex with him.”

“Wow, lucky I’m not him,” he tilts your head to the side and kisses you deep. Humming softly against you as he licks at your tongue. When he pulls back he asks, “So, was it a really good dick down or what?”

Your eyes grow wide and your skin heats up, “I refuse to answer that.”

“Because then you’d have to stay,” he grins back, arms moving to wrap around you.

There’s a quiet that goes over the both of you, “I can’t.”

He tucks his head into your neck, asking, “Are you finally going to tell me why?”

“If I told you why you’d want to help and I’m handling it on my own.” There’s a lot you can’t manage to tell him and needing to move is only the tip of the iceberg.

As much as he wants to argue back or push more information from you, he accepts your words, “There will always be a place here for you, I was serious about not hiring anyone else.”

These are your last moments with him, him being kind to you after giving you the best sex of your life and you can’t even be completely honest with him. Instead of mourning the moment before it’s over though, you let yourself be here. Held by him and warm.

𝒂ﾉ𝒏. thank you sm for reading !!! i'm sorry it took me so long to finish it 🥲 my writing speed fluctuates rapidly, i am who i ammmm. ngl i got most of this done ages ago and got stuck on the smut. ANYWAYS,, i have ideas for a second part with a little bit of angst and dramaaa but only if people want it smile ◡̈

also if it seems unrealistic to what working in marketing is like #sorry i've never worked corporate. i'm studying psych and worked as a lifeguard so i've got NO CLUE 😛

© all works are the intellectual property of aliienangel ──✧ do not plagiarise/translate/reupload/use for ai

[ozzgin]

[Texas Chainsaw Massacre] Thomas Hewitt x Reader

content: gender neutral reader, horror, captivity, gore, implied cannibalism, Patreon request

How long has it been? The clocks are old and still, gathering dust against the grimy walls of the house. Yet your final memories of freedom are so vivid, so palpable: you can hear the laughter of your friends, passing you a beer as you lounge in the backseat of the van. Your boyfriend is behind the wheel, reminding everyone of your plans. You were meant to go on holiday, enjoy the scorching summer sun.

Then you ran out of gas.

Beyond that, it begins to blur. The door left ajar. The meat hooks dangling. Your boyfriend tumbling to the floor. The sting of the corn stalks as you rush through the field, gasping for air, exhaustion taking over. The stench of the leather chair you’re tucked into, as you stare in horror, eyes darting from one man to another. One of them wears a mask, his burly arms cradling a chainsaw as if it was a frail infant. Do you like this one, his brother – you later learn – asks him. A muffled gibberish escapes the masked sibling, nodding vigorously to the words.

You can keep it.

On the bright side, you haven’t ended up like the rest of them. You still gag a little every time you remember their fate; perhaps some of them may have made it into your tummy. After all, you can only eat what you are provided. The way it’s provided. Thomas – Tommy, that’s how the family calls him affectionately – loves feeding you himself. It’s quite funny, if you think about it, how the same hands dabbing your mouth with such gentleness were sawing and hacking hours ago, mere moments before the plate made it to the table. The special guest of the house, that’s how they nicknamed you.

Although it’s not exactly right, you see, because a guest is meant to leave at a certain point. Tommy would never allow it. Oh no, in fact, he can be so irritable when they tease you with this title! He stomps his feet, pulls at his mask, angrily points at you. The family understands his squeaks of protest, laughing and clapping, reassuring him that no one is taking you from him. All yours, boy, all yours.

On the bright side, still, you don’t have to look at your boyfriend anymore. You wanted to run, and scream, and disappear when you first locked eyes with him again. You sat in his massive lap, hands gripping the dirty, crusty apron. “What did you do to his face, Tommy,” you breathed out, drained of color. Your brows furrowed deeper as you observed the crude craftsmanship: the skin flaps sewn together, the straps going around his head, securing the horror in place. He’d turned him into a mask. He’d mocked everything dear to you.

Alas, your suitor didn’t see it that way. He wanted to impress you, his rough fingers tracing the curve of your back, begging for any sign of recognition. You’d thankfully caught on, so one day you finally told him it was enough. You did a good job, Tommy boy, you said sweetly, but I prefer your usual mask. He immediately obeyed, like a dog proud to please his owner, invisible tail wagging to all your whims.

Of course, he’s not entirely gone.

If you’re ever overcome by nostalgia, all you need to do is to go upstairs, into the spare room. That’s where they keep some of the collectibles. That’s where you can find your last tangible proof you existed outside of this home. Your boyfriend’s been repurposed, neatly stretched over the lamp shade.

“A little old-fashioned, isn’t it,” you whisper towards the inanimate object, doing a little spin to emphasize your outfit. “Thomas likes it, though. A tad too much, even! He’d crawl up the walls if he could. Boy gets really handsy. I don’t think anyone’s taught him proper manners, so you gotta give him a scolding every now and then.”

You perch your ears, then excuse yourself. Dinner's about ready.

[Horror Masterlist]

[kfa-343]

LOVE a slasher fic<3<3

[cheekybarnes]

habits of the heart | bucky barnes x reader

Summary: You and Bucky both know what it means to wake up haunted after a nightmare. over time, taking care of each other through it becomes second nature.

MCU Timeline Placement: Thunderbolts-ish

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: nightmares, panic attacks, vomiting, nausea, PTSD, flashbacks, HYDRA and Red Room-related trauma, implied past torture / past conditioning, smoking, kind of two parts smashed into one, angsty af but with lots of comfort, two idiots in love it’s borderline painful

Word Count: 10.6k

Author’s Note: HIIIIII <3 crawling out of my nearly six-month hiatus to throw this at the wall and scuttle away like a goblin. life has actually been really good, which is WILD, and somehow my brain said guess what we have time for again?? bucky barnes! honestly, writing fics again felt so refreshing and familiar and sweet, and i missed this more than i realized. love you all dearly, thank you for still being here :’)

Your knees hit the tile hard enough to sting, but the pain barely registered over everything else.

The toilet bowl blurred in and out of focus beneath you, white porcelain swimming at the edges of your vision as another violent spasm tore through your stomach. Your body folded in on itself with brutal, helpless force, one hand braced against the seat, the other slipping against the floor where cold tile had already gone slick beneath your palm. 

Your throat burned. Bitter acid clung to the back of your tongue. Tears dripped hot and useless down your face, dragged there by strain more than grief, though the two had long since learned how to wear each other’s skin.

By the time the heaving slowed, your lungs felt flayed open.

You stayed bent over anyway, forehead nearly touching the rim, breathing in harsh, ragged pulls that wouldn’t quite fill your chest. The sound of it crowded the tiny bathroom, too loud in the middle of the night. Wet, ugly, shaking. Every inhale snagged like there was something lodged behind your ribs, some leftover shard of fear your body hadn’t realized was no longer lodged in blood and bone but memory instead. 

You tried to swallow and nearly gagged again. Your stomach cramped, empty. A tremor ran through your arms so hard your elbow buckled, and your shoulder knocked the side of the vanity with a dull thud.

For one disorienting second, the cramped bathroom wasn’t a bathroom at all.

It was a concrete floor slick with something darker than water. It was the sterile burn of antiseptic threaded with iron and something sour beneath it. It was the sharp, echoing crack of a baton striking bone, the clipped Russian commands that never needed to be loud to be obeyed. It was the snap of a restraint at your wrist, the bite of it, the cold certainty that your body was no longer your own—but something trained, sharpened, used.

Things you’d never truly forget, no matter how many nights you slept in clean sheets with Bucky Barnes’ arm draped heavy over your waist, his breath steady at the back of your neck: boots against concrete, measured and unhurried, the kind that meant someone was coming for you—or worse, that you were being sent for someone else. The soft click of a chamber being checked. The silence just before a command was given, before you moved without thinking, before you became something you could never quite scrub out of your skin.

Your stomach lurched again on pure reflex.

Nothing came up this time, just a dry, painful wrench that bowed your spine and pulled a strangled sound out of you. You squeezed your eyes shut, but that only made it worse. 

The dark behind your lids fractured into pieces. Broken glass. A blood-slick knife. White lights. Red orders. Your hands steady around a throat, a trigger, a blade. The shape of Bucky turning back for you when every instinct in the world should have sent him the other direction. The heat of his hand catching yours. Gunfire. Fire licking up the walls of a place that should never have existed.

You knew where you were.

You did. You knew the apartment. Knew the soft yellow light above the sink. Knew the curtains Bucky kept meaning to replace because the bottom hem had started to fray. Knew the towel hanging crooked because he always tossed it there instead of folding it. Knew the dark blue bathmat under your knees and the way the grout line by the baseboard had a hairline crack running through it.

But knowing and feeling had never been the same thing. Not on nights like this.

Your hands had gone numb. You curled them into fists anyway, then flattened them again, fingertips pressing into tile like you could anchor yourself by force. Your pulse hammered so hard it made your teeth ache. 

The room felt too small. Your skin felt too tight. Something hot and frantic clawed up the inside of your throat, and before you could stop it, another sound broke loose—thin, raw, humiliated by how frightened it sounded in the quiet.

The bed creaked in the other room.

You heard it faintly through the rushing in your ears. Then the rustle of sheets. Then footsteps—quick, heavy, instantly awake in the way only Bucky ever seemed to be, as if some part of him never fully slept at all. The door creaked open. It was silent for all but a second.

“Hey.”

His voice came rough with sleep and immediate concern from the doorway, low enough not to startle, but there was already movement in it, already urgency. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You didn’t turn.

A fresh wave of nausea and panic hit at once, and you coughed hard over the bowl, one hand flying to your chest like you could physically hold yourself together. The bathroom light was suddenly brighter. Had you turned it on? Had he? You couldn’t remember. Your vision had gone watery again.

Bucky crossed the space in two quick steps and dropped to his knees beside you before you could protest, bare shoulders tense, dog tags shifting against his chest. His hair was sleep-mussed, face still soft with the remnants of rest, but his eyes were already sharp, already searching you for damage.

His hand landed first between your shoulder blades. Steady. Warm. Broad enough to cover half your back.

You flinched anyway, not from him, just from the overload of sensation, and his palm immediately softened, not leaving, just easing into slow, grounding pressure. 

“It’s okay,” he murmured, closer now. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Your throat worked uselessly around words that wouldn’t form. The air still wouldn’t come right. You tried to drag in a breath and choked on it, lungs hitching into that horrible in-between state where you weren’t quite hyperventilating, but every inhale was getting thinner, shallower, feeding the panic instead of easing it.

Bucky noticed in seconds. He always did.

“Don’t force it.” His voice stayed calm, even as you heard him shift, turning more fully toward you. His other hand came up to cup the side of your face, cool vibranium cradling your skin with impossible care as he coaxed your head away from the toilet just enough to see you. “Hey, look at me.”

You couldn’t. Not really. Your gaze skittered somewhere near his collarbone, then the hollow of his throat, then the edge of his mouth. But it was enough for him to catch on to where you were, enough for him to angle himself more squarely in front of you, making himself impossible to miss.

“Good,” he said softly, like you’d done something far harder than simply lift your head. “That’s it.”

Another tremor wracked through you. Your eyes squeezed shut.

Bucky reached blindly for the flush, handled it one-handed, then leaned back in without complaint the moment it was done. His fingers slid from your cheek to brush damp hair back from your face. There was no disgust in him, no hesitation, no trace of the sharp awkwardness other people might have carried into a moment like this. 

“Can you breathe with me?” he asked.

You let out something between a laugh and a sob, because if you could do that, you wouldn’t be on the bathroom floor shaking apart in the middle of the night. But Bucky only huffed the faintest breath through his nose, not quite a smile, not quite amusement. Just recognition. You’d both been here before.

“That bad, huh?”

His thumb stroked under your eye, catching at the wetness there. You nodded before you could stop yourself, small and miserable and angry at how quickly the motion made more tears spill.

“Okay.” He shifted again, arm sliding around your ribs, careful of the way your muscles were still seizing, gathering you in his arms. “Come here.”

There was no room for pride in the state you were in. No strength left for pretending to protest.

He pulled you sideways, away from the toilet, not in one jarring motion but gradually, giving your body time to follow. The tile was freezing beneath your bare feet as they dragged over it. Then you were half turned, then fully turned, and then Bucky sat back against the side of the tub and brought you with him until you ended up in the space between his legs. 

He adjusted instantly, one arm around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head, guiding you down until you were tucked against his chest like he could fold his whole body around yours and wall the rest of the night out.

The second you felt the solid heat of him, something inside you cracked.

A sob tore loose, ugly and helpless and far too loud for the hour, muffled into his shoulder. 

His heartbeat thudded against your ear, fast enough to tell you he was scared too, or had been when he first woke and found the bed empty, but his hold never tightened in a way that trapped. One palm flattened between your shoulder blades again, rubbing slow circles. The other stayed at the nape of your neck, thumb brushing there in absent, cold-soothing sweeps.

“I know,” he whispered into your hair. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

You hated how much your body needed that. Hated and loved it in equal measure. The softness of his voice. The way he anchored every word like it could keep you from slipping under. 

You pressed closer instead of fighting it, face buried against his chest, and the scent of him—soap, detergent, something warm and sleep-soft, and the faintest lingering trace of gun oil that never seemed to leave his skin entirely no matter how long it had been since his last mission—hit you with such fierce familiarity it made your lungs stutter again.

Only this time, the breath came.

Still shaky. Still broken around the edges. But it came.

Bucky felt it and adjusted to that too, his own breathing turning deeper, slower on purpose so you could borrow the rhythm if you wanted it. He never made a performance out of helping. He never talked to you like you were fragile glass or some skittish thing that might bolt if handled wrong. He just offered himself, over and over, in small physical certainties your body could understand when words became useless.

Your stomach churned once more. You tensed immediately.

“Still sick?” he asked quietly.

You nodded hesitantly against him.

He reached without fully letting go of you, snagging the wastebasket next to the toilet with one arm and setting it within reach near your knee. It was such a practical, ridiculous little act—so unromantic, so matter-of-fact—that fresh tears burned at the backs of your eyes. 

Bucky, still half asleep, sitting bare-chested on cold tile in the middle of the night, dragging the trash can closer in case moving back to the toilet was too much. Bucky, who knew what it was to wake with someone else’s orders still clawing under his skin, treating your panic with the same seriousness he would a wound.

You swallowed hard and finally managed a hoarse, “M’sorry.”

His hand stilled for half a second, then resumed its slow path up your spine.

“For what?”

The question came immediate and flat in that way he had when he thought something you were saying was fundamentally absurd.

You couldn’t answer. For waking him. For being like this. For the mess. For the fact that the past kept reaching into your throat and pulling you out of bed by the ribs no matter how safe the apartment was, no matter how many nights ended with his lips on your temple and his arm heavy over your waist and a quiet promise that he was here.

Bucky exhaled softly through his nose, like he’d heard every apology you hadn’t said anyway. He tipped his head until his lips pressed against your hairline.

“None of that,” he murmured. “You hear me? Not for this.”

Your fingers tightened around him. His skin was damp now where your tears had fallen. He didn’t care.

For a while, neither of you said anything else.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was full of your breathing evening out by degrees, the hum of the vent overhead, the muted city noise filtering in through the apartment windows. Bucky kept touching you the whole time, never restless, never distracted. Slow circles over your back. A steady palm at your side when another tremor hit. 

His thumb at the base of your skull, rubbing little arcs there that made some of the locked tension in your neck begin, reluctantly, to loosen. Every now and then he kissed your temple or the crown of your head, quiet little presses of his mouth that asked for nothing and gave everything.

When the worst of the shaking finally passed, the exhaustion underneath it crashed in hard.

It settled over you like wet concrete, thick and immediate. Your limbs felt hollowed out. Your throat throbbed. There was sweat cooling at the base of your spine. 

The adrenaline that had ripped you awake was draining now, leaving behind a full-body ache and that awful raw vulnerability that always came after, when you were no longer actively drowning in the panic but still stranded in what it left behind.

Bucky eased back just enough to look at you.

His hair was a mess, dark strands falling into his eyes. His face still carried the softened edges of sleep, but worry had sharpened the rest of it into something painfully tender. There was no impatience there. No strain. Just the familiar crease between his brows and the kind of attention that made you feel seen all the way down to the bones, even when you wanted to disappear from your own skin.

“Can I get you some water?” he asked.

You hesitated, then nodded.

“Okay.” He brushed your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Think you can sit on your own for a second?”

Under any other circumstance, you would have rolled your eyes at the question. Bucky could make shifting you off his lap on a bathroom floor sound as careful as disarming a bomb. But tonight there was no teasing in him, only sincerity.

“I can sit,” you whispered.

“Yeah?”

You gave the smallest nod.

“All right.”

He helped you move slowly, one hand steady at your waist while the other guided your shoulder until your back rested against the side of the tub instead of his chest. He waited there a beat, making sure you didn’t tip sideways, then rose from the floor.

The bathroom felt colder without him around you.

He filled a cup from the sink, rinsed it once, then filled it again. When he came back, he didn’t hover over you. He lowered himself right back onto the tile beside you, shoulder pressed lightly to yours, close enough that his warmth found you again.

“Small sips,” he said, holding the cup near your mouth instead of handing it over immediately.

You did as told. The water tasted metallic at first, your mouth still sour and stripped raw, but it helped. Cooled some of the acid burn. Gave you something simple to focus on. Swallow. Breathe. Swallow again.

“Better?”

“A little.”

He took the cup and set it back on the sink, then moved to pick up a washcloth hanging over the edge. He ran it under warm water, wrung it out, kneeled in front of you, and brought it to your face with a gentleness that nearly wrecked you again. 

He wiped under your eyes first, then your mouth, then the damp skin at your throat where sweat and tears had dried sticky-cold. The cloth was warm enough to coax a shiver out of you. Not from discomfort. From relief so deep it hurt.

You watched his hands because you couldn’t bear not to. Flesh and vibranium. Knuckles scarred, plates shifting soft and quiet when he moved. Capable of terrible things. Capable of this too. That was what ruined you most, how the same man who had been made into a weapon, who knew exactly what blood looked like under his own hands, could sit on a bathroom floor at three in the morning and clean your face like gentleness had always belonged to him.

When he was done, he set the cloth aside, gathered you back into his lap, and curled both arms around you again.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

The question stayed soft, neutral. No pressure either way.

You let your head tip against his shoulder and stared at the wall for a moment, at the shadow of the towel rack cast under the bathroom light. Pieces of the nightmare still clung like cobwebs, not a coherent story so much as a collage of every worst thing your body had cataloged and refused to forget. Fear rarely cared about chronology. It only cared about finding old wounds and pressing until they split.

“It was everything,” you said finally, voice scraped thin. “Not one thing. Just… all of it.”

Bucky went very still in the way he did when he was listening with his whole body.

“The room,” you whispered. “The lights. Somebody reading out orders like they were grocery lists. Girls screaming behind walls you couldn’t get through. Me with blood on my hands and no idea whose it was supposed to be.” Your throat tightened hard enough to hurt. “You turning around when you shouldn’t have. Over and over again.”

His hold on you changed in some subtle way, not tighter, exactly, but deeper. More deliberate. His jaw brushed your temple when he rested his cheek against your hair.

“I was always going to turn around.”

The words were so simple they lodged under your ribs.

You shut your eyes. “That’s not comforting.”

A faint breath left him, the closest thing to a tired little laugh. “Yeah. I know.” His mouth touched your temple again. “Still true.”

Something in your chest ached at that—at the awful, inevitable certainty in him. Bucky had never been good at preserving himself when someone he cared about was on the line. You knew that. He knew that you knew it. There was no use pretending otherwise. But there was something wrenchingly honest in the way he said it.

You turned your face into the line of his neck, pressing there until his skin warmed under your mouth.

“I hate when it follows us here,” you said, so quietly the words almost vanished.

His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head again. “Me too.”

That, more than any grand reassurance, made your eyes sting fresh. Because he didn’t lie to you. Didn’t tell you it was over in ways either of you knew weren’t real. Didn’t promise that the nightmares would stop for good if you just wanted hard enough. He met you where you were and stayed there.

After a moment, he shifted carefully and rose to his feet, bringing you with him before you could protest. One arm hooked under your knees, the other around your back, lifting you off the floor as if the effort cost him nothing. A startled breath caught in your throat.

“Bucky—”

“I know you can walk,” he said, already stepping out into the dim hallway. “Let me do it anyway.”

His voice had gone that little bit firmer, not unkind, just decided. Protective in a way that made warmth spread weakly through the cold aftermath inside you. 

You were too wrung out to argue. Your arm slid around his neck instead, and he adjusted your weight closer to his chest.

The apartment beyond the bathroom was different in the dark, softer at the edges. The bedroom door stood open, the lamp on the nightstand casting a low amber pool across tangled sheets. Your side of the bed was still thrown back from where you’d bolted out of it. Bucky had clearly turned the lamp on when he went looking for you. The sight of that—evidence of his immediate search, his immediate response—hit something tender in you.

He carried you to the bed and lowered you onto the mattress with a care that still had the power to undo you, one arm behind your shoulders, the other under your knees until your head found the pillow. He pulled the blankets back, eased them over you, then climbed in beside you.

The mattress dipped under his weight. He gathered you in almost before his own head hit the pillow. One arm went under your neck. The other crossed your waist, pulling you flush against him until your face was tucked against his chest and one of his thighs bracketed yours. He was warm everywhere. Solid. The weight of him, the familiar architecture of his body around yours, made the room feel more real.

His fingers threaded into your hair and began smoothing it back from your face in slow passes.

“You cold?” he asked after a second.

“A little.”

He tugged the blanket higher around your shoulders, then reached back to snag the extra throw bunched at the side of the bed and draped it over both of you. The movement shifted him just enough that you could hear his heartbeat again when he settled, still slightly faster than normal, still not entirely come down from the rush of waking to find you gone and hurting. That frightened, fiercely controlled part of him never quite disappeared on nights like this. He just refused to let it become your problem.

Your body gave one last, exhausted shudder. Bucky’s hand immediately moved down your spine.

“Easy,” he murmured. “You’re okay.”

You stared at the hollow of his throat in the lamplight, at the faint shadow of stubble there, at the old scar just visible near his collarbone. The world had taken so much from both of you. It had left marks everywhere. Some visible. Some not. 

“I’m sorry I woke you.”

There it was again, the apology you couldn’t seem to stop offering, though this one came softer now, less frantic. Just tired.

Bucky tipped your chin up enough that you had to look at him.

“Hey.” His voice was quiet, but there was steel under it now. “You don’t have to apologize. Not tonight. Not ever.”

The force of that hit you so hard your throat closed.

He must have seen it happen, because his expression changed instantly, the firmness melting back into warmth. His thumb traced once over your cheekbone. “Come here.”

You were already there, but you went anyway, pressing closer until there was no space left between you. His mouth touched your forehead, then lingered. Not a quick kiss. A long, deliberate press, like he was sealing something in place.

The silence that followed was different from the bathroom silence. Softer. Heavier with sleep. Your body still buzzed unpleasantly in places, adrenaline residue and lingering nausea and the deep ache of old fear reawakened, but it was no longer swallowing you whole. 

His hand kept moving in your hair.

After a while, he said, very quietly, “You want me to talk?”

You knew what he meant. Sometimes, on nights when the nightmares left too much room in the dark, he’d fill it for you. Not with reassurance, but with small, ordinary things. The kind of details that pinned you back to the present. 

He’d tell you about the coffee he meant to buy tomorrow, or the neighbor’s dog that had barked at him from the elevator last week, or the awful movie he’d half watched on a hotel television months ago and still hadn’t finished. Mundane things. Gentle things. Proof that life had continued after all the blood and terror, however unevenly.

You nodded.

So Bucky talked.

He told you he needed to get groceries because the two of you had somehow managed to end up with five different hot sauces in the fridge and nothing you could actually make for dinner. He told you the plant by the window was still alive, which he said in a tone suggesting he considered this a personal triumph, even though you were the one who remembered to water it. He told you he’d finally call the landlord about the kitchen light that kept flickering because if it shorted out while one of you was cooking, he was pretty sure that would be the stupidest possible way to survive everything else and die in your own apartment.

A weak, real sound escaped you at that. Not quite a laugh, but close.

Bucky’s mouth curved against your hair.

“There you are,” he murmured.

You kept listening.

He talked until your breathing had fully lengthened and the tight clench in your stomach eased into something survivable. Talked until your fingers loosened against his skin. Talked until the fear no longer felt like something standing over the bed, only a bruise left behind by a thing that had passed through. 

His voice stayed low and rough and close, vibrating through his chest into your cheek. Sometimes he paused to kiss your temple. Sometimes his words blurred together as sleep began to pull at him again.

At some point, your eyes slipped closed.

The darkness was still there behind them. Of course it was. Memory did not vanish because you were tired enough to stop fighting it. But now there was the warmth of Bucky’s arm over your waist, the slow drag of his thumb just above your hip, the rise and fall of his breathing under your ear. There was the bed. The apartment. The lamp still glowing low on the nightstand. The familiar scent of laundry detergent and his skin. There was the shape of his promise, unspoken now because he had already proven it.

I’m here.

Your last waking thought was not of the nightmare.

It was of the way Bucky’s hand had found yours beneath the blankets and held on, even as his own breathing finally began to deepen, like some part of him refused to sleep unless he knew you had made it back too.

You woke to absence before you woke to anything else.

It was not a sound that pulled you up out of sleep, not at first. It was the shape of missing warmth beside you, the place in the bed where Bucky should have been and wasn’t, the subtle but immediate wrongness of sheets cooled too quickly in the dark. 

Your hand moved before your mind did, sliding across the mattress in a half-conscious search for his chest, his shoulder, the easy, familiar weight of him. Your palm met only wrinkled cotton and a dip in the bed that had already started to rise. That alone was enough to sharpen you. 

Your eyes opened to a room washed dim and blue by city light bleeding through the curtains, and for one disorienting second your heart kicked hard enough to hurt.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet in the particular way the middle of the night always was, when every ordinary sound seemed louder. The refrigerator humming in the kitchen. A pipe ticking faintly in the wall. The distant hiss of tires on wet pavement far below. The bedroom door stood cracked, the narrow slice of hallway beyond it dark, and the stillness pressing in around that darkness made something old and defensive stir under your ribs before you could stop it.

You pushed yourself up slowly, blankets dragging down into your lap, and let your eyes adjust. 

Bucky’s side of the bed was empty down to the flattened pillow. He had been gone long enough for the heat to leave but not long enough to have done it quietly enough to fool the part of you that had learned, over time, exactly how his absence felt. There was a glass on the nightstand with water halfway gone. His phone lay face down beside it. He would not have left it there if he had gone anywhere beyond the apartment.

You listened harder.

There was no television. No running water. No cabinet doors in the kitchen. No soft scrape of his steps on hardwood. His shirt from earlier in the day had been draped over the chair in the corner. His belt lay half-looped through the top of his jeans where he’d dropped them. 

You slipped out from under the blanket and stood, the floor cool beneath your feet. The apartment’s shadows shifted around you as you moved. You didn’t bother with the lamp. A pale wash of city light filtered through the curtains, enough to keep you from stumbling as you stepped into the hallway.

The bathroom was empty. Door open. Light off.

The kitchen too, when you reached it. The counters were dark. The sink was empty except for the two mugs you’d left there before bed. One cabinet stood open an inch, not enough to suggest he’d been rifling through it recently, just the normal lazy forgetfulness of your shared life together. A thin stripe of moonlight cut across the tile from the living room, and a breeze caught your arm.

The balcony door was cracked open.

Only by a few inches, but enough for the curtain beside it to stir in the night air. Enough to let in a ribbon of colder wind that made the fine hairs on your arms rise.

You crossed the living room quietly, heartbeat beginning to thud harder for reasons you didn’t entirely want to name. The city beyond the glass spread out in muted lights and dark shapes, buildings stacked in shadow, distant lone cars threading gold and white through the streets. And there, just outside, was the silhouette of Bucky.

He sat in the chair near the railing with his elbows braced on his knees and his hands clasped loosely between them, head bowed. He had thrown on a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants sometime after leaving the bed, but neither seemed to be doing much against the cold. 

The line of his shoulders was rigid, tension drawn tight and inward, every muscle held under a lid that looked deceptively calm from a distance. Moonlight caught in the dark mess of his hair, turning the edges pale where it fell loose around his face, bent at the crown where he’d probably dragged a hand through it too many times.

A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray on the little metal table beside him—nearly gone, burned down more than smoked, the ember at the tip pulsing red every few seconds in the dark.

Bucky didn’t smoke anymore.

Not at all. Certainly not often. Not unless something had him by the throat.

He should have heard you already. Bucky heard everything. The fact that he hadn’t turned yet meant he was farther gone than he wanted to be.

The thought made something deep and aching soften in your chest.

For a moment, you just stood in the doorway and looked at him. Not because you were unsure what to do, but because the sight of him like that always reached into something bruised and complicated inside you. Bucky carried himself with so much control in the daylight, so much deliberate stillness, all dry muttered humor and quiet restraint and that hard-won ability to make himself look solid even when the ground under him had every reason to give way.

But every now and then, usually in the middle of the night, when there was no mission to focus on and no immediate danger to cut through the noise, you caught glimpses of what lived underneath it. Not weakness. Never that. Just the kind of exhaustion that came from being turned into a weapon and surviving it. Something old enough to have settled into his bones.

You slid the door open.

The track gave a soft scrape. Bucky’s head lifted immediately.

Even half lost in whatever had dragged him out here, he still turned fast, still alert in that way that never really left him. His posture changed on instinct before his eyes found you—subtle, automatic, the ghost of a defensive response already fading by the time recognition softened his face.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low and rough with disuse. “Did I wake you?”

It was such a Bucky thing to say that it almost hurt. Sitting alone in the cold at an hour no one should have been awake, a cigarette burning itself to ash beside him, and his first concern was still whether he had disturbed your sleep.

You stepped out onto the balcony and let the door slide shut behind you until the two of you were left with the distant city and the whisper of wind between buildings. The balcony floor under your feet was freezing. You folded your arms loosely against the cold, more out of reflex than discomfort, and moved toward him.

“You weren’t in bed,” you said quietly.

Bucky watched you come closer, and something in his expression shifted—some small guarded thing tightening and loosening at once. His eyes were shadowed in the low light, bluer in the moonlight than they ever looked during the day, ringed by the kind of tiredness sleep didn’t fix. He looked devastatingly awake for someone who should have still been in bed.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said.

You stopped in front of him, close enough now to see the faint flex in his jaw, the way one thumb rubbed once across the side of his opposite hand and then stilled, like he’d caught himself doing it. Tiny tells. 

Bucky was full of them if you knew where to look. The mistake most people made was expecting his distress to look dramatic. It almost never did. It was quieter. Straighter. More contained. Everything in him drew inward until the only evidence left was in the details: the sleepless eyes, the cigarette he wasn’t really smoking, the tension at the base of his neck, the way he kept his gaze fixed somewhere just past the railing like looking at you too directly might split something open he was trying to keep sealed.

You reached past him and pinched the cigarette out in the ashtray.

He made a faint sound that might have been a humorless little exhale.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Probably for the best.”

Then he leaned back just enough to look up at you properly. “You should be inside. It’s cold.”

You could have smiled at that, if the ache in your chest had left room for it. There he was again. Half frozen on the balcony in the dead of night, clearly unraveling in some private, disciplined way, and still trying to make sure you weren’t chilly.

Instead of answering, you moved closer until you stood between his knees. His gaze tracked you automatically. The city lights touched the edges of his face, caught along the bridge of his nose, the line of his mouth, the stubble that had come in a little darker by night. 

“Hey,” you said, softer now.

Something flickered behind his eyes at the sound of your voice that close. Not surprise. Recognition. A yielding he didn’t always grant himself but gave you more readily than anyone else.

You lifted your hands and touched his face.

Just the pads of your fingers at first, brushing his cheeks, letting him feel you there before your palms settled fully against the sides of his jaw. His skin was cool from the air outside, but there was warmth underneath it, a pulse you could feel where your thumb rested near his temple. Bucky’s eyes shut for one brief, helpless second.

That tiny, involuntary reaction nearly broke you.

“You okay?” you asked.

He opened his eyes again, and for a moment you saw the instinctive answer rise—the automatic yes, the deflection, the practiced, manageable version of himself that had gotten him through years of surviving things no one should have had to survive. It reached his mouth, paused there, then died before he could give it shape.

His flesh hand came up instead, covering one of yours where it rested on his face.

“Not really,” he admitted.

The words were quiet. Controlled. But there was a nakedness to them that only made the restraint more painful.

You swallowed hard.

“Can I sit with you?”

Bucky looked at you like the question itself undid him a little. Like there was still some part of him, after everything, that expected to weather the worst nights alone unless someone explicitly chose otherwise.

“Yeah,” he said, almost immediately. “Yeah, of course.”

He shifted back in the chair, making room. It was a tight fit, the balcony chair not built for two people, but that hardly mattered. You settled sideways onto his lap, one leg tucked carefully along the outside of his thigh, the other bent at the knee against the edge of the seat. 

The second your weight rested against him, Bucky’s arms came around you on instinct. Not as tightly as he held you when he was the one comforting you, not at first. There was a hesitation there, a fragility to the movement—as if he was trying not to need too much all at once.

You answered it by leaning fully into him.

Your chest against his. Your cheek near his temple. Your arms winding around his shoulders until there was no ambiguity left in the gesture. You felt the breath leave him. Felt the way his body gave, just slightly, the rigid line of his back easing by a degree as the contact settled into something real.

The wind threaded through the balcony railing in cool, intermittent currents. Far below, the city kept moving with the distant hush of tires and the occasional pulse of headlights crossing an intersection. Somewhere in another building, a television flickered blue against an unseen wall. The world went on, indifferent and ordinary, while you sat in Bucky’s lap in the middle of the night and felt the careful control in him slowly, reluctantly soften beneath your hands.

His face turned into the curve of your neck.

The movement was small. So small someone else might have missed the significance of it. But you felt it all the way through you—the way his forehead came to rest briefly against your shoulder, the way his breath hit your skin warmer than the night air, the way one hand spread over your back and stayed there as if grounding himself by the fact of you.

It was never easy, seeing Bucky like this.

Not because it made him less himself. If anything, it made him more. But because loving him meant learning the shape of all the things he carried, including the ones he didn’t have language for until they were already dragging him under. 

It meant knowing that some nights the ghosts rose too close. That the body kept score in ways even he couldn’t out-stubborn forever. That beneath the training and the dry humor and the endless, exhausted competence was a man who had spent years surviving catastrophe after catastrophe and had somehow never learned how to believe he was allowed to simply fall apart in someone else’s arms.

You put your hand in his hair and stroked it back from his forehead.

“How long have you been out here?” you asked.

“A while.”

“That doesn’t answer me.”

He raised his head and let out a breath through his nose, looking out over the city like maybe the exact shape of the skyline might help him answer honestly. “Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” you asked.

Bucky’s grip tightened once at your waist, then loosened. His mouth moved back to brush your shoulder when he answered, words muffled against your skin.

“It’s stupid.”

“No, it isn’t.”

He let out a faint breath that stirred the collar of your shirt. “I know that’s the right answer.”

“It’s also the true one.”

That drew the barest huff from him, something dry and tired enough to almost qualify as amusement. Almost.

His silence stretched a little longer after that. You didn’t rush to fill it. Bucky needed space to reach for things in his own time. Pressing him too hard only made him retreat farther inside himself, not out of distrust, but out of habit. 

“Just… one of those nights.”

The answer was so him you nearly laughed, if it hadn’t hurt.

One of those nights. As if there weren’t decades buried under a phrase like that. The snow. The train. Cryo fog and fluorescent lights. Russian in his ear. The names he didn’t know he remembered until they came back bloodstained. The things he had done with someone else’s hand on the back of his neck. The things done to him until choice had been peeled down to the nerve. Bucky had always had a way of making ruin sound smaller than it was, like if he kept his voice low enough it might not take up so much space between you.

“And what kind of night is it, exactly?”

His jaw moved once beneath his skin. “The kind where my brain decides I should’ve done everything differently.”

There it was.

Not the whole truth, not all of it, but a real piece. Enough to open the door.

His voice had gone flatter on the last word, not cold but tired, worn down by an argument he’d clearly already been having with himself for the better part of half an hour. You knew that tone. Knew the shape of the guilt that lived under it. Bucky’s ghosts were rarely the loud kind. They did not always arrive as vivid nightmares or violent wakeups. Sometimes they came as stillness. As silence. As the terrible calm of a man sitting out in the cold, replaying the things done to him, the things done through him, and all the pieces of himself he still couldn’t quite separate from the weapon they made.

You slid your hand from his neck to his cheek, turning his face toward you with gentle insistence until he looked at you fully.

The city light caught in his eyes, pale and far away. There was no deflection in him now. No muttered half-joke, no practiced flatness, none of that careful distance he sometimes pulled around himself like armor. You saw the moment he almost reached for it anyway. Then your thumb brushed beneath his eye, and whatever thin defense had started to lock into place went still.

“Do you want to tell me,” you asked, “or do you want me to just sit here and keep you company until your brain stops being an asshole?”

That got you something real.

Small, but real. A tired pull at one corner of his mouth, brief enough to vanish almost as soon as it appeared. His gaze dropped to your lips and back up again. “You make a compelling second option.”

“I know.”

His hand at your waist tightened slightly, not possessive, not restraining. More like he needed to feel something solid and chosen under his palm before he answered. When he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its flatness.

“I was dreaming,” he said slowly, as if deciding each word before he released it. “I was back in Siberia, except it wasn’t exactly. It was every place layered on top of each other. All of it wrong in that dream logic way where you know it doesn’t make sense and it still feels real.” He paused. “And I knew you were there somewhere. I could hear you, but I couldn’t get to you.”

Something tight and cold slid through you at that, but you kept your face open and your hands gentle.

His eyes dropped to the line of your shoulder, unfocused now, seeing something else. “Every door I opened led somewhere it shouldn’t. Every turn was the wrong one. And I kept being just a little too late.” The last four words came quieter. Rawer. “That part felt familiar.”

The understatement of it nearly broke your heart.

You let silence hold for a beat, giving the confession room to settle between you rather than rushing to patch it over. Bucky did not need false reassurance. He needed truth met with truth.

“And then you woke up,” you said softly.

He nodded. “And you were asleep. And for a second I just…” His throat worked. “I don’t know. I couldn’t shake it.”

The words thinned there, fraying around the edges, and you knew exactly what he meant. That first split second of waking had left something behind—something sharp enough that he’d gotten out of bed and come outside rather than risk lying in the dark beside you with it still climbing his throat. Maybe because he hadn’t wanted to wake you. Maybe because he hadn’t trusted himself to settle. Maybe because after a lifetime of associating love with danger, there were still nights when having something precious under his hand made the fear worse before it made it better.

He had probably laid there beside you, staring into the dark, trying to settle himself without moving enough to wake you. Trying to swallow it. Manage it. Handle it alone. Then finally given up and come outside instead, not because he wanted distance from you, but because he had wanted to contain the damage. Not to let the night touch you if he could help it.

The tenderness of that hurt. The stupidity of it hurt more.

You shifted just enough to take his face gently between both hands and draw him back so you could look at him.

Bucky let you, though the movement clearly cost him. His eyes met yours at last, and the sight of the strain there was almost unbearable. Not because he was crying—he wasn’t. Bucky’s pain rarely looked like that. It lived in the tension around his mouth, the exhaustion in his stare, the way he seemed to be holding himself together one deliberate breath at a time. But the emotion in him was no less fierce for being contained. If anything, the effort of containing it made it ache more.

“You didn’t have to come out here alone,” you said.

His gaze flicked over your face, searching it in that intensely attentive way of his, like he was testing for judgment, for pity, for anything that might make him retreat. He found none. After a beat, his expression changed—small, almost invisible. Something in him softened with a kind of weary disbelief.

“It was late,” he said, and the excuse was so weak you almost loved him for it.

A breath of incredulous affection escaped you. “Buck...”

A corner of his mouth pulled faintly, not enough for a smile. “I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

He leaned into your hand just a fraction, a motion so subtle it would have been easy to miss if you hadn’t been watching for exactly that. Then, as if some final line of resistance gave way, his forehead lowered until it rested against yours.

The position stole what little distance remained. Your breath mixed in the cold air. His lashes lowered. One of his hands slid up from your back to the nape of your neck, fingers spreading there, warm and steady despite the chill.

“I hate that you have to deal with this,” he murmured.

The confession sat between you, heavy with everything beneath it. Not just tonight. Not just the nightmare. The whole ugly web of loving someone whose life had been shaped by violence and loss, by years of being dropped into impossible situations and expected to keep moving afterward like survival alone was enough. Bucky’s guilt had always been like that—expansive, indiscriminate. He blamed himself for damage done with his own hands, even when those hands had never truly been his to command.

Your throat tightened.

“You are not something I deal with,” you said.

His eyes lifted to yours again.

You held his face gently, making sure he saw all of it. “You’re the person I love.”

The hand at his cheek slipped back into his hair again, fingertips scratching lightly at his scalp the way you knew he liked, the way that pulled the tension from him without forcing him to admit he needed it. His eyelids lowered halfway at once. The man was impossible. You wondered if he knew how transparently he betrayed himself in small comforts, in the way he leaned almost imperceptibly into the things that soothed him.

“You take care of me like it’s breathing,” you said quietly. “Like it never even occurs to you not to. And then the second it’s your turn, you act like making room for me in it is asking too much.”

He went still under that. Really still. Not rigid this time. Listening.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

He looked at you for a long moment. When he answered, there was no self-protection left in it, only exhaustion and honesty worn raw.

“I spend enough of my life feeling like trouble follows me into every room,” he said. “I don’t want it following me with you too.”

The words landed with quiet force.

You stared at him, breath catching somewhere under your sternum. There it was. The heart of it. Not just guilt. Not just control. Fear. Not of his own pain, exactly, but of what it might do to the fragile pocket of peace the two of you had built together in this apartment, in this bed, in the ordinary domestic intimacy that both of you had earned the hard way and still sometimes looked at like it might vanish if held too tightly.

He thought he was protecting it by stepping away.

He thought he was protecting you.

Your hand slid from his hair to cup the back of his neck, holding him there, close enough that your noses almost brushed.

“Listen to me,” you said, and your voice came low and steady, leaving no room for him to turn the meaning aside. “The worst things that ever happened to us were never the nights we woke each other up.” His eyes did not leave yours. “The worst things were all the times we had to be alone in it.”

Something in his face changed.

It was small. A minute shift in the mouth, the brow, the stare he held on you like he was trying to absorb the shape of the sentence from every angle at once. But you felt it. The hit. The place where the truth had found him.

You stroked your thumb along the line just under his ear.

“I don’t care if it’s three in the morning,” you whispered. “I don’t care if you wake me up because you can’t breathe, or because you had a dream, or because your head won’t shut up and you need to hear something real. I don’t care if all I can do is sit with you on a freezing balcony in one of these terribly uncomfortable chairs.” His mouth twitched faintly at that, and you kept going before he could hide inside the almost-smile. “You do not have to try and be less heavy just because I love you.”

For one suspended second, he looked like he had forgotten how to breathe.

The hand on your thigh tightened. Enough to tell you exactly how hard he was holding himself together. Then he let out a breath so slow it seemed to drag out of him from somewhere much deeper than his lungs, and his forehead dropped against yours once more.

His eyes closed.

“Jesus,” he said quietly, the word more exhale than sound.

You felt the tremor in him then—a fine, internal shake that ran through his arm around your waist and into your ribs where you were pressed against him. The kind of tremor that came when the body finally stopped bracing quite so hard against being seen.

Your own throat tightened.

Without thinking, you shifted again and drew him down, one hand at the back of his head, guiding until he let himself fold into you as much as the awkward chair allowed. His face turned into the curve of your neck, breath warm against your skin despite the cold air around you. The position forced him to bend, broad shoulders crowding close, and there was something so starkly intimate in the sightless trust of it that your chest ached. Bucky was not a man who surrendered weight easily. Not physical weight. Not emotional. Yet here he was, head bowed into your shoulder, letting himself be held in the dark.

Your arms wrapped around him fully.

You held him the way he held you on bad nights: one hand in his hair, the other sliding slow and steady up and down his back. You could feel every line of tension there, muscles drawn tight beneath his shirt. You let the touch stay consistent. Grounding. Unhurried. The kind of care that asked for nothing except his continued presence.

The silence was not empty. His breathing was in it, gradually changing. The first few pulls were shallow, too high in the chest. Then deeper. Then deeper still. You felt his hand at your side start to move, not restless now, just tracing absent little paths over the fabric of the shirt you wore, as if reassuring himself by touch that you were really here, warm and living and within reach. 

His other hand slid from your thigh around your back, settling there with a careful pressure that made the chair protest softly beneath you both. He was holding you now too. Not because he had to be strong again. Because comfort, with the two of you, had never been a one-way act.

The wind picked up just enough to stir your hair across his temple.

After a while, he lifted his head. His face stayed close to yours, not quite touching now, eyes open but softer than before. The distance in them had not vanished entirely—those things rarely did, not all at once—but it had eased. He looked more present. More here.

“You always know when I’m trying to pull that stoic bullshit,” he murmured.

A laugh escaped you then, quiet and a little wet around the edges. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

He huffed a faint breath that almost resembled a laugh of his own. “That’s not what I hear.”

“That’s because everyone else is afraid of you.”

One brow lifted slightly.

You touched the crease between them with your thumb. “I’m serious. You do this whole brooding, emotionally-constipated, stare-at-the-wall-like-it-owes-you-money thing and people mistake it for mystery.”

That got you the closest thing to a real smile yet, brief and crooked and so achingly familiar it made warmth flood through you despite the cold. He dipped his head and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Emotionally constipated?”

“You heard me.”

“Wow.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I don’t know,” he said, dry now in a way that felt more like him, more daylight-Bucky creeping back in around the edges. “That one was brutal.”

You smiled in spite of yourself, but the softness in you never left. Neither did the ache. It sat there underneath the humor, the knowledge of what it had taken for him to open even this much. You brushed your lips to his cheek, then lingered there for a second, feeling the coolness of his skin and the faint roughness of stubble.

“You don’t have to be okay all the time,” you said into the space beside his mouth.

His eyes closed again at that. Not in pain. In acceptance of the thing he still didn’t know how to give himself, but maybe, slowly, could take from you.

“I know,” he said, and for once it didn’t sound like automatic agreement. It sounded like a man trying very hard to let the truth land somewhere it might stay.

Bucky’s mouth parted slightly, then closed again. His hand at your neck tightened, not enough to hurt, only enough to keep you close.

“C’mere,” he said.

You were already close enough to feel the shape of the word against your mouth, but you went anyway, and he met you halfway.

It was quiet, the first press of his lips. Careful in that way Bucky had when he was giving you something real. His metal hand settled more firmly at your waist, not pulling, just holding you there while his mouth moved against yours like he was trying to remember what it meant to stop bracing for impact. You felt the breath leave him, warm and uneven, felt the way he leaned in a fraction more when your fingers slid into his hair.

Something low caught in his throat.

You kissed him back gently, your hand at the nape of his neck, your thumb brushing skin still cool from the night air. He stayed close when it broke, forehead falling to yours again, breathing slow enough now to feel the difference.

After a moment, you said, “Your lips are freezing.”

That got a genuine, tired little exhale from him. “Says the person who came out here barefoot.”

You shifted one foot pointedly against the balcony floor. “And whose fault is that?”

That earned you the faintest ghost of a smile. There and gone, but enough to loosen something inside you. Enough to know he was coming back toward himself.

“I didn’t ask you to follow me.”

“No,” you said, brushing your nose lightly against his. “You just vanished in the middle of the night like a deeply concerning man.”

Bucky actually laughed then—quiet and brief, but real. It hit you with absurd force, relief moving through you so fast it almost made your eyes sting. He must have seen something of that on your face, because his expression softened immediately afterward, the humor fading into something warmer and deeper.

“Sorry,” he murmured, and you knew he meant for leaving the bed, for worrying you, for all of it.

You kissed him once more, quick and soft. “No apologizing. I think I’ve heard that somewhere before.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction in that sleepy, rueful way that told you he recognized his own words being handed back to him. “Using my own stuff against me?”

“Absolutely.”

“Cold.”

“You taught me that too.”

Another tiny, helpless smile. Then it slipped away as his gaze lingered on you, on your bare legs, your arms prickling in the night air, the fact that you had come out here without hesitation the second you realized he was gone. The look in his eyes changed with that realization—not guilt exactly, but something more fragile and more profound. A quiet wonder he’d never quite gotten good at hiding when the depth of your care caught him off guard.

He drew you closer until your chest pressed flush to his again and tucked his face into the side of your neck.

You sat with him in the cold and let the night pass around you. Your fingers moved lazily through his hair. His flesh hands slid beneath the hem of your shirt to rest warm against the small of your back, the touch intimate in its simplicity. You felt the gradual slowing of him there—the breaths evening out, the tension draining by fractions, the restless edge that had driven him from bed wearing down under the quiet persistence of being held.

Eventually, you drew back enough to brush your thumb over the crease between his brows.

“Come back to bed with me.”

Bucky looked out over the city for one last moment, as if checking whether there was anything left for him to outrun out here. There wasn’t. Not tonight. When he looked back at you, the sharpest edges in him had dulled.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”

He stood with you still in his arms, steadying you automatically as your feet met the balcony floor. Before you could protest, he bent and scooped you up under the knees and back in one practiced motion. The sudden lift pulled a startled breath from you, and his mouth brushed the edge of your jaw.

“You’re cold,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.

“Bucky.”

“You can yell at me once we’re under a blanket.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself and looped an arm around his neck as he carried you inside. The apartment was warmer the second the balcony door shut behind you, cutting off the wind and the noise. He locked it without even looking, all muscle memory and habit, then walked you back toward the bedroom.

The room was still dim, the sheets still half thrown back from where you’d woken. Bucky set you down gently on the mattress, then climbed in right after you, tugging the blankets up and around both of you until the trapped warmth began to gather again. 

You turned into him immediately, one arm across his middle, your leg sliding between his. Bucky settled onto his side facing you, his hand spanning the back of your ribs, thumb moving in slow, absent strokes. Up close like this, the last traces of strain were still there in his face, but softer now, threaded through with exhaustion instead of active hurt. His eyes searched yours once, lingering.

“You okay?” he asked.

It was almost enough to make you laugh again. There it was. Even now.

“I’m okay,” you whispered. “Are you?”

He was quiet for a beat. Then he tipped his head in a small, honest half-shrug.

“Better.”

It was not a complete fix. Neither of you needed to pretend it was. The past didn’t vanish because the night had softened. Nightmares didn’t lose their teeth in a single hour. But there was something sacred in the smallness of that answer. Better. Not perfect. Not fine. Just better, because you had come looking for him. Because he had let you find him.

You reached up and smoothed his hair back from his forehead.

“Good.”

Bucky’s gaze moved over your face with that same impossible gentleness, and then he gathered you closer until your forehead tucked beneath his chin. His mouth brushed the top of your head. One kiss. Then another. The third lingered.

His breathing slowed.

You stayed awake a little longer, listening to it. Feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours. The weight of his arm over you. The way his fingers, even half asleep, curled lightly into the fabric at your back as if some deep instinct in him needed to keep contact even in rest.

And when sleep finally began to pull at you again, softer this time, less sharp at the edges, your last clear thought was not of the empty bed or the cold balcony or the shadows he still carried.

It was of the way Bucky had let himself be held.

Of the way he had come back inside with you.

Of the fact that for all the things the world had carved out of both of you, this—your hand in his hair, his body warm around yours, the dark made bearable because neither of you was facing it alone—was still here.

And that was more than you could ever ask for.

no more taglists! tumblr’s @ limit said no 💔 follow @cheekybarnesupdates + turn on notifs for all fic drops!

[aquasprings]

choso and his baddie, so-out-of-his-league reader verse !

➽─────── choso pulled…you?! ───────❥

➽─────── choso who needs sex 101 ───────❥

➽─────── choso’s still..learning. ───────❥

➽─────── choso...definitely studied. ───────❥

➽─────choso…deals with the aftermath ─────❥

SERIES COMPLETE!

[abbysbenchpr]

perv!dunk x f!reader • part 3

wc: 4.6k

content: SMUT, 18+ nsfw, minors dni, maybe ooc, he's a perv with feelings, there's only one bed, honourable perv, slight possessive!dunk, virgin!dunk (but not for long >:)), brief somnophilia, oral f!receiving, finger sucking, unprotected piv, creampie, breeding + mentions of pregnancy, finger sucking again + cum eating, lowk went freak4freak with this one

notes: aaa sorry if the ending is rushed, i couldn't figure out how i wanted to end this kind-of series! as always i hope this was worth the wait 🥹 thank you guys soooo much for reading and interacting and being the sweetest patooties ever <3 ily guys damn (this is not the last we'll see of perv dunk bc my inbox is jam packed with horny thoughts for him heehee)

read part 1 here, part 2 here

18+ content, minors dni

dunk’s simply waiting for the right time. no, really, he is. 

it’s been near a moon’s cycle since you’d caught him touching himself outside your tent, and you’d finished the job for him. 

since then, you’ve touched him twice. once, with his back against a tree and his face shoved in the crook of your neck to quiet his moans.

the second, in a deserted alley of a town you’d been passing through. egg had run ahead to find you a seat in the local tavern. just as soon as his little bald head had turned the corner, you’d shoved the unsuspecting hedge knight into the shadows and fallen to your knees. 

he is only slightly starting to worry that he has yet to kiss you. nor has he had the chance, the honour of pleasuring you — not for lack of trying either. 

he tugs at your skirts while you lick your hands free of his spend, a sight that punches the air from his lungs and has his cock throbbing with the need to be inside you. 

he sends you eyes over the fire when egg’s asleep, but either he’s not doing a very good job, or you’re ignoring him, when you simply yawn and rub at your own eyes, sending him a soft smile over the flames. 

he wants more, though he knows he shouldn’t. he should take what you give and be happy with that. and he is happy, so unbelievably fucking happy that the woman of his dreams seems to actually feel the same. 

the mere thought of you sends dunk’s heart fluttering and he finds himself wondering about you when you’re apart, what you’re doing and how you’re faring. aches to have your pretty eyes trained on him, and him only. dunk yearns to listen to you talk for hours, wants to carve a hole within himself to make a home for you, so he can better keep you safe, and with him always. 

you start to notice how dunk seems permanently glued to you, standing with your back pressed to his chest whenever he gets to. doesn’t care about the odd looks thrown by villagers, or egg, who’s begun catching on to dunk’s clear-as-day pining. 

he assumes the role of your man, and if anyone asks, he’ll claim the title, too. he can’t run the risk of a stronger, more capable knight swooping in and stealing you away. not ever, but certainly not before dunk has made you his in every way. 

so, your hedge knight watches over you. makes sure you’re fed, gives you his cloak when you’re cold, listens when you need an ear — all with only the slightest ulterior motive. 

things come to a head in king’s landing, of all places. you’d simply been passing through, heads down and hoods up, but egg’s rotten luck had him running headfirst into ser donnel of the kingsguard by the town square. 

the prince had quickly been called back to the red keep for a… reunion with his father, the first ever since he’d snuck off (the second time) from ashford meadow several moons ago. 

“probably best if i wait for you out here, egg,” dunk says as two city watch knights flank the boy. in his tattered, patchwork cloak and tunic, he looks less like a prince and more like a peasant about to be shackled and taken away. 

egg makes a face of protest, just as dunk shoots you a look, pleading for your interruption — brows raised with pretty blue eyes so wide it almost makes you laugh. 

“he’s right, love,” you pat egg’s shoulder placatingly, and the young prince directs those puppy dog eyes at you. dunk’s glad for it, because all three of you know he would’ve fallen victim to the pitiful look.

“well, then, why don’t you join me? i could show you around the castle, and you might even meet my brother, prince daeron –” egg’s eyes knowingly cut to dunk. and, easy as he is, dunk takes the bait. 

“that is if daeron has not already drowned in his cups,” dunk mutters quietly, mindful of the white cloaks a few paces away. he glares at egg when the boy snickers, exchanging an amused look with you. 

“as fun as that sounds, i reckon i shall stay with ser duncan,” you sigh wistfully, “he’ll need one of us to keep his head on straight.”

egg nods solemnly, lips pursed as dunk makes a sound of offence. the knight’s indignation falls upon deaf ears as you bid egg goodbye with a hug and a fond pinch to his cheek. with one last stern ‘be good’, egg leaves with the gold cloaks and ser donnel, then it’s just you and the hedge knight in the bustling streets of king’s landing. 

it’s your first time in the capital, and the sights and sounds are near overwhelming. when you finally tear your eyes away from the sloping orange roofs, you find dunk already watching you. 

wordlessly, his hand cups your elbow, drawing you close just as a crowd of children — their heights barely reaching your knees — rush past where you’d once stood. he sees the cogs turning in your head as you catch up, eyes darting from the giggling children and back to him. he zeroes in on the way your lips spread wide into a grin. 

“stay close,” he says, fighting his own smile when your hand slides down his arm and into his. he lets you lace your fingers together, and nod up at him to lead the way. 

—

the inn is quaint. those were your words, as dunk’s had been a grumbled curse of how he swears he’s been overcharged. 

the building is a rickety old thing, one that probably hasn’t ever seen nicer days. the woman at the bar’s eyes squint between you and the hulking man plastered to your side. 

dunk flushes at the head-to-toe examination, wondering if the innkeeper might have the wrong idea of you. his jaw tightens at the notion of anything untoward on your behalf, as if he hasn’t spent half his days with you imagining the untoward in great detail. 

then, as if she remembers she doesn’t care–

“i’ve got the one room.” the woman says, dropping a key onto the splintered surface. 

dunk goes stock still beside you, chest caught on an inhale, aborted as he sorts through the thoughts running through his head. 

one room. one bed? with you. only you. 

his sharp exhale empties his lungs to the point he has to grip the counter to remain upright.

“wonderful,” you chirp, exchanging your coin for the key. 

dunk follows you up the stairs in a daze. 

the door opens with a creak, and there, under a low ceiling, sits a lone bed. the sight of it taunts him. dunk has force himself to hold off on the lecherous ideas he knows he’ll conjure up of you on this bedm — at least until later. 

to his credit and — unbeknownst to him — your dismay, he does not gather you up to the bed and kiss you silly. 

a true testament to his willpower as he molds himself to the wall, watching you get comfortable. going through the motions — draping your cloak on a hook, lighting the single candle on the end table and cracking the window with a small sigh — tortuously domestic, wreaking havoc on dunk’s heart.

“dunk?” you turn towards him, eyeing him strangely, as one would a man pressed into the corner of a room. 

“yes, m’lady.” dunk nods, standing at attention, ready for anything. 

“is the corner you’ve claimed more favourable than sharing a bed with me?” you question him as you perch yourself comfortably upon the mattress. his throat bobs as he swallows, mouth ajar in a silent response. 

it’s so quiet, dunk can hear his own heartbeat. worries you can hear it, too. 

your head tilts curiously, smiling because you know too well what the issue is — you just like seeing your hedge knight squirm. 

“come to bed, ser,” you pat the covers beside you. dunk doesn’t know if he’s imagining the sultry lilt to your voice, “it’s been a long day, has it not?”

you begin unlacing your corset like it’s nothing to blink at, as if it’s not sending dunk to an early grave to watch you undress before him.

dunk’s eyes squeeze shut, and in the sudden darkness, he hears your teasing giggle. he shakes his head, both at your brazenness and his own hesitation. he’s seen you in your shift times before. he’s slept beside you in your tent and hasn’t fared any worse — hasn’t accidentally mounted you in his sleep yet. 

but he worries things will be different within these four walls. he can’t remember the last time he slept on a bed, least of all next to someone he already struggles to keep his hands off of.

“relax, dunk,” you sigh, long and amused. there’s a soft ruffling as you slip under the covers. the man dares a peek, shoulders sagging in relief — disappointment? — when he finds you curled up with the blankets pulled over your shoulders, tucked beneath your chin as you blink up at him.

the other half of the bed — his side — remains empty. dunk sucks in a sharp breath.

“m’lady, please, i can take the floor–” for his own good, and yours.

“that would be foolish, even for you,” you giggle through a yawn, burying your face deeper into the pillow. dunk’s chest deflates, all fight leaving him at the lazy flutter of your lashes, how your eyelids droop with the weight of keeping them open — of keeping your attention on him even in your last waking moments. something warm tugs at his heart.

you’re fast asleep when he finally decides to get in bed. he sheds his belt and his scabbard with practiced discipline, deliberately lightening his footsteps so as to not wake his lady in bed. 

he takes a deep breath before joining you under the covers. the wood of the bedframe creaks under the added weight, moreso when you wiggle closer, unconsciously drawn to the warmth radiating off his skin. 

dunk scarcely dares to breathe, entirely unsure of what he’s supposed to do when your leg is thrown over his hip, pulling close by your arm around his waist — clinging to him in your slumber. 

dunk tries not to think about how the new position has you opened up for him. he tells himself that’s not your core warming his abdomen, and he really ought to go to sleep. tries his utter hardest to tamp down the heat simmering in his belly, because he can’t do this — not now, not like this, when you’re at your most vulnerable. he would never do that to you, not until you allow it.

dunk falls asleep tracing your features, counting your breaths and matching them with his own.

—

the candle has burned itself out when he wakes again. dunk blinks groggily in the darkness, still too out of it to piece together what had pulled him from sleep. 

he smells you, the familiar notes of your skin makes him breathe deep, wanting to burrow closer to the source. your hair tickles his chin with every steady breath, your parted lips puffing humid air against his chest. 

dunk’s pulse stutters when the dull ache between his legs registers in his half-awake state. he’s so hard it hurts, everything pulled up tight as his cock drools a mess within his trousers. 

he groans, low and raspy, when the ache flares once more. it’s instinctual, his hand slipping between your bodies to cup himself, hoping to relieve the pressure. in his sleep-deprived haze, he doesn’t realise until it’s too late, the cause of it all. 

your hips grind long, slow circles against his navel. with your arm and leg latched around him, he has nowhere to run except towards the feeling. 

the back of his hand drags against the front of your shift, gasping when he feels the soaked-through fabric. he wonders how long you’ve been this way — are you always this wet?

dunk thinks he hears angels sing when he brings his hand back up and he can see traces of you glistening on his skin by the pale moonlight. mind fuzzy with sleep and rotten desire, his tongue darts out, intending to lick your slick off his skin the way you’ve done to him times before, when he hears it. 

a quiet whimper of his name. muffled by his tunic to your mouth, but he hears it like you’ve shouted in his ear. 

he freezes with his hand to his lips. here he’d thought you’d still been asleep, unaware of his torment. but you’ve been awake, chasing your own pleasure in utter disregard of the agony you’re putting him through? this whole time, he’s been worried for your propriety, when the concern should’ve been for his own. 

dunk frowns, hand dropping to your hip to still your movements with a firm grasp. only when you make a confused sort of noise, and lift your head from his chest, does he realise that, oh, you were asleep. 

“hm- dunk? what-” your voice cracks when it hits you, and he doesn’t know why he expects you to pull away, to roll over and go back to sleep. 

your clit throbs in time with your pulse, just as a rivulet of slick runs down the inside of your thigh. you make a sound, doused with need. you press even closer to dunk, your centre just brushing the tip of his bulge.

dunk exhales shakily, fingers curling at the bunched-up fabric draped across your thighs. your head tilts back, finding his blue eyes turned black in the moonlight. 

“please,” he whispers. not sure what he’s asking for — all of it, most like. 

you hear his breathing, strained as the fabric stretched between his fingers. your own hand comes up to curl around his jaw, a thumb brushing over his cheek and the day-old stubble there.

dunk forgets to breathe at the first press of your lips to his. he holds it until your tongue brushes at his bottom lip, and he parts his mouth in a shocked gasp. lets you guide him, angle his face this way, suck his tongue that way. 

he kisses the way you’d expected. sloppy, unsure and infuriatingly earnest. it drives you crazy, the way he chases your lips each time you withdraw for breath, as though he wishes to use his own to sustain you. 

your hands tremble with the eagerness to get his tunic off, whining when he’s too slow to lift his arms for you. dunk would tease you for it, but your lips are trailing down his neck, sucking and biting as your hands roam his exposed torso. 

scratching at the dusting of hair across his pecs, your nails scratching parallel lines down the softness of his belly. that light layer of pudge under your palms makes you moan into his neck, pushing him to roll onto his back. 

the sight of you atop him is one he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over. the sleeve of your shift has slipped off one shoulder, baring the swell of your breast. he glances up for permission and sees the spit slicking your lips — his or yours, he’s unsure. 

his clumsy hands tug at the other sleeve, freeing your breasts. he takes one in a calloused palm, burying his face into the softness of the other, mouth already opened as he goes to take it into his wet mouth.

the sound you make goes straight to his cock, and he’s sure you can feel the way he twitches beneath the cleft of your ass.

the salt of your skin is addictive, and he’s already scheming how he can get your perfect tits in his mouth again. dunk grips you tighter when you try to pull back, arms looped around your waist to crush you against him. 

he sighs in contentment when your hands bury in his hair, paradoxically holding him in place where he suckles at you while trying to squirm away.

you keen his name, hips gyrating on his clothed length to snap him out of his stupor, a reminder of where you really need him.

“will you let me touch you?” dunk asks, panting, his voice rough. your answering nod is but a dip of your head, already leaning forward once more to kiss him. 

“need to hear you,” he murmurs against your lips, smoothing your hair out of your face. “say it.”

you press your forehead to his, whisper your assent. “do whatever you wish to me, ser duncan.” 

so he does — he lays you under him, spreading your legs wide to accommodate the breadth of his shoulders, and drags your shift the rest of the way off your body. 

when your pussy, bare and glistening for him, clenches around nothing, dunk dives in, and what he lacks in experience (or knowledge, at that), he makes up for in ample enthusiasm. 

he follows your hiccuped instructions without question — higher, slower, right there — sucking your pearl into his mouth, flattening his tongue and letting you buck your hips against his face. 

“dreamed about this,” he speaks against your folds. “been wantin’ to do this since i first saw you.”

warmth floods your belly when you recall how he’d barely been able to look you in the eye for the first moon cycle after you’d met. 

“oh?” you sigh, voice giddy as light bubbles in your chest, “why didn’t you?”

dunk groans. his chin is soaked with you, and he loves it. he shoves his face in deeper, his nose nudging at your clit while you cry out above him. 

“didn’t think you’d want me to,” dunk admits, made candid by the slick he drinks from you. his thumb draws tight circles on your clit. “big oaf like me could only dream.”

your head shakes vehemently. “not an- oh, gods- oaf,” you pant, fingers curling in the sheets and in his hair. he whines at the sharp tug and your impassioned reassurance. 

“is this– is it better than your dreams?” you gasp on the last word, eyes rolling back in your head at the tension building in your pussy.

“aye,” dunk simply shakes his head, chuckling as he turns his head and presses a kiss to your thigh. “nothin’s better than this” 

satisfied with how you’ve gone speechless, he gets back to work. tongue dipping into your hole as his thumb rubs at you steadily, hurling you straight past the edge. your back arches when it hits you full-force, anchoring your fingers in his hair like a lifeline. 

dunk moans loud and unabashed when your juices flood his mouth. the vibrations only serve to make your legs shake, thighs attempting to clamp shut around dunk’s head but he keeps you open with those big palms. 

he peeks up at you from below, eyes squinted as he smiles up at the bewildered look on your face, staring up at the ceiling with your hand still in his hair, cursing yourself for not letting him do this sooner. 

dunk takes your hand from his hair, draws it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your palm, dotting a line up to your fingers. the pad of your index pulls at his bottom lip, and you watch with blown-out pupils as he sucks them into his mouth, tongue curling around your digits the way they’d done your cunt just minutes before. 

you clench around nothing, and the emptiness hurts. his hips visibly twitch against the bed when you grab his wet hand, desperate to even out the playing field, cleaning his fingers of your release with your own tongue. 

his eyes go wide, barking out an astonished laugh. folds himself over you as he takes you in a kiss, sighing in satisfaction at the taste of you on both your tongues.

your hand trails a familiar path down his stomach. squeezing at the shape of him through his trousers, grinning at the blooming wet patch that greets you each time you’ve touched him like this.

dunk’s shoulders tense where he holds himself up. he shivers, but his body reads hesitant — his face tilted away though his hips betray him, pushing into your touch. 

“have you done this before?” you ask him gently, playing with the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. dunk’s eyes peel open, lips a set line when he shakes his head. he doesn’t want to see the disappointment, the ridicule that he thinks is coming.

“you may mock me,” he sighs, averting his eyes, though everywhere he looks on your naked body seems to send another twitch to his pulsing cock.

you calm him with nails scratching up and down his bare back. “i wouldn’t. though i do wonder how a man as handsome as you has made it this long without a lover.” 

dunk scoffs, and you feel the way the tension melts from his muscles. 

“you need not flatter me,” he kisses your cheek placatingly, as if entertaining some outlandish claim. 

“you don’t believe me,” you accuse, pinching the fat of his ass and ignoring his hiss of protest. “i suppose you’ll just have to see.” 

dunk nods, eyes heavy as he finds his way to your mouth again, entirely addicted to the way your tongue feels sliding against his. “yes, please.”

you let him kiss you messily for a moment longer, before he stands to shuck off his ruined trousers. his cock is a pretty shade of red, heavy and standing against his belly. you find yourself wondering, not for the first time, how it’ll fit. 

he’s back on you before he lets himself grow shy beneath your gaze. slots himself between your legs, his cock dribbling a sticky trail atop your mound. with his broad chest pressed to yours, he, too, wonders if it’ll fit. 

dunk’s fat cockhead nudging your clit with his little twitches is nearly enough to have you rolling him over and fucking yourself onto him, but the blissed-out, wonderous look on his face stops you. 

you want to see how he does it. how he looks when he lets go, when he realises you’re offering yourself up to him. 

“fuck me, ser,” you bat your lashes, lips curling sweetly around his title.

dunk notches himself at your entrance with a shaky hand. the first snug inch of your wet, hot walls has him doubling over. he knows he’ll never be able to go back to using his hand after this.you hide your wince at the stretch in his chest, breathing fast and deep through the initial burn. 

“oh, gods,” dunk whimpers like he’s in pain, gritting his teeth at the urge to shove all the way in. but he knows he’s bigger, and he has eyes to see the tears gathering at your lashline.

“am i hurting you, my lady?” his voice is strained, and it only makes you wetter to have him still concerned for you even at this moment. 

dunk blinks at the answering surge of wetness around him, and finds little resistance pushing the rest of his way in. he groans, loud and surprised, because you feel like heaven wrapped around him like this, and he can see the imprint of his cock within you.

he rests a gentle hand atop the bump, stroking his length through your belly. it shouldn’t be as erotic as it is, but the sight of it has your walls clenching down like a vice. the sensation of you gripping him has his hips jolting, thrusting into you sharply before he can control it.

the needy moan that tears out of your throat has him doing it again. and again, and again. until he falls into a toe-curling rhythm that has you crying out his name for the whole inn to hear, that is if they can’t already hear the filthy sounds of his balls slapping against your ass and the way your pussy weeps for him.

“fuck,” your sob is wet when dunk’s pistoning thrusts turn to deep grinds, the wiry hairs at the base of his cock catch on your clit. he wants to see how deep you can take him, how much space he can take up in your body. 

“gods, you’re perfect,” he grunts, dropping to his elbows to lick into your mouth. he grins when you can barely kiss him back, mouth agape as he ruins you for everyone else. 

you cum with his lips on yours, eagerly claiming all your sounds for himself. the delicious fluttering of your walls and how you clamp down like a vice has his hips stuttering. honourable as ever, he manages to stutter out–

“w-where, m’lady? where can i–”

your ankles cross at the dip in his lower back, cunt still twitching with the aftershocks as you drag him down so his entire weight is laid over you. “spill inside me, ser,” you gasp, tits bouncing from the force of his thrusts, “‘m yours.”

for a moment, dunk’s vision whites out, and he sees what he thinks is a prophetic vision of you, swollen with his child, tits heavy with milk to feed his babe. chasing after a smaller version of him, only with your hair and his eyes–

dunk cums with a broken moan of your name, flooding your womb with hot spurts of his seed as his hips follow the instinct of pushing it further into your pussy. you sigh at the feeling of being so wonderfully full, fingers carding through his hair to soothe him on the comedown. 

he’s still cumming, so much it spills from the seal formed by his cock, trickling down the crease of your thigh. dunk pants like he’s run a marathon, lifting his head the same time he gingerly withdraws from the loving heat of you.

he looks like he’s about to speak— probably profess his undying love, knowing him — but the sight of the white ropes leaking out of your hole has his brain go quiet.

he collects what’s escaped of your mixed releases, and you watch lazily as his features contort in pleasure when it reaches his tongue. his digits shine when he pulls them from his mouth.

he repeats the motion, in a trance, this time bringing his sticky fingers up to your lips. with nothing more than a scandalised huff, you clean him off, moaning low at the briny taste and the feeling of his thick fingers in your mouth. 

“y’know, it won’t take if you keep that up.”

dunk’s brows furrow, seeming to thoroughly think it through, not even questioning how you’d managed to guess what he’d been so caught up in — he’d accepted long ago that you’re some kind of mind reader. 

“hm,” dunk hums thoughtfully, hand pausing in its path along your spine-

“suppose we’ll just have to try again.”

[abbysbenchpr]

18+ minors dni

part 2 here

secret perv!dunk who insists on helping you off your horse every single time without fail. makes your heart flutter with it too, how he’ll stumble over the footholds of his ride just to make it over to you before you can even think of dismounting on your own.

none the wiser to the fact that this gentleman — so far and few between in westeros— kind, considerate dunk just really, really loves getting to look down the top of your dress.

when you lean over to put your hands on his shoulders, he’ll scarcely blink because for a split second, your tits are just a hair’s breadth from his face and he can feel them, soft and plush, dragging down his front as he lowers you to the ground.

he never gives you any reason to question his intentions. by the time you get your bearings, dunk’s already tying your horses to the post, leaving them with a gentle brush across their manes and the barest hint of an all-too-pleased grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

—

when you need to bathe, who else would you ask to stand guard, but your loyal hedge knight? he’ll follow you to the river, an obedient, steadfast watchdog who turns to give you privacy as soon as your hand lifts to the laces on your dress.

he holds his breath when the sound of heavy fabric hitting the earth reaches his ears. they burn with the knowledge that all he needs to do to see you is to turn around.

but he couldn’t. it would be an utter betrayal of your trust, of his honour. so he keeps a lethal grip on the hilt of his sword, ears straining as if listening to the sounds of you bathing was the next best thing to looking upon your bare form.

until, of course, you ask him to hand you the cloth you’d prepared to dry off with. it’s just out of your reach on the river bank, so dunk supposes he has no choice now.

he keeps his gaze trained on the ground, and by some luck you don’t notice when it flickers lightning quick, back and forth as if to piece a mosaic image of you in his mind for later.

you’re still in waist-deep water, back turned from him, but he’s close enough to see the divots along your spine and the beads of water trickling down the line of your neck.

dunk swallows, tracing their path with wide, hungry eyes.

the river laps just above the bend of your lower back, and when the current calms for a moment he gets a glimpse of the smooth curve of your ass, but it’s gone just as quick.

dunk has to snap his head to the side when he realises you mean to turn around, and he does so, a tad too quick.

but just in time to hide the way his cheeks burn as red as his ears. it shouldn’t affect him this way, knowing how much trust you have placed in him to keep him around even at your most vulnerable. especially then.

he tries not to wonder if that means he makes you feel safe, protected, because the thought alone is enough to make dunk’s head spin.

—

dunk likes to keep you and egg close. always within arm’s reach, despite how much the latter grumbles and groans.

dunk notes, with pride and something warmer settling in his belly, that you don’t seem to mind nearly as much.

especially now, at this crowded tavern, where the air is thick and everything is just this side of too-loud. you sit squashed to dunk’s side, thighs pressed far too closely together than what would be deemed proper in any other circumstance. but with the steady incoming stream of patrons, you don’t have much of a say.

dunk’s preoccupied with scarfing down his second plate of dinner, grumbling his assent when egg asks for the third time, “please, may i join the other squires, ser?”

“stay where i can see you,” dunk sighs into his mug. the man rolls his eyes half-heartedly when egg flashes you a bright grin before running off in a direction dunk decidedly can’t keep an eye on.

dunk turns his attention to you — seemingly just now noticing how much you’ve been leaning into him, the grimace you make when the woman sitting beside you uncaringly juts her elbow into your ribs.

he frowns, and tugs you with a gentle hand, only meaning to pull you away from the discomfort. though, between his strength and how precariously you’d been perched on the bench, you practically fly into dunk’s lap.

you blink up at him owlishly, because you already knew it but, seven hells, he’s big. you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, and your thighs sat over the large expanse of his own, firm with muscle and yet, soft beneath you.

“‘re you alright, m’lady?” dunk’s voice is a deep rumble now that you can feel it, and it sends shivers down your spine when you turn your head to meet those crystal blue eyes. all you find is concern.

“i am,” you say, hoping your voice isn’t as airy as you feel.

with one last contemplative look, dunk shrugs, and goes back to his meal — one handed. the other comes up to curl around your waist, anchoring you more firmly atop him.

you watch him chew, entirely undeterred, as if having you sitting on his lap wouldn’t get you any points and whispers. it certainly would, elsewhere, but it’s late, and everyone in this tavern is drunk or halfway to it, with surely much worse going on in dark corners.

so you settle into him with a sigh, nudging your half-finished plate over just as dunk cleans off his own. he takes it with a hum, fingers rubbing just under your rib cage in thanks.

the tip of his pinkie brushes the curve of your breast, and it makes you twitch. the slightest jolt, your core warming further when you realise the rest of his fingers splay over your abdomen. one large paw right over your middle, almost possessive.

your wide eyes shoot to his, but he makes no indication of anything amiss, sipping his ale as he watches the crowd.

he wonders if you can feel it. feel him. he’s been half-hard in his trousers since the first press of your leg to his, but as soon as your rear planted snug above his length, he went lightheaded with just how fast his blood rushed south.

he’s grateful for the excuse of dinner, busying his mouth and hands. one of them, at least. he tries his luck, stroking his thumb over your stomach and smiling into the rim of his ale when you shiver.

he watches you out of the corner of his eye as he pretends to search for egg. you use his lapse of attention to adjust yourself, hand braced atop one thick thigh, and that’s when it happens.

dunk knows you know.

he hears it in the way your breath hitches, fingers digging in just a little harder into the muscle of his leg. your ass falters midway, only for a heartbeat, before you’re planting yourself back down again.

this time, he can feel you. the heat between your legs, somehow through the layers separating you. dunk’s eyes widen, a choke lodging in his chest because he’s always been a little imaginative, but dunk swears he can feel the seam of you hugging his cock.

he wills himself to breathe normal, not to act. he’ll allow himself this, as long as there’s nothing else. he’ll stay like this until you inevitably get up, and this will be like all the other times — stored in his memory for when he’s got his fist curled around his cock behind a tree somewhere, hot and aching, with nothing but the recollection of you to bring him to his peak.

your hand remains, fingers curled into the fabric of his trousers. you lean back, nuzzling into his sturdy chest. he can smell your hair, the herbs and flowers used in your wash, and it goes straight down to the pulsing mess between his legs.

dunk knows he’s not imagining your hips twitching. he sees the quickening pace of your breaths by the rise and fall of your shoulders, swallowing the urge to curl his own around you, wrap his arms around your waist and manhandle you the way he wants.

then there’s a slow, deliberate drag when you straighten, craning your neck as you pretend to spot something in the distance. he wonders what’s going through your mind. surely, you know what you’re doing? though a proper lady such as yourself might not—

dunk fights back a pathetic groan at the notion that you’ve no idea the effect you have on him, and it takes every ounce of restraint to keep his own hips still. as much as he wants to buck, the roaring chaos of the tavern keeps his mind in check.

he realises too late that he needs you off. he can’t think like this, can’t protect you the way he ought to — not when the idea of you taking his cock just like this is running through his head as clear as day. would you want that?

dunk thinks he gets his answer when your fingers curl between his own that have been clutching your front.

he thinks he hears the tail end of a mourning sigh, and realises it had come from his own lips when you slide off his lap, back onto the now freed-up bench.

he’s confused, because just as much as he’d wanted you off seconds ago, he needs you back where you were now.

he spares a shy glance when your hand creeps back onto his thigh, much higher than it had been.

he only gets a split-second glimpse of your expression, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as your eyes twinkle up at him with a newfound mischief within.

egg comes bounding into view, quickly stealing your attention with a rapid, inaccurate retelling of a pentoshi tale.

you stand when the boy drags you outside the tavern, leaving dunk alone at the table with the ghost of your touch and a big, big problem.

[abbysbenchpr]

perv!dunk x reader • part 2

wc: 3.7k

content: smut, implied voyeurism, m masturbation, handjob, outdoors, cum eating :)

notes: hi all thank you for waiting and for all the comments and messages!! you guys are actually feral for dunk and shit, so am i! idk if i love this one, but i really hope it delivers and was worth the wait <3 i have a loose plan for part 3 but i'm about to get really busy again so idk when/if it'll be posted but we shall see!!

read part 1 here, drabble here

nsfw, 18+ minors dni

perv!dunk who starts getting bolder. the weight of your hand on his thigh has seared itself into the muscle, and if he concentrates hard enough he can smell the floral tinge of your hair from when you’d been in his lap.

he catches you staring sometimes. eyes caught over the fire, darkened by shadows and what he lets himself imagine is disguised desire.

still, he can’t be sure.

doesn’t want to get his hopes up, because what if it is so? he doesn’t know what he’d do with himself — doesn’t let himself consider what he’d do with you.

he tells himself there’s, objectively, nothing wrong with testing the waters. you haven’t shown yourself to be uncomfortable, haven’t told him to stop standing so close nor run off in the night to escape his near-constant ogling.

he reminds himself of the way you’d even pressed yourself against him that night in the tavern, leaning into his chest and letting him touch you.

so he lets his gaze linger. ever so slightly, a heartbeat longer than needed. and he’s not so shy about it anymore, either.

his blue eyes will drift in conversation, nodding along even though your voice sounds like it’s underwater. your lips are moving, and he’s drawn to the delicate curve of your cupid’s bow, the plush of your lips, that soft pink flash of your tongue when it darts out to wet your lips–

“ser?”

dunk is reluctant to draw his attention from your pretty mouth.

“hm?” he hums, tracing the outline of your lips once more before he forcibly drags his focus back to the rest of your face — your expression expectant, and a little bit flustered at how utterly unbothered he is to have been caught staring.

“is something the matter?” you ask him, eyes wide, because although this might be one of the many times he gets lost in thought, dunk actually looks rather peaked — cheeks ruddy and his breathing heavy.

dunk hums in question once more, utterly lost and fighting a losing battle against his imagination. your lips, those wide eyes staring up at him with fluttering lashes. an image pops into his mind before he can think to stop it — of your lips, stretched tight around his cock, suckling at his tip as he leaks for you, that wet tongue lapping up all he has to give.

dunk clears his throat, harsh and sudden. all the while, the back of your hand comes up to his forehead, lingering as your brows pull together in a frown.

“you’re warm, dunk,” you murmur. the man has the grace to feel a shred of guilt at the concern written plain over your face, and for his own depravity, thankfully still unbeknownst to you.

“think i’ll go lie down,” dunk’s voice cracks ever so slightly, nodding with his jaw set. his spine straightens from his slouch in his determination to not concern you any further.

your breath comes in a long exhale when you have to tilt your head further back, marvelling at the distance between your heights.

dunk touches your arm in a gentle bid goodbye, aiming to comfort, to reassure. in his turn to leave, he misses how your face shifts, nor can he see the flutters in your belly when you realise how easily his hand had completely encircled your wrist.

you find him later, all rested up and free of ailment, though as soon as you check his temperature, he’s reddening all over again.

—

dunk’s always strived to be good — a good knight, a good man. but he realises quickly after meeting you that he likes it especially when you’re the one calling him that.

you’re perched beside egg on a tree stump, both watching dunk slice through the air with his sword. he moves with brutal grace, and both of you are left in awe at how easily the metal moves in his grip. (you’d both attempted to lift it, once, when dunk had been asleep.)

you’re not technically supposed to be spectating, but you can’t help but clap for the man when he finally drives the sword into the earth by its point, leaning his weight upon the hilt.

“sevens above, dunk, you’re strong,” your comment carries over to where he’s panting, nostrils flaring as he tries to slow his breathing. wants you to think waving the massive sword around took nothing more than a modicum of effort.

your gaze dragging down his chest, his strong, clasped hands to his thick thighs, bulky even under those loose trousers. the way sweat makes his shirt cling to the contours of his chest, highlighting the softness of his stomach.

dunk’s cheeks flush from the praise. his head bows in a poor attempt to hide the pink in his face, running down his neck. he swears he sees a smug grin spreading across your lips, but ultimately turns away too quick to tell.

though there’s no hiding the way he stands taller after your compliment, puffing his chest as he goes back to his training.

he can see this becoming a problem, if the stirring in his trousers is anything to go by.

dunk wonders if there’s something wrong with him when he deliberately seeks out your praise — despite knowing of the very physical effects it has on him.

he’ll carry your pack for you, chop kindling in your direct view, even hoist egg upon his shoulders, all to hear you to call him strong again. (dunk pays egg with sweets in thanks.)

you praise him for his help — for always insisting on washing up after meals, packing up your bedroll before you can get to it and mending your skirts where they’ve ripped.

you’d called him brave once, and he’d really liked that. there had been a huge spider hiding amongst your things, and he’d volunteered to capture and release it. you’d thanked him — over, and over again. he’d been relieved when you hadn’t questioned why it took him so long to return.

at supper, you stare in awe as dunk goes for his third helping — whatever’s left of yours. a newfound tradition since that night at the tavern, he’ll look to you once you’ve set your plate down, brows high in question.

“go on,” you laugh, shuffling closer under the guise of handing him his food.

“sorry,” he says each time, without fail, yet doesn’t stop himself from digging into whatever you’ve got for him.

“don’t be,” you tell him, close enough your shoulders touch. dunk doesn’t falter, relaxing into the familiarity of you.

he wonders if you’re thinking of the last time you’d been in this position, if you’ve been agonising over that moment the way he has.

“you deserve it,” you tell him over the crackle of the fire, “for all you do for us.”

dunk stills as a shiver rolls down his spine. your voice is soft, intimate in a way he’s never considered himself worthy of.

you’re looking at him so sincerely that he feels completely wicked for picturing you saying those words in a different scenario.

one where you’re atop him once more, the way he so painfully desires, riding him, taking his length entirely. he thinks of how pretty you’d look with his cock buried deep, how wet you’d be as you murmur those sweet words into his waiting mouth for him to swallow down.

“you deserve it,” you’d break on a whimper as you let him take you the way he likes — burly hands wrapped around your waist, bouncing you on his cock easy as a ragdoll.

“thank you for protecting us,” you say, in the present, and it breaks dunk out of his reverie so suddenly he almost gasps.

his eyes flit to you, panicked. he can feel, even without looking, the tent growing between his legs, and gods help him, he doesn’t think he can manage to subtly drag his cloak over his lap when you’re looking right at him–

in his panic, he’s only half-aware that you’ve gone to bed with a “goodnight, dunk”.

it doesn’t register that you’ve left a kiss on his cheek either, until much later, when he rubs his face in frustration and his fingers come away tacky with the salve he’s seen you apply to your lips.

—

it’s getting unbearable. dunk feels it like an itch he isn’t able to scratch.

you’ve been on the road for days, trekking through fields of flat grass and meadows. as it were, dunk’s been unable to excuse himself into the woods and relieve some of the pressure constantly building between his legs.

open air, as far as the eye can see.

it sends a twitch to dunk’s eye, because he hadn’t always been this way. he’d been with ser arlan for years, and he’d simply never given much thought to satisfying himself. it was only ever something he did to let off steam — something quick, enough to tide him over.

it all changed with you. because now, he can’t pretend that side of him doesn’t exist. as soon as his eyes open in the morning, he’s faced with a walking reminder of how much he wants you.

and it makes him feel so much worse, because on top of it all, you’re lovely.

you happily care for him and egg, never once complaining of the various states of discomfort this life had to offer. he’d accepted your help because he’d needed it, and he thought egg would do well with something of a mother figure around. you’d made it an easy decision too, with how you’d been so kind, having taken egg under your wing the day you found him wandering a market, lost. dunk still thinks you’re getting the shit end of the stick, regardless of the way you vehemently deny it every time he tells you.

so it’s all the more insulting to your honour to think of you in such a way — he’d sworn to protect the innocent.

since you joined his travels, dunk’s been painting poor trees white as soon as he finds the chance to get away.

it starts a buzzing in his ears just to think about it, a weight settling firmly in his chest when he recalls how he’d tugged himself raw, shuddering through his highs with his hand braced against the bark.

biting his fist when he feels a whine bubbling in his throat, shoving the fabric of his shirt into his mouth just to stay quiet — gods forbid you come looking for the source of the odd sounds.

it’s been near a week since the last time, and dunk thinks he’s losing his mind. it irritates him more than he’d expected, falling victim to such base urges that he, a knight — hedge or not — should be in control of. instead he’s reduced to communicating through grunts and clipped sentences, and his acute awareness of that only serves to worsen his mood.

egg shares a frown with you when dunk shoots down yet another suggestion to make camp for the night, even with dusk rapidly approaching.

you murmur to egg to hold back, and to start unpacking. egg sends you a grateful, sheepish smile, watching as you bravely follow after dunk, still marching ahead, even as your footsteps approach.

“dunk,” you pull him to a stop with a hand on his bicep. you both know he could’ve easily kept walking. you’re rather surprised he’d stopped so readily, half-prepared to have that ire directed towards you for the first time.

“the poor boy’s exhausted,” you urge him, keeping your wary voice calm, but firm in that way that tells him there’s no point arguing. “and so are you.”

dunk exhales heavily, jaw set. he casts a glance over at egg’s sluggish movements as he struggles to set up the tent by himself. then at you, the hunch of your shoulders and the way you almost lean on him to keep you up.

dunk nods once, and lets you lead him back by the hand.

he makes easy work of the tent. dinner is a quiet affair — salt beef, to match the tension in the air. then everyone is off to bed.

except for dunk, who sets up his roll outside the tent, feet away from the opening.

“why are you staying out here?” you’re short with him, tired from overanalysing his sour mood. he’s never been this way before, according to egg, who had come to you with the worry he’s done something to upset ser duncan.

“need air,” dunk mutters, settling onto his bedroll and casting his gaze up at the night sky, seemingly intent on avoiding your eyes.

you can’t help but roll yours, lowering your voice at the sounds of egg clambering around the tent behind you. “if you’re upset about something, you ought to just say it.”

“‘m not upset.”

you snort at that, and dunk’s head lolls to the side to pin you with a glower.

“doesn’t seem like it,” your head tilts challengingly, arms crossed. dunk swears upon every god there is that he’s not going to look at your chest.

“egg is worried he’s done something wrong, and we both know he hasn’t,” your voice softens, and dunk’s chest heaves in a deep, heavy sigh because he knows you’re right.

“‘m not upset. i swear it.” he stares back at your disbelieving gaze, broken by a yawn pulling at your lips. dunk tries his very best to bite back a smile, knowing from the curve of your lips that you wouldn’t appreciate it. he turns his face back to the stars.

“go to bed,” he tells you with finality, and even though it irks you to listen, you do.

“you’d better be on your best behaviour tomorrow, ser duncan.”

—

the tent falls still quickly, and the only sounds for miles are the crickets and egg’s soft snores. you stare at the ceiling of the tent, wistfully wishing you were as dead-asleep as the boy next to you.

you’ve been tossing and turning for what feels like hours. replaying on a loop your conversation with dunk, wondering what on earth could’ve crawled up his pants and left him so snappy.

you come up empty, and decide to find out what’s been bothering him as soon as the sun rises.

you’ve just about fallen asleep, eyelids heavy, when a rustling from outside the tent catches your attention. you sit up, straining to hear it again, and it picks up in volume, that same rustling, again and again.

then a pained groan.

you’re shooting up out of bed quicker than you’d thought possible, grabbing your dagger just in case, because if dunk’s being attacked by a wild animal or a raider, you’d best not be unarmed.

you lift the flap to the tent slowly, peering out with your heart racing. bracing yourself for bloodshed and gore, dunk wounded or worse–

at that thought, you step out of the tent, perhaps foolishly. the nighttime chill is a slap to the face, and it takes a second for your eyes to adjust.

fortunately, there is no attacker, no wild animal come to harm your knight.

only ser duncan, fisting his cock. his head pressed back against the earth, neck bared in a long, thick line. the covers bunched at his waist, his arm pumping steady beneath the fabric.

with his eyes squeezed shut, he hasn’t noticed your presence. you watch how a muscle in his jaw ticks when he clenches his teeth, legs shaking at every upward pass. he pants with the effort of staying quiet, albeit not doing a very good job.

your own breath stalls in your lungs, watching with rapt attention every twitch in his expression. you don’t dare blink, completely frozen in place. you should leave, return him his privacy after trampling all over it.

but then it all clicks into place. his irritability of late, the tense line of his shoulders and how he barely could bring himself to look at you for longer than a minute — he’d just needed a little release.

dunk’s throat strains in a bitten-back groan, and you instinctively look over your shoulder, making sure egg remains asleep.

when you finally turn back, dunk’s eyes are open, directly trained on you.

his hand has stilled, and he doesn’t even seem to be breathing. he wonders if he’s dreaming. perhaps this was nothing more than one of those dreams again, the ones that would leave him with a pathetic mess in his pants come morning.

but no, not a dream. you’re within arms’ reach, wide eyes mirroring his own, lips parted on a silent gasp when you realise you’ve been spotted.

the air hangs heavy, charged with a silence punctuated by your thundering heartbeats.

you move first, silently closing the distance and kneeling in the dirt beside him.

he’s quick to open his mouth to apologise, still uncomprehending of the heat in your greedy gaze and his “i’m sorry” quickly dissolves into a confused groan when your hand suddenly comes up to cover his mouth.

“mmph-” is all he can manage. even in the night, you see the whites in his eyes when you tug the covers down with a ferocity he’s never seen in you before. you knock aside his sticky hand and admire the pearlescent streaks smeared over his palm.

“do you want me to stop?” you whisper, the cup of your palm loosening over his chin. but you get your answer when dunk grips your wrist in both of his hands, uncaring of the wetness as he brings your hand back to clamp tight over his mouth.

you, with barely-contained lust, hardly need to wait before he shakes his head emphatically, tousling his sandy blond hair more than it already is. his brows pull tight in a silent plea.

your lips quirk into a relieved smile, and you curl trembling fingers around his length. the skin is velvet soft, and oh, so hot.

he’d looked big in his own hand, the dripping head flushed the same rosy shade as his cheeks. in your grasp, he dwarfs your single palm, fingers unable to fully wrap around him.

dunk’s eyes roll back at the sight, the way you squeeze your fist tight, and drag slowly up. it feels like forever until you cover the full distance, thumb sweeping over his head to collect the sticky beads gathering there.

his dual grip around your wrist is sure to bruise with how intensely reliant he is on your mere palm to muffle his strained noises.

everything is ten times amplified when it’s your skin on his. he watches in lightheaded, dumbstruck bliss when your head dips, dribbling your own spit down his cock. it gets wetter, your hand sliding easier up and down, and dunk worries he might have to bite.

he wants to tell you everything, wax poetic about the heaven that is being jerked off by you, but he can’t seem to find the words. doubt he could, anyway, even without the beginnings of a life-altering orgasm tugging at him.

“y’know, i saw you,” you whisper, eyes twinkling in the dark. “you snuck off once and i followed. saw you touching yourself. never thought i’d be jealous of a tree.”

dunk’s heart stutters in his chest. good gods, which time had you followed? his stomach lurches at the revelation, and a ragged groan tears out of him at the picture of you hiding in the woods, watching him pleasure himself.

“dunk, you need to be quiet,” you remind him in a sharp whisper. he’s getting louder — babbling behind the shield of your palm, tongue flicking at the salt of your skin.

you squeeze him almost too-tight, and a whimper lodges itself in his throat. he finds your eyes in the dark, and hopes you can read what he’s trying to say. he could just tell you himself, but he doesn’t trust his voice, and he likes your hand where it is.

“are you close? is that it?” your voice is close to his ear, lowering your head down to his so you can watch yourself jerk his cock from his perspective.

dunk nods, a heavy, lazy nod of his head, hips bucking as if to show you — look, this is what you’ve done to me.

he tries to push up on his elbows, to twist away from the impending wave of pleasure, but you’re faster.

your hand over his wet mouth rips away before he can stop it, flying down the length of his body to cup his heavy balls. the feeling of you stroking a finger along his seam has him scrambling to clamp his own fat palms where yours had been.

your soft giggle at his reaction reaches his ears, and that’s really all it takes.

dunk huffs and puffs behind his hands, eyes rolled back as he cums in spurts over your fist, claiming your touch for himself.

his stomach caves with the strangled gasp he makes, the hard planes of his abdomen spasming with the intensity of his peak.

you stroke him through it, murmuring soft praises against his cheek that has him leaning into you.

he’ll, reluctantly, push your hand away from overstimulation and collapse into his back, sucking in deep mouthfuls of air, having nearly suffocated himself in his attempts to quell his debauched noises.

dunk pins you with an incredulous look, shaking his head as his chest rumbles with a chuckle.

“thank you,” he says, still breathless and prone as he watches you clean the mess of your hand — with your tongue.

“don’t need to thank me, silly,” you tell him, easy as, after licking his cum off the tip of your finger. dunk worries then, that this really is all just a dream, because surely, this reality where your lashes are fluttering at the taste of him is not one he’d be lucky enough to exist in.

“should’ve just told me why you were being a right grump. could’ve quit your pouting days ago.”

dunk laughs, low and breathless, a little embarrassed for you to have so easily deduced the source of his frustration.

“aye,” he hums, eyes swimming with affection. “i’ll let you know next time.”

you make a teasing, noncommittal sound at that, turning on your heel to retreat back into the tent. “does this mean you’ll come inside now?”

gods, he hopes it does.

[kfa-343]

This is amazing. I don’t even know where this character is from, I just stumbled across this and wowowowowow LOVED it. Great job:)

[scarletmika]

My Person : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x Thunderbolts!Reader

Summary: Neither you nor Bob ever dared to fully cross the line of friendship or more, walking it like a tightrope instead. All it takes is one undercover mission for that tightrope to snap.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI, SMUT (unprotected p in v, dirty talk, praise, might be a slight hint of a breeding kink in there, slight bit of superpower usage), porn with a LOT of plot, fluff, friends to lovers, lots of pining, sort of a fake marriage trope, one bed trope, language, some mental health talk, female reader, alcohol consumption, some Agents of SHIELD spoilers actually, Thunderbolts spoilers obviously

Word Count: 16,400 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here A/N: special thanks to @briseisgone for checking my French in this!!!!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

"W-Wait...you want to send Bob and me on an undercover mission?"

Valentina let out an aggravated sigh, the same one she typically gave her rag-tag team of new Avengers. She stood at the head of the conference room table, perfectly manicured hand, as always, tapping incessantly on the glass tabletop. The look in her eyes displayed boredom, maybe even a hint of exasperation, as she looked directly at you.

“God–am I speaking Russian? Have I been spending too much time around the mall Santa over here?” her hand gestured out in the direction of Alexei. When no one spoke up, she continued. “Yes, Viper, I’m sending you and the man-child on this mission.”

“An undercover mission, that’s the part you’re glossing over that I-I really don’t think you should be,” you tried to reason with the woman, but she simply held her hand in the air to stop you.

“It’s the fastest mission of your life, Viper, it’s a single day: get in, get the information, get out. And if I remember correctly–well if Mel read the paperwork correctly–it was you that signed off on Robert’s combat forms and said he was fieldwork and combat ready,”

Well, she wasn’t wrong. That was your signature on those papers, signing off to approve Bob Reynolds for actual combat with the team on missions. You had been the one to hand-train him yourself for months on end, three hours a day in the training center, helping him to understand that his powers were a part of him and that he didn’t need to play the part of “The Sentry” to use them.

Hand-to-hand combat and the power of a thousand exploding suns were vastly different from undercover field work, though.

“Valentina, you’re missing the part where you’re sending them on an undercover mission,” Yelena chimed in, leaning her elbows forward on the table next to you as she voiced your own concerns out loud. “He’s combat cleared, we’ve taken him on small missions here and there-”

“He was very helpful with the gang problem last month!” Alexei cut in with a boisterous laugh. “They were such funny little men, looked like they were fake Russians. He made quick work of them, even if he apologized when he sent that one flying across the room-”

“The point is, undercover work is different,” it was Bucky who cut in this time, sitting directly across from you and Yelena, looking around at the group before his gaze cut back to Valentina. “Undercover work takes a certain level of care. It’s a lot of quick thinking in fast-paced environments, and it requires the ability to remain calm and adapt to anything that could happen. I just…I don’t think Bob is cut out for that kind of work yet.”

You hated agreeing with your team, but they were right. Bob brought a value to this team that sometimes couldn’t be accurately quantified, and you didn’t like talking down on him in any sort of way. He was valuable, he was helpful…he was your best friend, but he just wasn’t cut out for undercover work, at least not right now.

Valentina took one look around the room, scoffing with a mutter of “unbelievable” under her breath. With a snap of her fingers, Mel was by her side in a second to pass her a manila folder, shooting the rest of you an apologetic look as she stepped away. Valentina flicked the folder open, gaze rising to settle on you.

“Oh, look what we have here: SHIELD Special Agent 19, codename Viper,” the deep sigh you let out was inevitable as Valentina paced the front of the conference room, reading straight from your file. “A liaison for the original Avengers, looks like you did some work with Yelena’s sister. Let’s see, notable missions–ah! Project TAHITI, Project Deathlok, a mission to Puerto Rico that ended in the deaths of three HYDRA leaders. Need I list off more?”

You mumbled something under your breath about how much you loved this “walk down memory lane” that drew a short chuckle out of Yelena, before Valentina continued to read through the file.

“Over 37 different undercover missions spanning the likes of Berlin, São Paulo, Mumbai, and even Osaka: all successful, by the way. There’s even a review section about your superb skills with an FN SCAR-H, MGC M-16, and your favorite, the Nemesis Arms Vanquish. Oh, and your lethal little twin daggers, all coupled with this glowing review about how you were one of the best agents to ever step foot in SHIELD,” Valentina flipped the manila folder closed, tossing it onto the table with pursed lips. “Let’s not forget that all of that? Yeah, it’s all personally signed off by Nick Fury.”

“I love reading time with Valentina, it’s so fun,” Walker huffed out a bitter laugh, leaning back in his chair with arms folded behind his head. “Can you read my file next? I’m dying to relive my short few weeks as Captain America.”

As much as Walker could be a dick at times, his humor in moments like these was much appreciated. Except to Valentina, who only shot him another glare.

“My word is final. I have one of SHIELD’s best special agents on my team, and I’m using her. And yeah, you’re taking Robert with you,” with a snap of her fingers once more, Mel passed her another manila folder that was slid in your direction. You had barely stopped it under your hand before Val had slid the large pair of expensive sunglasses on top of her head over her face, shooting a fake grin around the room. “Now, I have a meeting with the Senator, followed by a stint on a beach in Fiji. I trust you all can handle this: try not to call!”

The sound of her heels clicking against the linoleum floor echoed through the room, before the large conference door swung shut with a heavy click.

Silence hung in the air between the team for a moment before all hell broke loose.

“He’s just not cut out for a mission like this. I’m sorry, I have to say it,”

“Bobby apologized to that gang member last month when he threw him across a room. We want to send this guy undercover?”

“Ah, but he is The Sentry! He is most equipped to protect our stabby-stabby friend, Miss Viper,”

With another sigh, you flipped the manila folder in front of you over. With a quick skim down the page, you got the gist of the mission: HYDRA, possibly regrowing, attempting to get their hands on Adamantium.

Just the word HYDRA had a pang of hurt hitting you straight in the chest. Great. Just great.

“We can argue as much as we want, but we aren’t the ones assigned to a mission with him,” your ears perked up at Yelena’s voice, turning your head to look at her. She was already looking toward you. “Do you think he can handle this?”

“Personally? I’m terrified that undercover work is going to be a lot on him. He’s gotten more comfortable with letting his Sentry powers show at times and with hand-to-hand, but undercover is different,” you explained, treading carefully around what you said. “It’s taken months for him to feel comfortable on his medication, especially after Dr. Kim changed his dosage at least four times. Undercover work…it’s intense, I don’t want him to get overwhelmed.”

Ava leaned forward on the table, drawing your attention to her.

“Viper, while it’s a valid concern…Valentina hasn’t left us with much of a choice,”

You sighed, flipping the manila folder closed once again.

“No. No, she didn’t,”

You didn’t speak another word, and the team took it as the official end of the meeting. All but Yelena, who stayed behind even as the conference room doors shut again. She sat quietly for a moment before speaking.

“So…you’re totally not nervous about being alone with Bob, right?”

“Why would I be?” you questioned, and Yelena just looked at you expectantly. “Oh god–Lena, don’t start this again–”

“The heart eyes you two give each other make me sick,” she faked throwing up, laughing as she dodged the kick you sent toward her chair while shaking your head, trying to rid yourself of the heat crawling into your skin. “Always looking at one another, he’s always stumbling over his words–more than usual–around you, always being so touchy touchy together, and so on and so forth with the cuteness overload day in and day out.”

She took the manila folder from your hands, skimming over the mission details as you scoffed in her direction.

“So we spend a lot of time together, so we can be a little touchy, what’s wrong with that? Friends are like that all the time!”

“Um, except Bob is notoriously not touchy with anyone, given the whole interconnected shame room incident,” Yelena simply stared at you, blinking multiple times in succession. You stared back, before she simply threw the manila folder down with a sigh. “Fine, fine, don’t listen to me and solve the glaringly obvious romantic–and slightly sexual–tension, wallow in it for all I care. I wish you luck in Paris, of all places, ignoring that.”

The mission weighed heavily on your mind later that night. Yelena’s thoughts lingered, too, in the back of your head.

The tower’s kitchen was quiet, except for the playlist currently playing out of your phone’s speaker from where it sat plugged in on the counter. The sun had already set, and the team was all off on their own set schedules. 

Walker was finally making a supervised visit with his estranged wife and child, like you’d been hounding him to do for months. Ava had said something about catching a movie at the theater down the road, while Alexei had roped Yelena into ‘father-daughter bonding’ at a Broadway show (you were sure they’d be home soon and Alexei would somehow get them kicked out). Bucky had simply retired to his room, leaving you to your own thoughts in the kitchen.

Two pots were boiling on the stove. You had just added the spaghetti sauce into one and half of the box of noodles into another, humming under your breath as some song that Tony used to play around this very tower played off your phone.

“S-Smells good,”

You jumped slightly, heart rate spiking, before you turned. The sight of Bob leaning against the kitchen doorway, clad in a white t-shirt and one of his many pairs of grey sweatpants, had your guard back down in a second. With a quick stir of the noodles, you pointed the now-soaked utensil in Bob’s direction with a grin.

“Haven’t you been warned not to sneak up on dangerous agents anymore? After the last time Yelena almost stabbed you?”

The blush coating his cheeks at the simple mention of the incident had you laughing, nodding your head toward him to beckon him over. He crossed the room without hesitation, feet shuffling across the cold floor until he was leaning on the counter next to the stove.

“Well…you’re different. I-I hope you wouldn’t try to stab me,”

“On purpose? No. Scare me like that again? Maybe,” you added the rest of the box of noodles to the boiling water without having to ask, not missing the tiny quirk of his lips as you did.

Without having to ask, he took another large spoon from the utensil holder, lazily stirring around the sauce in the pot next to him. You shot him a grateful smile, keeping your eyes on the noodles in your own pot.

“Homemade garlic bread?” Bob questioned, gesturing down to the lit oven below you both. You could see his smile stretch just the tiniest bit wider. “You know I-I love your homemade garlic bread.”

“I know, that’s why I made it,” you teased him, bumping your hip lightly against his own as he let out a short laugh. “I figured you would come crawling out of your room eventually and get hungry tonight.”

The kitchen went quiet for another moment. Bob backed out of the way, letting you open the oven to a rush of warm air and check on the bread.

He took your spoon from you without having to be asked, stirring the noodles and the sauce as you crossed the kitchen to the fridge. With a wine glass and a normal tall glass placed before you, you poured him a cup of water before pouring yourself a generous amount of sangria from your favorite bottle in the fridge–it still had a sticky note on the side to tell Ava to keep her hands off of it.

“I had a dream last night. B-But…I think it was more like a memory,”

Bob’s sudden comment had you pausing, placing the wine bottle back down on the counter carefully, and turning. His back was to you, still focused on the stovetop, but even you could see the tension suddenly riddled throughout his body, in the subtle flex of his arms.

“What was it?”

“New York, the…the incident,” he struggled to explain that day, but you knew what he was talking about. “D-Do you remember what you said to me that day? When you…pulled me out of there?”

Of course you did. You remembered the shame room incident like it was yesterday. Reliving the day you thought you lost your mentor, the crumbling of SHIELD, the comforting hand of your mentor on your shoulder when you learned the man you thought you loved and trusted had really been-

You remembered Bob. Jumping into those shame rooms to find him, to break through every wall until you found Yelena, and until you both found Bob. Wrapping him in your arms after fighting tooth and nail across the room until you got to him, holding him as he cried.

I’ve got you. I’m not leaving, not now, not ever. You don’t have to carry it alone; I’ll carry it with you.

With both glasses in hand, you placed them on the island counter. You placed two plates beside them before you rejoined Bob’s side. He handed you back your own utensil without a word, and you took it, fingers just barely brushing his. You could see those little bumps rise on his skin where you touched him, and it brought a soft smile to your face.

“That I wasn’t leaving, that I’d carry your burdens with you,” you spared him a glance from the corner of your eyes, and he was already looking at you. “It was a memory, Bob. That’s what I told you, and I meant it.”

God, when you said you would carry his burdens with him, did you mean it. Every therapy session Valentina had ordered for him, you were at his side–at his request, of course. He refused to sit through the first few without you, and after that, he was just too used to you being around for them.

Those therapy sessions turned into late-night conversations on the couch when his insomnia took over. Walks around Central Park in the middle of the day. Visits to his favorite local bookstore to find something new to read. 

It was hard not to become someone’s person when you spent every moment with them.

“Okay, good. Would be kind of awkward if it was just a dream,” you sputtered out a short laugh, leaning into his side with another small nudge to his hip. “You know, t-the same goes for you, right? That I’m here, that uh…that I have your back. Especially if we’re, you know, on missions or something…”

In the middle of stirring your pot, you hung your head with an audible sigh.

“Let me guess, Yelena told you about the mission we’re assigned?” he gave you a small nod. “I promise I was going to tell you, probably after dinner, after I had time to fully think about the logistics of it all.”

Bob took the pot off the stove as you switched it off, swinging it over to the sink and helping you empty the contents into the strainer, the excess water rushing off down the drain.

“She wanted to warn me, given that it’s undercover and all,” Bob explained, putting the empty pot back on one of the burners that was cooled off as you shook the rest of the water from the strainer. “I just…I want you to know that I-I can do this. That I won’t let you down o-or make it worse.”

Bob’s negative self-talk always caught your attention. Even when it wasn’t as glaringly obvious, when it was just hidden in his little comments, you always picked up on it. He seemed to know you did, already looking at you when you turned to give him a knowing look.

“Bob-”

“Yeah, I know, ‘replacing my negative thoughts with positive thoughts will lead to positive results’ or whatever it is Dr. Kim keeps telling me,” Bob tore the spoon stirring the sauce out of the pot and waved it around, flinging little bits of sauce everywhere. You couldn’t help your laughter as some of it splattered across his face, but he paid no attention to it. “I-I know undercover work is different from the little work that I-I have done, but I can do it, especially if it’s with you. I know I can.”

There was a beat of silence before you reached forward, fingers just barely grazing along his skin to wipe the little bit of spaghetti sauce from his cheeks. It was noticeable, the little way that Bob leaned into your touch, the only touch on the team that he actively allowed and didn’t shy away from all the time.

One strand of that dark brown hair fell in front of his eyes as he leaned into you, and you didn’t hesitate to swipe it back. Those striking blue eyes never looked away from you, and you found yourself lost in those ocean-like eyes and the softness they held. They were beautiful…Bob was beautiful, inside and out, and you had always known it. That flutter of your heart and that warm feeling that pooled in your stomach all but screamed it at you.

“I just worry that it could overwhelm you, bring up negative memories, that’s all. But I trust you. So, if you say you can do it, then I believe you. As long as you promise me that you’ll tell me the second something doesn’t feel right, if you feel overwhelmed.”

Bob’s smile quirked just slightly into that slightly smug little smirk you’d seen just a few times before, mainly when he managed to make a dig at Walker that always set the super soldier off. He held his hand up, pinky outstretched, and you laughed wholeheartedly before wrapping your own around his.

“I promise I’ll tell you,”

“Good. Do we need a secret code word if it comes up?” you teased.

“I mean…’cucumber’ works for many moments,”

You both laughed, pinkies still intertwined.

“Cucumber it is,”

❤︎

“The mission basics are simple: it’s been confirmed that remnants of HYDRA are still scattered across the globe, and they’re trying to regroup and gain momentum again. Somewhere in that rebuild, they’re trying to get their hands on Adamantium, that metal harvested from that Celestial body in the ocean. Intel suggests their plan is to get it from a French arms dealer by the name of Damien Jacquemin. His company runs out of the United States; it’s based somewhere in Texas, but he conducts his personal business as far from his company as he can. Not a guy we want to tussle with, Stark knew him well back in his heyday of weapons manufacturing,”

Valentina’s team had recreated the old SHIELD and Avengers quinjets fairly accurately, with their own additions. The cockpit was separated from the rest of the jet to offer more privacy, a more spacious backend area than what you were used to in the past. A large conference table sat in the middle of the room, big enough to seat your team of seven around. Bob was sitting at that conference table now, flicking through the holopad you’d set in front of him, while you paced the open space behind him as you spoke.

“He’s hosting a one-day conference of sorts in Paris, but it’s a ruse to distract him from meeting with his potential HYDRA clients. This conference will consist of high-profile arms dealers and investors from around the globe,” you leaned down over Bob’s shoulder, flicking the holopad to the next screen. “He’s rented out this entire little hotel for the conference. It’s a boutique hotel, only 25 rooms, so the guest list is small and the conference room is small, meaning this is going to be an intimate event. It’s at least got nice views of the Eiffel Tower, so at least we have a view.”

“Okay…” Bob breathed out the word, sitting up straighter in his chair as he turned around to face you. You couldn’t help but smile at those eyes that were as wide as a deer’s in headlights, his hand tugging at the collar of the white button-down he was donning, tucked into his black pants. “S-So what are we doing?”

“We are guests of the conference, much like all the others in attendance. This conference is only a day long, so we have a short timeframe to work with to get this information,” you crossed the room over to the expensive designer purse waiting for you, digging out the fake passport and license for each of you, and passing Bob’s over to him. “These are our identities. If you can’t remember, just let me do most of the talking. Our job is to avoid as much direct contact with Mr. Jacquemin as we can, as he is the most likely to sniff us out as undercover. We are to determine which guests are the HYDRA agents in disguise, and be close enough to determine if a sale of Adamantium is happening and where it will happen, so we can alert our team. All while…not getting caught, of course.”

Bob examined the passport and license in his hand, and you could see the tiny shake in them. It brought a frown to your face as he turned it to you, smiling just a bit.

“M-My name is Mr. Aidan Gray?” you laughed lightly, seeing Bob look between you and that terrible photo of him with his hair slicked back for the fake ID.

“For this weekend? Yes,” you flashed him your own ID and license, before stalking back over to your purse to put them away where they’d stay safe. “You’re the extremely wealthy son of a former American arms dealer, Russell Gray, who did work with Stark Industries back in the day. Now, you own Gray Enterprises. I’m your loving and adoring wife, Mrs. Eloise Gray.”

“W-Wait, we’re…we’re married for this?”

You paused, cheeks heating up as you remembered that little, yet big, detail of the mission. Turning on your heel, Bob was now standing from his seat, eyes blown wide again and cheeks flushed the deepest shade of red you had ever seen on him.

“W-Well, statistically, these missions go smoother when marriage is used as a cover,” you stumbled a bit, trying to find the right words to explain a decision of the mission that had been entirely your call. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable with this-”

“No! No y-you didn’t,”

Something hung in the quiet space between you both just then, something you had been avoiding for months. You avoided it in every therapy session when Bob took your hand in his, in every late-night talk on the common room couch while rain pattered against the tower windows until you fell asleep with your head on his shoulder, and in every look and gentle touch you exchanged.

The brush of hands, Bob’s hand always brushing against your lower back when he moved past you, the times when he’d wake up after you in the morning and wrap himself around you from behind in the kitchen in greeting, never fully understanding his actions so early in the morning with sleep still in his eyes. All moments that fluttered your heart in ways you tried to ignore.

“We just have to play it up at the conference, is all,” you reassured him, hands gliding down the sides of your dress as if brushing off non-existent dust. 

Bob’s eyes were still blown wide, but he couldn’t help but let laughter flow from him, still slightly breathy. You quirked your head, smiling nonetheless at his actions, shoving that stupid heat pooling within you away.

“I-It’s just funny…Walker always jokes that we act like a married couple. Now he’s, like, k-kind of right,”

Okay, maybe Yelena had a point. There was a glaringly obvious rope of romantic tension that was hanging between you and Bob. It was a feeling you were aware of, that you tried to ignore for many reasons, but in moments like this it was more prevalent and obvious than usual.

That softness in his eyes, reserved just for you. It conveyed trust, complete and total trust, something Bob didn’t feel with many people. You were one of the lucky ones, if not the only lucky one.

The red light by the door to the cockpit blinked twice, illuminating the room: the signal that you would be landing. A secure location just outside of Paris, where an arranged car would pick you both up and transport you to your hotel.

“Well, you know how Walker can be. Always joking,” you did your best to laugh, even if it was slightly strained. An awkward smile crossed his lips before you walked past him, giving him a quick pat on the arm. “Get ready, we’re landing in a moment.”

The landing went off without a hitch, the sleek, black car awaiting you with Valentina’s personnel picking you up without an incident.

The drive into Paris city limits took an hour, a quiet hour. There was some channel playing through the car, a revolving slate of French songs. But neither you nor Bob spoke.

You watched him instead, as the sun set throughout the drive and the city lights lit up. The way the yellow of the lights reflected through the car windows, painting Bob in their soft light. The way the yellow reflected off the blue of his eyes, reminding you of the gold that shimmered through them when the Sentry serum took hold. 

That tiny smile on his face, those wide eyes as he took in every street, every building, every group of people lining the street. It took a lot to stop the flutter of your heart at the sight.

“Bienvenue à Paris, Monsieur et Madame Gray! Nous attendions votre arrivée, veuillez me suivre,” the young man waiting in the lobby of your hotel greeted you enthusiastically, accent heavy, the second you and Bob stepped through the doors. Bob’s hand was wrapped in yours, and the second you were greeted in a language he couldn’t understand with fake names, you felt his grip tighten. You gave him what you hoped was a comforting squeeze back, giving the greeter a kind smile as you fell into step beside him, your bags taken by the bellhop at Bob’s other side. “Souhaitez-vous être accompagné jusqu'à votre chambre?”

“Non, mais merci de votre offre,” you responded in kind, the language rolling off your tongue with a practiced ease. You could see Bob’s head shoot up to look at you from the corner of your eye as you waved the greeter’s offer to escort you both to your room off. “Mon mari et moi avons eu un long vol, nous voulons juste nous reposer.”

“Bonne nuit, Madame,”

The keycard to your room was passed to you with another kind smile from the man. Bob stepped into the elevator first, pulling you along with him, before the bellhop placed your bags in the room with you and pressed the fifth floor button for you both. He bid you both another goodnight before the doors shut, leaving the two of you alone once more.

“Y-You speak French?”

There was a smirk on your face as you glanced at Bob, who looked astonished and impressed by what he had just seen.

“And Spanish, they were both taught to us during my SHIELD special training,”

“I liked the way you spoke it,” Bob’s voice dropped just slightly lower, slightly softer. “It…it was pretty.”

Heat was crawling through your skin as you slipped your hand from his, wiping it along your dress with a nervous laugh.

“W-Well, like they say…it is the language of love, and whatnot. Elegant and…all that,”

Silence fell between you both again as the elevator doors swung open on your floor. The room, 512, was just barely down the hallway, opening with a single flick of the keycard. Bob went to take a step forward, but you placed a hand on his chest, pulling him back and stepping into the room first, pulling the concealed gun from your thigh holster with a practiced ease as you did.

“First step of undercover, Bob: always assume you’re one step behind so that you never walk in blind,”

The hotel room was small: a tiny door that led to the bathroom to the right of the main door, a king-sized bed spread out along the entire wall with just enough space for the dresser, and floor-to-ceiling windows that opened up onto the skinny balcony.

A quick sweep of the room and the typical spots confirmed that it wasn’t bugged and that no one besides housekeeping had stepped foot in there within the last few hours, so you gave Bob a nod to enter the room as you slotted your gun back into its holster.

“N-Never been in a hotel this nice,” Bob muttered as he entered the room, looking around the room with a look in his eyes that you could only compare to childlike glee. He took a seat on the edge of the bed, letting out a sigh as he fell back against the quilt and practically sank into it. “Or a city so pretty.”

You smiled to yourself, moving to lock the door to the room. Reaching into your purse, you slid a small, circular device onto the door, one that would alert you if there was any unauthorized breach of the door. You reentered the main room, placing a similar device beside the window to the balcony, this one scrambling outside interference with the room so that anything said within your four walls would stay private information.

“You went to Malaysia, I’ve been there. It’s a beautiful country,”

“I went there to score drugs, I-I wasn’t staying in five-star hotels like this one,”

Bob sat up on the bed as he spoke, looking over to you. You leaned against the wall by the window, arms folded over your chest as you watched him, laughing lightly at his comment.

“Alright, you got me there, Reynolds. Fair point,”

Silence hung for a second before Bob finally looked around the room, glancing down to the bed under his fingertips before looking up at you with wide eyes once again.

“Um…t-there’s only one bed?”

“Oh…”

Yeah, oh. That thought hadn’t exactly crossed your mind when Valentina’s team sent you the booking for the room, or when you did the initial sweep of the room moments ago.

Okay, this wasn’t a problem. There were plenty of pillows, and you could easily make up a place to sleep on the floor. This also wasn’t your first rodeo with an undercover mission; you had done plenty in the past and made do with a lot less to work with. Sleeping in a bathtub wasn’t the most uncomfortable thing in the world, depending on the size of it-

“We could…we could share?”

That comment snapped you out of your thoughts. Bob looked at your sheepishly, his hands wringing together in a way you’d come to know well, but there was a spark of something in his eyes. Something that looked a lot like hope.

Your teeth gnawed at your bottom lip, the thought flickering through your head, before you gave him a hesitant nod.

“As long as you’re okay with it,”

“W-We fall asleep sitting on the couch together all the time. This is the same thing, just…horizontal,”

Bob may have hated his social awkwardness, but you were thankful for it. Especially in moments like this, where it broke tension so effortlessly. A laugh sputtered from your lips as you quickly covered it with your hand, and a tiny grin stretched across Bob’s face at the sound.

“Well, how can I argue with logic like that? Let me just…get changed,”

You spent too long in the bathroom, and you knew it. You had changed ten minutes ago into your sleep shorts and oversized t-shirt that you had stolen from Bucky weeks ago after he’d stained one of yours during a Walker and Ava-initiated food battle in the middle of dinner over a pointless argument.

The ten minutes since changing had been spent staring into the mirror in the pristine bathroom, trying to ground yourself.

Bob was right, you had essentially slept with each other multiple times before. This time, though, was different. Yeah, as Bob so expertly put it, you were horizontal this time, but you were in a bed and alone in Paris, not on a couch in the middle of the tower common room where any of your early riser teammates could walk in unannounced. It was such a mundane thing, sleeping next to someone, when you thought about it, but a much more intimate thing for Bob to feel comfortable enough to let you do with him.

He trusted you, completely. You tried to remind yourself of that when your mind drifted to how much or how little clothing he possibly wore to bed, or the fact that his body naturally functioned like a furnace because of the serum running through his veins. Or the impure fantasies that flicked through your head late at night when you were alone in your room in the tower, imagining how his lean and taut muscles and soft skin would feel under the touch of your wandering hand.

Bob was already tucked into one side of the bed by the time you finally entered the room. Just the bedside lamp remained on, bathing the room in a tiny bit of a yellow glow. You didn’t look at him directly as you shut the curtains to the balcony, but you could see the hint of bare skin peaking just above the covers from where he lay.

Without a word, you crawled in beside him, tucking yourself in with your head resting on the soft pillow on your side. You turned on your side, gaze trailing over the side of his face and his jawline, before Bob turned to face you too.

Nothing was said for a moment. You could faintly smell that body soap that Bob used, that hint of rosemary and sage invading your senses. His feet were moving back and forth under the covers, as if fidgeting when his hands couldn’t, and his body heat was prevalent in the sheets and in the air between you.

“S-Sorry,” he mumbled out, glancing down just barely at his own torso as you tried to keep your eyes trained on his face. “I run hot–you know that–and if I uh, if I wear shirts to bed I usually sweat r-right through them.”

“It’s okay,” was all you could manage to reply.

“I’ve never done this before,” Bob spoke again, vulnerability laced in his tone. “Never…slept in a bed with someone.”

You shifted, pulling your pillow down further as you tucked your hands under it.

“Never? Not even with a girlfriend?”

“Well, there was a girl…once,” Bob seemed to hesitate for a moment, but you didn’t push him. He’d come close to telling this story once before, about this girl, in therapy, but always stopped himself short. “I-I was younger, it was sometime after I dropped out of high school. Things were good, but she…she didn’t realize I was an addict. Once she knew, that was it. S-So, no, no bed sharing for me.”

“Well, I’m glad the first time you’re sharing a bed with someone, it’s with your wife,” the comment lightened the mood almost immediately, a genuine laugh tumbling from Bob’s lips. Your own pulled into a smile at the sight, seeing the tension that had been strewn throughout his features at the memory of this girl dissipating almost immediately. “It’s been a while since I’ve shared a bed with anyone, too. A long time.”

“How long?”

“Years. Way before Thanos, that’s for sure,” you chuckled to yourself. Bob watched you intently, hanging on your every word. “He was a SHIELD agent, too, a few years older than me. We were here in Paris…haven’t been back here since.”

You knew the melancholy was clear in your tone, memories flickering back to you in pieces. Bob shifted just slightly on the bed, his body moving just slightly closer to yours.

“What, uh, what happened to him?”

“He turned out to be HYDRA. My mentor killed him, so don’t worry, he’s a distant memory now. Became a full-time liaison for the Avengers after that all went down,”

“W-Well…it all worked out, didn’t it?” there was a hint of a sheepish smile on Bob’s face. “I…don’t think I would’ve met you if you didn’t work with them.”

Bob Reynolds didn’t make it easy. Whether the comment was meant to be flirty or just sweet in general, it had your stomach twisting in knots and heat flaring in your cheeks.

“Yeah…I guess everything works out for a reason,” you turned away from him then, back to him, as you flicked the bedside lamp out, plunging the room into darkness. “Goodnight, Bob,”

“G-Goodnight,”

The silence in the dark had only lasted for a few minutes. You hadn’t shut your eyes once, simply staring at the curtains covering the window in front of you, listening to the sound of Bob’s breathing fill the room. Any ounce of sleep that your body needed had evaded you suddenly, your body and mind wide awake.

“Can…can I ask you a favor?”

“Always,”

The bed sheets ruffled for a moment as Bob moved himself around.

“When I sleep, I tend to…I-I usually hold something. Like, my pillow. Do you–you can say no–but do you think-”

“Come here,”

You said it without hesitation, before you even fully realized what you agreed to. You didn’t need to think about it, though, because Bob Reynolds could ask you anything, and you weren’t sure you could ever really tell him no.

The sheets shuffled around again, before that warmth radiating from his skin was more prevalent than it was before. Gently, as if you were some wounded little animal he was scared to spook, Bob’s arm slowly slid around your waist from behind. His hand lay against your stomach, splayed out on top of the fabric, before his body molded to the back of yours.

One shaky breath left your lips the second his body was fully molded to the shape of your own. His other arm slid under the pillow beneath your head, and you could feel the heat from it on the other side of the pillowcase. Bob’s fingers twitched back and forth, as if hesitating, his warm breath ghosting over the back of your neck. In this close proximity, the sage scent in his bodywash was stronger, a hint of his minty toothpaste wafting through the air along with it.

Neither of you moved for a moment before you finally sank back into him, letting yourself embrace the feeling of being wrapped in his arms for the first time. Bob let out another shaky breath, his arm tightening around you the second you relaxed, as if realizing that you weren’t going to run away from his touch. Suddenly, tiredness finally found you again, your body being lulled into sleep.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, breath ghosting over the shell of your ear.

“Goodnight, Bob,”

As sleep finally overtook you, Yelena’s words floated through your mind once again.

❤︎

The dress Valentina’s team had picked was simple: a deep navy blue satin, floor-length, and column fit to hug you just right but provide enough mobility in case of a fight. The halter neckline tied around the back of your neck, the zipper up the back of the dress stopping right at your lower back, exposing the expanse of your spine in the cool air of the hotel room. A comfortable pair of black heels, ones easy enough to discard if, once again, a fight ensued. A single slit up the side of the dress, stopping right at the middle of your right thigh to barely hide the holster strapped to your upper thigh with your knives.

Simple, elegant, and befitting of a woman supposedly married to a rich and powerful weapons manufacturer.

“H-Here, let me help,”

Not a single muscle in your body moved as Bob stepped into view behind you, fingers taking firm hold of the dress’s zipper to conform it to your body.

Your eyes watched him in the floor-length mirror behind you, dressed up in a way you had never seen him before. His suit was a deep, rich brown color, with a matching jacket and dress pants with just a slightly darker shade of brown shoes on his feet. Bob’s hair was slicked back, held behind his ears with the pomade packed for him. It was strange, seeing him like this, but not unwelcome. It gave you the chance to fully see his face, no longer shrouded by stray strands of hair.

The zipper hooked into place at the top of your dress, Bob’s fingertips just lightly ghosting over your spine as a shiver ran straight through your bones and showed in the bumps along your skin. You turned on your heel, reaching out without a word to adjust the crinkled white button-up beneath his jacket so it lay flat. With the collar in place, you let your hand rest on his chest for just a moment, touch light, as you looked up at him. Bob’s eyes hadn’t left yours, nervousness written clear across his face, before you pulled your hand away to retrieve your clutch across the room.

“Alright, Mr. and Mrs. Gray need to have their stories straight,” you cleared your throat, explaining to him as you dug through your clutch, crossing the room back to his side. “In case we’re questioned on how we met, fell i-in love, that type of thing.”

Bob was silent for a moment as you continued to rummage through your clutch. As the silence stretched, you glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Bob, did you hear me-”

“Maybe…m-maybe we met in a bookstore. I saw you, but y-you were just too pretty to talk to. Then you came up to me, I was reading my favorite book, and you quoted it. And…the rest w-was history,”

Something about those words hit you like a hurricane, and suddenly, you were back in that Vault all those months ago.

“W-What exactly are you doing?”

“Rerouting power away from their security systems so they can’t get the drop on us,” Bob hummed in response to your comment, going quiet, but him being quiet worried you more than him talking. “Just stay behind me when the fight comes, okay? Because we’re going to have to fight our way out of here, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I can help, though! At least, I-I want to,” there was enthusiasm in his words for a moment, before that negative self-talk worked itself back in. “The medical trial was supposed to make me better, so I don’t know, I-I feel like I could help.”

The wires were finally rerouted, the little blinking green light indicating power to their security system flashing red. Your dagger was placed back in its loop on your belt, the electrical box slammed shut, before you looked back at Bob with raised eyebrows.

“I thought you didn’t remember much about this trial?”

“I don’t, just that it was for people who wanted to make something of themselves, to be better. To do good,” your gaze dropped to his hands, partially obscured by the long sleeves of his hospital uniform, as his fingers twisted together. “I don’t know, I-I just feel like I did something…bad, if that makes sense?”

“We all have, that’s why we’re in this vault,”

“This feels different,” he gave a short laugh. “I-I’ve always had these episodes since I was a kid. There’s a…there’s a high, then there’s a big low, and then my memory just goes blank. This time, it feels like I-I did something bad. I don’t know, it just feels like every time I try to move forward and do something good, the past comes back to haunt me.”

There was a tug in your chest at the comment, like recognition in your soul for the way he hurt, for the pain he carried.

“And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” you shrugged a little at your own response, a splash of red coating your neck and cheeks. “Sorry, you just reminded me of this quote from a book I love about the past haunting you-”

“The Great Gatsby,” Bob’s smile was just a tad bit brighter now, and it tugged on your heart in a different way. “Y-Yeah, I know it. It’s my favorite book.”

“Mine too,” you offered him softly, with a smile of your own, before the lights flickered for just a moment before popping back on, indicating that Yelena’s plan had failed.

His own fake story for your fake relationship had traces of that first conversation you’d really had with him strewn throughout it. You couldn’t help the way your heart fluttered at the thought.

Suddenly, your head was back in bed this morning, just hours before. Wrapped in his arms as if it were the most usual thing in the world, his heat wrapping around you and shielding you from the cold of the room. The way his arms tightened around you the second you tried to leave the bed, his subconscious holding tighter to you even in the quiet of the morning.

The moments you had sat on the balcony, freshly showered in a bathrobe, enjoying a plate of fresh croissants and coffee. One hand flicked through the screen of your holopad, tapped into the security system of the hotel just down the street, monitoring the setup of the conference. But your eyes drifted back to Bob every now and then. The way the quilt rested around his hips, his slightly tanned skin and taut muscles visible in the smattering of sunlight that streamed through the window and painted his body in shades of gold.

“How’d we get engaged?” you found yourself asking after a moment, shaking yourself out of your head. Bob let out a soft laugh, hands wringing together in front of him.

“If I worked up the courage, ever…a picnic, by the beach. M-Maybe the sun setting in the background, little sandwiches, some music. I-I’d…I’d tell you that…you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. Inside and out,”

If he’d meant it, if it had been a real marriage proposal, you would probably have said yes right in that moment without another thought.

Bob watched as you slipped your hand from your clutch, tucking it under your arm, before taking his left hand in yours. Your palm opened, two gold bands glinting in the overhead light.

“Sorry to rain on your engagement parade, but we’re in a time crunch. Looks like we have to skip straight to the ring ceremony,”

His shaky hand lay in yours as you slipped the ring onto his finger, a new kind of tension charging the air between you both. Bob took your hand next, and you could feel your chest tighten and your stomach flip a thousand different ways as his shaky hands slipped your own ring onto your left hand.

It all felt so right, so natural. But there was no time to dwell on it, as the mission was truly about to begin.

The streets of Paris in the late afternoon near your hotel weren’t overcrowded, but still busy. Bob had taken your hand from his arm, wrapping it in his own as he squeezed it firmly, but gently, twice. It was the same squeeze he would always give you in the middle of his therapy sessions when a moment felt like too much.

The rented hotel was just two streets away, and the wall of bodyguards standing outside was a clear sign that you were in the right place. You gave Bob’s hand a light squeeze back, leaning over so that your lips just barely brushed his ear.

“Tonight, you aren’t Bob Reynolds. You’re Aiden Gray, a wealthy CEO, someone people respect. They don’t look down on you, they respect you, because you are powerful and you are important. I’ll be right here the whole time, I won’t leave your side. You can do this, I believe in you,”

Bob didn’t get to respond before you were standing before the front door of the hotel. The looming presence of the bodyguards waited until you pulled out the ornately decorated slip of paper from your clutch, flashing them your invitation with Damien Jacquemin’s personal signature. They looked at one another, nodded, and parted to let you and Bob enter.

The hotel’s ground floor was spacious, yet still small. Shades of blue, beige, and deeper browns coated the room from head to toe, matching perfectly with the deep brown wooden floors and the beige columns around the room. The ornate lights hanging from the ceiling glowed in a warm white, bathing the room in soft light. There were maybe fifty guests littering the room, leaning against walls or cocktail tables, or even sitting in plush chairs and couches, already locked into conversations.

“That man over there is Herman Schultz, a known associate of Adrian Toomes that got released from custody during the blip,” you whispered into Bob’s ear once more, gesturing with a single flick of your finger toward a tall man across the room, laughing with a group of women. You tugged him slightly, pointing in another direction at a table where a group sat. “Over there? That’s the head of Cybertek Corporation, they’re speaking with a distant cousin of Aldrich Killian, trying to restart his defunct company, A.I.M.”

“S-So a lot of really important and powerful people,” Bob mumbled back. You squeezed his hand once, bringing his nervous gaze to you, and shot him a teasing smile.

“Darling, you have the power of a thousand exploding suns. You could take them all out with a single look,”

Whether it was the pet name or the compliment, something about what you had said made Bob almost preen under your words. He straightened just slightly, shoulders squared back, an air with a hint of confidence filling the space around him.

“Where’s the host for the evening?”

Damien Jacquemin wasn’t hard to spot. He had a way of commanding a room with charm and poise, leaving no one any wiser to the fact that he was three steps away from stabbing you in the back to get what he wanted at all times. He towered above most people in the room, even Bob, his salt-and-pepper hair sticking out like a marker for him. He laughed at something the young men around him said, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as a flash of the Rolex on his wrist glinted in the light.

“He’ll be giving a speech soon, followed by some other key presenters he has lined up. Keep your eyes peeled for our potential targets,” you muttered just low enough for Bob to hear, hand still grasping his as you found your way to a table seated on the edge of the room as Mr. Jacquemin moved toward the makeshift stage and podium, giving you both a vantage point of the entire room. “They’ll stick out: clothing not up to par with the rest of the crowd, shifty body language, maybe even an identifying mark.”

The clink of a glass across the room had those in attendance seating themselves, attention brought to the charming French man standing behind the podium, a wide smile shining over his guests, who clapped for him. Bob clapped along while you took the chance to survey the room as Mr. Jacquemin began his speech to welcome everyone into the conference.

As the speech droned on, as other speakers stood to address the crowd, your eyes continued to scan the room. If your HYDRA agents were hiding in here, they were blending in well among the sea of expensive suits, high-end perfume, and designer dresses.

The seat across the table from you and Bob was pulled out suddenly, a younger man in what you recognized as a Dior suit taking his place across from you both. He didn’t turn to listen to the speeches, though; his gaze stayed locked on you–hungry, like a predator watching his prey. You squirmed slightly in your seat as the man’s tongue dipped out to run over his bottom lip-

A warm hand placed itself on your bare thigh, uncovered by the high slit running up your dress. A shot of heat bloomed under the already warm touch, while a contrasting shiver shot straight down your spine. Your gaze flickered to Bob, heat pooling within your abdomen at the look stretched across his face.

Gone was that softness he always wore, or that slight blush that always sat in the apples of his cheek. His gaze had hardened, eyes narrowed, and jaw clenched as he fixed his sights on the man across the table. It was enough to force the man to look away, but Bob’s hand didn’t leave your leg. His fingers drifted further in, digging into the flesh of your inner thigh as he practically pulled you flush to his side. Still, then, his hand never left, his thumb drawing circles into your skin as heat bloomed under every inch of his touch, stroking the fire that was now blazing in your abdomen.

“Table by the front door. Two guys, they look off,”

His voice had dropped slightly. It was more gruff, akin to the way it sounded when he groaned and dragged himself from the hotel room bed early in the morning hours ago. Still Bob, still the man you adored, but with an edge to it–harder, almost protective. As if you were something that belonged to him, something for his eyes only, and the man sitting across from you had set him off. It had you swallowing the lump you hadn’t realized had even formed and following his directions to the table near the door, suddenly remembering the mission you were currently here to complete.

Bob was right. Young men, maybe their late twenties, seated at a table closest to the front door where bodyguards still stood on guard. They wore suits, but even from here you could see the wrinkles in the fabric, the knock-off watch on the wrist of one of them. One’s eyes shifted around the room every few seconds, never staying in one place too long. The other watched the podium, eyes shifting down to the table every other moment, his body shifting in his seat to readjust as if he couldn’t get quite comfortable.

“Good eye, think those are our guys,” you tucked your chin onto Bob’s shoulder with a grin on your lips, making it seem to the room as if you were simply speaking in hushed tones with your husband, while you whispered the praise back to him. The corners of his lips quirked at your praise, his hand giving your thigh yet another squeeze, before he settled back to ‘listen’ to the speeches at the podium. You tried to get a peek at his eyes, but he’d turned his head from you.

Those speeches droned on for two hours. A collection of talks on the importance of ever-evolving weapons in the current state of the world, fear-mongering over politics to push the need for enchanted weaponry, and more bullshit that had you wondering in your seat how Tony Stark used to attend conferences such as this.

Those speeches were hard to focus on when your mind was zeroed in on Bob Reynolds' hand that wouldn’t leave your thigh. The feelings that you had buried deep beneath your platonic feelings for your best friend had existed for a long time, but you never pushed them. Bob never seemed to be someone who would push boundaries such as this, too afraid to cross any lines with you. But this mission, this room full of important people, seemed to go straight to his head and fill him with a confidence that you had never truly seen him wear before, at least not to the extent that he’d willingly leave his hand splayed across your bare thigh for two hours drawing circles into your skin.

Part of you didn’t want him to let go, the other part of you was begging him to move his hand. The middle of a mission was the worst time for a coil of heat that you weren’t able to satisfy to be building in your core. Even when your meals were served, speeches continuing on at the podium, Bob hadn’t removed his hand once.

“I must say, I was not aware of Gray Enterprises. It seems you hold a good portion of the weapons market across the United States now. Tell me, did Stark Industries ending their weapons division help boost your market value?”

Champagne glasses had been thrust into your hands, though Bob had kindly refused his. A German arms dealer and his wife, Kaleb Hettinger and Rosalina Hettinger, had quickly crossed the room and pulled you both into a discussion the second that the speeches had wrapped up, dying to learn more about two of the few Americans littering the room.

“Well, my husband’s late father, I’m sure, was excited when the late Mr. Stark shut down his weapons division,” you gave a simple laugh, resting a hand on Bob’s chest. You could feel his own nervous laughter run through him, one of his hands curling around your waist to rest on your hip hesitantly, a stark contrast to how easily that same hand had gripped your thigh minutes ago. “Given the events of the last few years, including during the blip, we’ve found it most profitable to focus on enhanced weaponry.”

“Lord knows we need it,” Rosaline laughed, German accent thick, shaking her head at a thought of her own. “We all know those…New Avengers, I think they’re calling them, won’t be of much help. But besides that, I love seeing a powerful couple in our world! Tell me, how did you two meet?”

You went to speak, but Bob beat you to it, squeezing your hip just slightly.

“W-We were teenagers. I saw her in a bookstore, but…she was too pretty to talk to. She came up t-to me, quoted my favorite book…” Bob’s gaze turned to you, and you glanced up at him. “I-It was love at first sight.”

Something about those words twisted around your heart: the sincerity of it. The soft look in his eyes, the tiny smile coupled with that hint of truth in your first meeting…it felt real. His words felt real, like it was Bob saying it to you, not Aiden Gray saying it to his adoring wife.

“Oh, mein Schatz! Look at them! That’s true love if I’ve ever seen it,”

Rosaline’s voice cut through the air again. Heat bloomed across Bob’s face, and you felt it on your own, gazes averting from one another almost immediately. Kaleb let out a hearty laugh, giving his wife a kiss on the cheek.

“Truly, it is wonderful to see a man love his wife like I love my own. I have a lot of respect for a man like you, Mr. Gray, who continues to shower the woman he loves in affection,”

There it was again, that straightening of Bob’s posture, the tightening of his hand at the comment, as if the words had gone straight to his head again.

“She deserves nothing but the best, and only I’m capable of offering it to her,” that usual stutter in his words was gone, replaced by an air of confidence as he turned his head, his lips ghosting over your temple in a gentle yet firm kiss. You tried not to falter under the notion, giving the pair in front of you the strongest smile you could, even as your stomach flipped upside down. 

Your potential HYDRA agents caught your eye once more, moving across the expanse of the room just behind the Germans standing in front of you.

“Oh, Mr. Gray, I think you would be very interested in this new design my company has been working on. It’s an addition that can be added onto solar panels–well, it makes more sense if I show you. I brought the blueprints, they’re just over here at our table if you would like to see?”

Bob’s head turned to look at you, catching sight of your gaze following those two men across the room. You turned back to him, giving him a short nod. He hesitated for a moment before nodding back to you, letting his arm slip from your hips as he followed the Hettingers back to their table just a few feet away.

It was like being able to breathe again, the second Bob was gone, even if you missed the feel of his arm sitting around your waist as if it had been molded to sit there. This wasn’t the time for hidden feelings; you were in the middle of a mission.

You moved across the room elegantly, casually leaning yourself against one of the beige columns on the edge of the room, passing smiles to those who passed by you. The suspected agents stood just on the other side of the column you were leaning against, speaking in hushed whispers. With a sip of your champagne, you strained to overhear their conversation.

“He won’t sell it to us here,”

“It makes sense, too many people. He give you anything else?”

“One of his assistants will send me the location soon. He didn’t want to risk sending it himself in the middle of the conference,”

A smirk spread across your lips as you took another sip of your champagne, a single word running through your mind: gotcha. Sometimes, they made it all too easy, especially HYDRA agents. So lazy.

“Regardez ce que nous avons ici. A beautiful woman, all alone,”

A chill ran through your blood at that French accent, your head whipping around. Damien Jacquemin stood at your side in all his glory, perfectly pressed and tailored suit. He stood way too close, the hint of alcohol wafting off his breath and invading your senses.

“Mr. Jacquemin, a pleasure to finally meet you,” you put on the lightest, airiest, most polite tone that you could while trying not to grit your teeth. This was the exact man you didn’t want to be alone with. In the interest of maintaining your cover, you held your hand out in his direction to clink your glass to his. 

Damien didn’t waste a second, whisking your champagne glass from your hand and setting both of your glasses on the tray of a server walking past. His hand enveloped yours: skin cool, nothing like the warmth of Bob’s. His lips pressed to your knuckles, eyes never leaving yours: his gaze didn’t hold the warmth that Bob’s did when he looked at you, his lips didn’t leave a trail of tingling through your skin like Bob’s did.

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Gray. S'il vous plaît, come and spare me a single dance,”

There wasn’t any place to argue with the man as he whisked you off into the middle of the hotel lobby without another word. Soft music played from the live string quartet the French arms dealer had hired for the evening, and couples here and there had cleared the middle of the lobby to fashion a makeshift dance floor.

Mr. Jacquemin pulled you in, a huff leaving your lips as your front was pressed to his. One of his hands splayed across your lower back, pressing you closer, while the other held your left hand up beside you both dancing you softly around the floor in circles.

The hand didn’t feel like Bob’s; it didn’t engulf your hand like his did, his thumb didn’t draw little circles into your skin. The hand on your lower back was firm, almost controlling; it wasn’t comforting like Bob’s touch. Even pressed to his chest, you couldn’t feel the inhuman warmth that Bob radiated, and it left you feeling cold without it.

You never knew just how much you craved that closeness with Bob, how much you craved his touch, until you’d felt it in the way you had only ever dreamed of feeling it. You had masked these feelings for months in the guise of platonicness, when in reality, you were as much his person as he was yours.

You didn’t want to be in this dance if it wasn’t with Bob.

“A beautiful ring you have, ma chérie,” his gaze was settled on the simple gold band on your ring finger, poking and prodigy at it with his own index finger as you both spun. “Very…simple, though, isn’t it? I expect more from a man such as Mr. Gray, though maybe his personality and taste matches the rest of him…painfully drab.”

The comment made you bristle in his hold. It didn’t feel like a jab at the fictitious character of Mr. Aiden Gray, it felt like a jab at Bob Your grip on the man’s forearm tightened, nails digging into the fabric.

“Well, I didn’t choose my husband based on the gifts he gives me,” you grit your teeth, forcing a smile as you shot the comment at him. “He may not buy me the flashiest of jewelry, but he’s worth more than anyone in this room in heart alone.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Gray, I’m sure he is. It’s hard to quantify you and your husband’s net worth, and the worth of your company, when there’s simply…not much to search about you online…”

In all your years of undercover missions, you’d never failed on. Your alibis, your identities for the missions, had always been airtight and remained intact. But Damien Jacquemin had found a crack somewhere; he’d found a missing piece in the concoction of Gray Enterprises, and he knew who you were. Your cover was blown. It felt as if your heart was going to stop: if your cover was blown, then so was Bob’s. Bob, who you had allowed to leave your side, who you couldn’t find from where you stood on the makeshift dancefloor-

“...I’m not surprised I didn’t find much, though. Your father-in-law seemed to do a good job of moving his dealings under the table and to the black market in the years following the collapse of Stark Industries' weapons sector. I’m, frankly, quite impressed by how you and your husband have managed to operate so under the radar. I’m quite interested in the idea of a partnership.”

It took every ounce of strength you had not to let out a relieved breath: he didn’t know. Your cover wasn’t blown. You were safe, Bob was safe, and that was all that mattered. You let out a slight laugh, brushing a strand of air behind your ear before resting your hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder again. He was none the wiser to the minuscule, circular device that you slipped under the collar of his suit jacket in the moment.

“Partnerships can be discussed, but with my husband, of course,” you managed to speak. “As long as your company isn’t engaging in any… under-the-table deals with unfavorable organizations, I’m sure a partnership can be on the table.”

He laughed, accent thick, as his breath brushed your ear and he whispered.

“Where is the fun in that, darling?”

Someone cleared their voice from directly behind you, a hand catching the forearm of Damien Jacquemin where you had been holding it before. That familiar bodywash scent invaded your senses in an instant: rosemary and sage.

“I believe it’s my turn to dance with my wife,”

Bob’s voice almost growled on the final word: wife. It had that cord of heat coiling up even further in your stomach. You could visibly see the wince in Mr. Jacquemin’s face as Bob’s hand on his forearm squeezed tighter and tighter every second, no doubt leaving indents in his skin as the veins running down the back of Bob’s hand almost throbbed.

The Frechman’s hands were off you within a moment, a tight-lipped smile sent your way, before he whisked himself back off through the room. It was like the little moment on the dance floor had never happened, a smile lighting up his face as he was whisked off into another conversation with investors.

Bob’s hand suddenly had a tight hold of your hip, spinning you around until your chests were pressed together, your body molded into his. You relaxed into that familiar grip, into the warmth it provided, your head placing itself on his chest. Bob took up the same position Damien had held moments before, one hand on the small of your back and the other lifting your left arm into the air, dancing softly back and forth with you. His grip tightened over so slightly, the firm grip around your waist hugging you to him in a way that was just the slightest bit uncomfortable.

“I’m okay, Bob, you don’t have to hold me so tight-”

“He shouldn’t have been touching you,”

His words were so final, so precise. His tone was laced with a hint of anger, that same gruffness from earlier present again. It had you furrowing your eyebrows, glancing around the room as his grip tightened ever so slightly again.

“He didn’t hurt me, I promise, I’m okay-”

“He shouldn’t have been touching you because you’re my wife,” he snapped back. “He thinks he’s above me? You’re my wife, he should respect me.”

Respect. That word shot up a wave of red flags in your head, as well as the flicker of the overhead lights of the room that sent a murmur through the conference crowd.

You racked your brain for memories of every therapy session of Bob’s you’d been with him on, trying to find that missing puzzle piece. His depression, his anxiety…his delusions of grandeur. Suddenly, it made sense when you’d heard him talk like this before, where you’d heard this overconfident tone before: just once, in The Watchtower months ago.

You can call me The Sentry.

You pulled your head from his chest, craning your neck back to look at him. Bob’s eyes were already looking down at you, as if waiting for you to look at him, and that’s when you saw it: that sparkle of gold in the blue of his eyes.

His eyes didn’t leave you as you hand left his, curling around the back of his neck as you moved back and forth across the makeshift dance floor, holding his gaze.

“You should be respected…but because you’re Bob,” you kept your voice soft, just loud enough for him to hear among the murmurings and music in the room. “Bob Reynolds deserved to be respected.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. You’re my Bob,” the smile you gave him was as soft and full of affection as it could be. “My Bob, who always asks me to read his favorite book because he says he likes hearing the sound of my voice. My Bob, who likes it when the rain hits the windows of the tower late at night. My Bob, who doesn’t even realize the way he hugs me so early in the morning when he’s fresh out of bed. My Bob? I respect him. My person…my favorite person.”

It wasn’t instantaneous; it took a few moments of simply holding him, but that gold slowly faded from Bob’s eyes. His features softened, his lips pulled into a slight frown, and then those blue eyes were frantically glancing around the room. You watched as the Adam’s apple of his throat bobbed, before his eyes found yours again: frantic, nervous.

“...cucumber?”

You let out a short laugh, and nodded, taking his hands in your own and leading him through the crowds as quickly as you could. There was an unguarded door behind the concierge desk leading into a backroom, L-shaped hallway for employees. You quickly shut the door behind both of you.

Bob leaned against the wall, running his hands through his hair so many times that the gel no longer held it down, letting those soft brown strands fall in front of his face again. He tugged incessantly at the collar of his button-down, his frantic gaze catching yours.

“I-I can’t believe I just did…any of that. God–I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t ruin the mission, did I?”

You let out a soft chuckle, taking another step toward him to stand directly in front of him.

“I overheard our guys; they made a deal with Jacquemin for the sale and are waiting on details. Also, planted a tracker in his suit while he was dancing with me, so we’ve got just about everything we need to nail them. So, no, you didn’t ruin the mission,”

“O-Okay, good, good,” his Adam’s apple bobbed again, his breath coming out in short pants. “Is it really hot in here for you? I-I feel like I can’t breathe, like my chest is going to explode, a-and like everything just…hurts.”

“Bob, honey, I think you’re having a panic attack,”

“How do I stop having a-a panic attack?”

A single thought flickered through your head for a moment as you watched him, watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he almost clawed at his throat in a desperate plea for air. And before you could stop yourself, to think about your thought, you stepped forward.

Your hands cradled his cheeks, and you kissed him.

Bob’s lips almost trembled beneath yours with the first press, his entire body freezing up under that simple movement. Then, after just a moment of holding yourself in place, they moved. Slow, hesitant, but they moved.

You could taste the small remnants of the punch Bob had opted to drink in place of champagne on his lips. His lips parted just barely, letting your head tilt slightly to the side to let your mouth move firmly against him, pouring every ounce of feeling into the kiss that you could manage. You’d dreamt of this moment in secret for so long, and now that it was here, that coil of heat within you was seconds from bursting, and your own chest was the one tightening.

Bob’s hands found your hips, settling there–hesitant but firm, holding you close. His lips pushed back against yours finally, the pieces of hair broken free of the gel brushing against the skin of your cheek. The need for air rushed into your lungs as you reluctantly pulled away with a soft smack of your lips, leaving one another, almost breathless pants filling the air.

Bob Reynolds looked wrecked, more out of breath than he had been before. Those eyes you loved so dearly were blown wide, the blue almost sparkingly in the light. His lips were still parted, but slightly upturned on the side in what you could only assume was wonder.

“I-”

“You were having a panic attack,” you spoke quickly, voice like a whisper. “I saw it in a tv show once, that holding your breath stops a panic attack. And that…kissing can make you hold your breath.”

“...uh huh,”

“Did it work?”

“Um…not sure. I-I might be about to have a panic attack over something else,”

Laughter bubbled out of your lips at that, Bob’s smile growing, before you were frozen in place. Voices, down the hall and around the L bend of the hallway, getting closer. Bob went to speak again before you placed a finger to his lips, focusing to try and hear down the echoey hallway.

“Coordinates, time, and place. Should make this an easy sale,”

“Yeah, as long as we don’t forget the money,”

Back straightening out, remembering you were on a mission, you reached into the front pocket of Bob’s pants and tugged your clutch from it. Digging through, you pulled out a rectangular device that looked like a normal cellphone, tucking your clutch under your arm and taking Bob’s hand in your own.

You pulled the two of you to a stop right at the corner of the bed, waiting a moment, before swinging you both around. The pair of you crashed directly into your targets, cell phones and items in your hands crashing to the floor.

“Hey-!”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry, gentlemen!” you put on an overly fake voice, crouching down to the ground before either of them could. You grabbed your device, moving it discreetly over the top of both of the men’s cellphones, before gathering everything and rising back to your feet. The men basically snatched their phones back from your arms as you let out an overexaggerated giggle. “My husband and I weren’t watching where we were going! We were looking for the elevators, hoping to head upstairs and find a…private room.”

Both of the men muttered something in disgust, shoving past you and Bob without another word. You turned, watching them leave through the door you and Bob had come through with a triumphant grin, while Bob just watched you in confusion.

“Old Stark tech,” you flashed him the device in your hand. “I just swiped all the data off their phones without them even knowing it. Now, we know everything about this Adamantium sale.”

It was Bob’s turn to laugh, cocking his head at you with a grin.

“Have I mentioned that y-you’re kind of amazing?”

You grinned, and you pulled him back into another kiss without a word.

Sweeter, but still tender, laced with every bit of adoration and affection you held for him in your soul, that made the moment all the more intimate. Bob only hesitated for half a second this time before he pressed back into you with just as much force, his fingertips barely gracing the edges of your arms. You pulled back almost immediately, then, your brain finally caught up with your actions.

Well, you didn’t have any excuse for kissing him that time.

“Um…” you licked your lips, heat rising in your cheeks. “We…we should head back. Let the team know we got everything-”

“Right! Yeah, yeah, r-right, we should…do that. Finish the mission, and all that…”

The walk back under the cover of night was quiet. Those same soft yellow lights cast that same glow you’d seen before over Bob’s face, and your heart tugged in your chest at the sight.

But neither of you spoke. Not on the walk down the quiet streets. Not in the elevator. Not even when you entered the room together.

You could feel his eyes, watching you, burning a hole into your back as you secured the room. The silent alarm on the door, the device on the wall by the closed balcony window. They watched you still as you uploaded all of your information into the holopad, settled on top of your suitcase, transferring your information directly back to New York, knowing Yelena would likely receive the information in moments and alert Valentina of your successful mission.

Not a word was exchanged as you entered the bathroom like you had the night before, changing into a similar pair of sleep shorts. Discarded on the bathroom floor, though, was one of Bob’s white t-shirts, one he had slipped into early on that morning. You slipped it on without a second thought, wrapping yourself in the scent of that bodywash, before slipping back into the room.

Bob had already turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. You slipped into your side of the bed without a word, your backs facing one another as you lay there under the covers in the dark, the only sound being the ticking of the analog clock on the wall across from the bed.

“When you kissed me,” Bob finally spoke, voice just loud enough to be heard in the quiet of the room. “It…it was to stop the panic attack, right?”

You paused for a moment, then spoke, “Yes,”

The sheets shuffled, and you could feel the shift as his body turned, facing your back now.

“W-What…what about the second kiss?”

There was a brief moment of hesitation before you turned, too. You faced him now, mere inches away, looking into those blue eyes you adored.

“That one…was because I wanted to,”

Bob didn’t waste a second before leaning in, like your words had reassured him that he didn’t have to hesitate. Your lips welcomed the press of his, your body inviting the feel of his hand gripping at your waist–nothing hard, nothing too firm, but just present, grounding. His lips were as warm as the rest of his body, and they trembled just slightly as they moved just barely against your own, as if still unsure how to do this. So, you did it for him, hand wrapping around his neck and into his hair to thread through the strands, molding your body to his as you kissed him with every inch of passion you had been holding back for months.

Even as your mouths moved together, there was still a softness in their movements, no matter the growing passion. Even when they moved faster, when a broken moan slipped out of Bob’s mouth and a whine left your own when his hand tugged your hip even closer, it was still soft. Passionate but adoring, pouring every ounce of care into each movement as if to remind the other that this wasn’t just a moment of fun, this was the culmination of months of secret wanting, months of pining and hidden feelings buried underneath platonic words and affirmations.

You shifted just slightly, and a hint of confidence flowed through Bob. He used that moment to move, pressing your back flush against the bed as he hovered above you, his lips never breaking from yours for a second. Your legs fell open for him, inviting him into your space, and he took it without question.

As if it pained him, he tore his lips from yours, trailing them down your jaw and to your neck as he buried himself into the space. His kisses there were gentle, loving, but still burning with heat and passion. He kissed right above your pulse point, able to feel the fervent beat of your heart, and he groaned again into your skin.

“I-I think about you, like this, a lot,” he whispered into your skin. Bob’s arms were braced on either side of you, while one of yours placed itself on his bare chest, drawing shapes into the heated and flushed skin. “I’ve always thought of you like this. The prettiest girl, m-my best friend…my person. The one person who makes that darkness a little lighter. God, I…I love you.”

There it was. Those four little words that tore your heart open, that cracked open the cage that held every hidden desire of your heart locked up for months.

You pulled his face from your shoulder, fingers gently swiping at the silent tears that swept down his cheeks. You pulled him in this time, angling your lips against him, sighing into his mouth as you pushed every ounce of love in your body into him. He sighed back, practically putty in your hands, the weight of his body falling against you.

“I love you too,” you whispered against his lips like a promise. “I’ve always loved you. My best friend…my person.”

He didn’t get to speak before you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling every inch of his body against yours. A broken moan was choked out of his throat, breath ghosting your lips as his kiss swallowed the moan that left your own throat. Pressed against you now, you could feel it: thick, bigger than anything you’d ever had, and throbbing with heat and need.

With your words, with a confirmation of your love, Bob’s kiss grew more confident. Drowning you in every ounce of love, his hands roamed over every inch of you that they possibly could. Your neck, exploring the bare skin of your abdomen and leaving a trail of heat in every stroke of his fingers. You tugged the shirt over your head without another thought, leaving you bare to the world as you fell back against the pillows once more. You tried to tug Bob back to your lips, but he paused, eyes transfixed on your body, roaming every inch of it.

“Beautiful…” he whispered. His fingers traced lines from your abdomen to your ribs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. They traced right around the swell of your breasts, before he leaned in closer. “So beautiful.”

A cry of pure pleasure left your lips the second Bob’s curled around your nipple, teeth just barely grazing and tugging ever so gently. A heavy pant left your lips as your fingers curled into his hair, tugging ever so gently on his slightly dampened hair strands. The heat grew in the room, radiating off his body, and you could see the thin, sheer layer of sweat that coated his skin. His lips moved against your breast, tongue flicking out over the sensitive bud he was wrapped around as your hands tightened just barely in his hair, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“Sorry,” he whispered again as his mouth popped off your breast, a thin string of saliva connecting him to the place he’d lavished in love. He placed a gentle kiss on your sternum, hands gliding down your sides. “Got eager. I-It’s been a while since I’ve…done this.”

“In all seriousness? I couldn’t tell,” he laughed, crawling back up your body till his face hovered over yours. Your hand left his hair, trailing down until it cupped his cheek, and he turned to press a kiss to your palm. “We don’t have to do anything-”

“I want to,” he was quick to answer with a shake of his head. “I-I’ve never wanted someone more. You’re all I want. Lying together on the couch, those trips through the city, sleeping next to you…I-I just want you. I just want to feel you. I want to be yours.”

His lips met yours again, the second his last word died on his lips. He peppered kiss after kiss to your lips, never lingering long enough, and you couldn’t help the breathless giggle you let out.

“I want to feel you, too,”

Your confession lingered in the quiet of the room. It was visible, the way Bob’s pupils seemed to dilate at those words alone. With one hand, he unhooked your legs from his waist, sliding back down the bed and taking the quilt along with him, bearing your bare chest to the cold air.

You watched with hooded eyes as his fingers trailed over the edge of your sleep shorts, barely dipping past the waistband. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your right thigh, and then your left, before leaning forward to press one right above the waistband of your shorts. Then, he tugged, just barely. They gave way without a second of hesitation, slipping down over your hips and over your thighs without hesitation. You just barely caught the soft whisper of “fuck” that fell from Bob’s mouth when you laid bare before him, panties forgotten in the haste of dressing for sleep.

Those shorts were discarded somewhere across the room, finding the small heap that your shirt was in, and Bob just observed for a moment. You watched the way his eyes trailed up your legs, to your hips, and back down again. His hands did the same, starting from your knees and splaying out over your hips, before going back down to your thighs. He pushed gently, and you followed, spreading your thighs before him. Your breath caught, choking back a moan as he leaned forward, pressing a kiss directly to your core, before trailing the kisses back up your abdomen.

“I love you,” he whispered with every kiss. “I love you.”

You leaned up, forcing Bob to sit up, before pulling him into another kiss, catching his bottom lip just barely between your teeth.

“I love you, too,” you murmured against his lips, before your hands trailed down his chest to the waistband of his boxers, and his breath hitched.

It was like throwing him into overdrive, reminding him of where he was. Bob tugged those boxers off in a tangle of limbs, stumbling slightly on top of the sheets. You laughed, smile giddy, as you fell back against the pillows, just watching the man before you as he rid himself of his boxers and threw them across the room. Your eyes trailed down, seeing his throbbing length for the first time, and that heat that flushed through your body screamed for his skin to be pressed against yours.

A thick cord of tension hung in the air as Bob kneeled over you, bracing himself around your head. His nose brushed yours, breath fanning over your skin. You didn’t hesitate to wrap your arms back around his waist, tugging him toward you, as the heat of his bare length pressed against the heat of your bare core, a breathless moan falling from each of your lips in unison.

Bob rolled his hips forward just barely, throbbing cock dragging along the length of your core and ghosting over your clit as a shot of pleasure shot through every nerve on your body. Your hands found the back of Bob’s head, tangling in his hair once more and tugging him down into a kiss–messy, hot, and slick with saliva.

His hips rolled again, and you rolled back, his tip catching just barely against your opening before gliding through your lips once more.

“A-Are you sure?” Bob muttered into your lips. You nodded, kissing him once more.

“So sure,” you muttered back, hand tugging in his hair as your other trailed down his shoulder, his back, over his hips, before finally holding his heated and flushed length in your own hand. “Please, Bob–I need you–please.”

He nodded, catching your lips in another kiss, as you guided his cock down, catching the head against your opening.

You held it there, before Bob pushed ever so slightly.

Moans in unison fell from both of your lips once again as every inch of his heated, flushed, throbbing cock made its way into your walls, stretching you apart in a mix of part pain and pleasure. Your breath caught in your throat at every inch that pushed into your body, your name falling from Bob’s lips with every drag of your heated walls against him. Your teeth caught his bottom lip again the moment that his hips stuttered, pressing firmly against your hips, as every inch of him sat inside of you, buried within you to the hilt.

The lights of the entire room flickered on for a moment, glowing bright, before turning off once again. Your gaze trailed over them, as did Bob's, before you locked eyes once again.

“W-Well…” he choked out, a tiny laugh bubbling over. “That’s new.”

You laughed with him, arms wrapping around his neck to tug him down to you in yet another kiss, before you ground your hips up into his. A broken moan fell past his lips before he moved.

He set the pace, slow and sensual at first, dragging himself almost all the way out before pushing himself the entire way back in. Each time he settled deep within you, filling you out in every manner of the word, a choked moan spilled from your lips as you dragged them against his time and time again, nails scraping against his scalp.

Bob’s eyes met yours, dazed and glassy, filled with passion and every ounce of love he felt for you. Love, a look you’d seen in his eyes so many times when you looked at him, a look you’d ignored for so long. But there was no time to focus on it, not with every snap of his hips against yours, not with the feeling within your gut of fullness, and not with every ripple of pleasure that coursed through you with the feel of his heated skin molded to yours.

“You feel so good–oh god–so good,” he choked out against your lips. Your hands left his hair, trailing down his arms, but he took advantage of that. His hands caught yours, tugging your hands up above your head and holding them there, gripping you just tightly enough that you could feel the superhuman strength within him holding you down. “So, so, so good–Jesus–so perfect. So beautiful–my girl. Tell me, tell me that–my girl–tell me you’re my girl.”

“Y-Yours,” you stuttered out over every snap of his hips against yours, every slight scrape of his pubic hair against the sensitive bud of your core.

That simple word spurred him: yours. All his, always his. His hips snapped faster, harder, his lips trailing off of yours as he buried his face into your neck, teeth scraping just slightly over your skin as another moan broke through.

Desperation filled every snap of his hips against yours, your name falling from his lips like it was the only word he knew, like it was the only word he wanted to know. His ragged breathing, ghosting over your skin in hot waves. Your skin felt like it was on fire, burning beneath his touch, heat and want and need coiling with every throbbing drag of him against your walls–squelching and wet.

“I can’t-” Bob barely managed to cry against your skin, hips somehow driving into you faster than they had before, the pace in which his hips met yours and the superhuman force sure to bruise your skin, to leave you aching in the best way. “I can’t–please–I can’t hold it. You’re too good, you feel too good.”

“It’s okay,” you shook your head, one of his hands leaving yours to grip onto the wooden headboard behind you. “It’s okay–God, you feel so good–it’s okay, Bob, let go-”

CRACK. SNAP.

You could hear it, loud and clear: the splintering of the wooden headboard. It took every ounce of your strength, rolling your head back to fully see the damage behind you. Bob’s hand was white knuckling the splinted wood, having dragged down through half the headboard, leaving splintered wooden pieces decorating the pillows above your head as his hips pistoned into you at a superhuman pace, one you were barely sure you could handle.

God, you didn’t think there was anything Bob could do to make him hotter in your eyes. Apparently, splintering an entire headboard out of sheer passion and need was something that could.

“I can’t–oh God–I can’t-”

One. Two. Three. His hips drove into you just three more times before that sat flush against your hips, pressing himself as deeply into you as humanly possible before he let go. A rush of warmth filled you, every drop of him filling you, gushing warmth through you, and your own floodgates flew open.

Your hands were freed from his hold, wrists sore from where he dug into them, wrapping around his neck, curling into his hair, and cradling him to you as you trembled and gushed in his hold. Your walls fluttered around him with every wave of pleasure, with every twitch of his cock still sitting within your walls, and his shaky breath ghosted over your skin.

The comedown was quiet, your shaky breaths the only sound filling the air. Bob collapsed on you fully, his heated and sweat-covered skin lying on top of yours. You welcomed the feeling, fingers carding through the sweat dripping strands of his hair, taking in the scent of the air: sex, mainly, with hints of your perfume and that damn bodywash of his laced in between.

Bob raised his head finally, a blissful smile on his lips as he looked down at you. He tried to move his hips back, to pull away, but your legs locked around him with a whine, holding him in place against you.

“Not yet,” you managed to breathe out, shaking your head with a giddy little smile of your own. “Too sensitive, and…I just want to feel you.”

“Okay,” Bob didn’t put up a single fight, his hand coming up to push the strands of hair that stuck to your face away. His eyes trailed, finally, to the destruction behind you, and they shot wide. “Oh–Jesus Christ, d-did I do that?”

“You did, but don’t worry, it was hot,” you both laughed at your comment, noses brushing in the quiet, intimate moment. “Don’t worry, Valentina bought the room. It’s her problem.”

“True…hey, d-do you think cucumber could be used as a safe word too?”

Laughter sputtered out of your mouth, lips brushing his, and Bob laughed with you. All you could do was look at him, heart bursting open with a love that you had kept quiet for so long, and pull him into another soft kiss.

37 successful undercover missions became 38 that night, but this one had been your biggest success. It gave you Bob, in ways you had only ever dreamed of having him…it gave you your person.

[kfa-343]

LOVED THIS. LOVED. OMG. 10/10.

[honeysucklewatr]

loathe isn’t strong enough

angst | betrayal | slowburn | masterlist

endgame—thunderbolts!bucky x ex-avenger!reader

synopsis: Stark Industries took everything from you, and you're determined to get your revenge back—by killing Tony Stark. The plan was simple: infiltrate the Avengers, gain trust and get Tony alone. You didn't anticipate how you'd fall for Bucky Barnes, having to break his heart in the worst way possible. Years later, you're faced with him again, but if you can't forgive yourself, how can he?

tags: ANGST. slowburnish. betrayal. hurt!comfort. smut; hatefucking, crying during sex. reader is morally grey. violence; mention of blood, guns. panic attack. trauma bonding. kinda found family. unreliable narrator.

wc: aprox 19k (longest fic I’ve ever written???)

a/n: life got in the way but hey, I’m back! This is not proofread, and i need to get this out cause it’s consuming me and i kinda hate it but fuck it, we ball. Glossing over the blip here so it’s left more for interpretation.

If anyone knew how to ruin something good, it was you.

All that you had to do was get inside and make friends with some of the people in the Avengers tower. But the mighty Avengers were a group of saps, and that made your plans so much harder to carry out.

They practically melted for you.

Against your better judgment, you let yourself into their lives. Everyone there loved you, and you let them think you did too. Even though deep down a part of you wanted to let it be real, you remind yourself of what they lacked, and what you'd lost in the face of these so-called “heroes." 

At first, Steve was the one who felt the most for you. He took pity and empathized with you like a kindhearted moron, thinking he'd made a grave discovery and recognized the potential you posed for the team. As if you didn't plan for that to happen all along and planted that seed in his mind the moment he met you.

You were trained for this kind of manipulation, and you weren't going to feel bad for it, not when you had something to achieve and no one to fall back on.

With nothing to lose, what's a little heartbreak?

You told them of your parents' passing when you were young, leaving you with no family other than the immediate ones who were already dead. What you didn't tell them was how they were killed, just brushing it off as something that happened too young for you to remember. Though you knew it all too well, and you were there for a reason. 

You let Steve take credit for your idea of becoming an Avenger, and they all fell perfectly for your little plan. 

It was Steve who introduced you to Tony—the man you were there to kill. 

You put on a fake smile and tucked your hands behind you, keeping yourself from inching forward and carrying out your mission. You'd spent so many years of your life having Tony's image drilled into your mind as the villain who was posing himself as a hero, telling yourself that he was utterly deserving of the smear campaign you originally planned to put him through. That was before you got close to the team. Before you landed on the idea of killing him, because you were finally close enough. The proximity that joining the team allowed you, it tempted you regularly, but you had to wait for the right moment. Pretending like you didn't hate Tony's guts was probably the hardest part. 

You infiltrated their trust and broke into their space. You took root inside their lives from the inside, and they welcomed you in with open arms. Like the perfect orchestration of a gorgeous tune, you drew the trap and they all fell inside, letting the kindness you showed them translate into trust and love. But you? You played the greatest trick on yourself. 

The grandest part of the scheme was the relationships you formed and the love you pretended to have for too long. Until that became real, because the truth was, you were never faking.

Bruce offered up his friendship and Clint his home like you were one of their own. Far too trusting for people who were meant to be protectors and careful assessors of danger. It was hard to pretend like the warmth you felt wasn't real when Clint baked cookies with his family and brought you some, or when Natasha would peel an orange and hand you half quietly. Natasha made it infinitely harder to hate her when she'd train with you endlessly as though she wanted to prepare you for when she wouldn't be around. She became your closest thing to a best friend you were sure you ever had— until she died.

They were all family that you loved despite it all. You let yourself believe that maybe you could have some sense of normalcy, that you could let your guard down even a little bit, and you let too many people in. 

Some people more than most— like Bucky. 

You didn't plan on falling for Bucky; you didn't even want to pretend like you loved him until you really did. But you had your own plans, your own mission, and your own vengeance to achieve, so stepping on some toes and hurting some feelings didn't mean shit to you. Even if it was the man that you didn't mean to fall for, who was carrying the brunt of the bargain. 

Bucky made it so hard to ignore him, with his soft smiles and his hand on your hip when you'd spar. His warm palm on your shoulder when you were out gazing on the balcony too long, and calling you to come inside for a cup of tea that he knew you would like. When your guard would fall, just for him, and he wouldn't push you for information, sitting in your silence with you. Because Bucky knew what it was like to get lost in your thoughts, and your mind is a war in itself.

Bucky watched you and knew you had your demons; he just hoped that in time you'd tell him about them. Slowly, you stopped calling him Barnes. You didn't know it yet, but you helped him take back his name, calling him James when others would call him Bucky.

Just being around him made you feel more human—more alive.

And damn him for making you care.

You hated how he made your heart flutter around him and your stomach drop when you'd worry for him. You shoved him into a wall once after he returned from mission, when he wouldn't answer you because he was occupied with disarming someone. One gruelling hour of him not responding over the comms on a mission you took as partners.

He came back to the jet with a few scratches on his face, but nothing major, and you still felt like you couldn't breathe at the thought of him not coming back. His chest heaved as you put a finger in his face, and his gaze seemed to soften in recognition that you were afraid, that you were scared of losing him.

It didn't take long for you to push him again and for him to catch your wrists, pulling you in, flush against him.

That was the first time he kissed you, swallowing your whimpered protest when you’d fisted his shirt and drawn him further into you. Desperately, you couldn’t even pretend like you didn’t want him once you’d touched. The two of you moved in unison toward the jet's couch as he walked you backwards, stripping you from your clothes without breaking the kiss. He lay you down like a careful art, taking his time while you calmed from the bottled-up emotions you refused to express out loud.

He loved you gently and softened the rough ends of his exterior so you could let yourself sit in the feelings that he also struggled to outwardly express. When you finally let him in and stopped pushing him away, he didn't just sleep with you, but he made love to someone for the first time since Hydra took him away. Truthfully, it was the first time he ever loved someone so deeply, and it scared him, but he knew it scared you too, so he let it consume him whole— for both of you. He did it again, and again, and he would've kept doing it if you'd let him. 

Bucky took you apart and put you back together as though you were his favourite mystery, caressing you like a Goddess on Earth.

Every touch felt like a blessing and in his mind leaving any part of you untouched was a sin.

Leaving bites over the scars on your skin, buried under layers of clothes that no one else had touched this delicately. You were completely and undeniably his. Neither of you ever told anyone about it, and how he held you after missions went wrong or how you sat with him when his nightmares wouldn’t let him sleep. Bucky never pushed you for anything more. He was afraid of you losing interest, so he tried to build your relationship silently.

When you wouldn't come out of your room for dinner, he'd bring it to you, cooking things he knew were your comfort food. He'd knock silently and linger there just to make sure you really did eat it. He made quiet dinners for just the two of you, leaving specks of food on his shirt or his brow as evidence of his labour.

After going to the bar with the team one night, and you drank too much, and he offered to take you home. You, however, were entirely wasted and couldn’t give proper directions.

Bucky took you to an apartment that no one else knew he had and let you sleep it off there. Except you cried like a wounded, inconsolable child, and he felt the heaviness of your sorrow like it was resting on his chest. He gave you a key to keep going there the next day, and you never gave it back. 

Part of you knows you'll always be his, even after you have to break his heart. He would unwrap you over and over again like a gift he was grateful to receive. He held you after it all, and you knew it wouldn't be the last time because of how safe you'd felt in his embrace. And Bucky knew from the moment Steve introduced you that he wouldn't be able to let you go. That you were and are the reason he'd wake up in the morning despite his nightmares and demons. You made it all worthwhile for him.

You fell hard for him, head over heels and disgustingly in love. But Bucky fell so much harder, unravelling for you after years of conditioning and trauma that ran deep. You chipped away at his walls by letting him love you and letting yourself love him back.

It wasn't because of your mission that you did it. You truly did care for him and you wanted to tend to his wounds that cut through his mind like a plague. It all happened so fast that you couldn't stop it. You couldn't help the way you loved him so deeply that you wanted any part of him you could have, even if it was for a little while. Even if the love was built on lies and deceit.

You knew that once he found out, nothing would be the same, and the two of you would never be able to go back. So you settled for now, stealing kisses between missions and meeting him in his bedroom when everyone else fell asleep. He settled for holding your hand under the briefing table and bringing you snacks that he knew you loved, even when you'd push him away.

Despite your reluctance, he wanted you the same way you wanted him. He would take any bits you offered him because, in his mind, he wasn't worthy of anything else — and you helped him break that barrier of self-deprication by loving his scars like your own. 

It was Bucky Barnes who had to stop you when you cornered Tony in the lab. It was Bucky who caught you in the grand act of your plan and had to witness everything about your relationship crash and burn in front of him. You didn't want to do it like this, but you had no choice now. 

After the annual Gala that Tony threw in honour of his father, Howard Stark, the sack of shit who mindlessly supplied weapons to the most immoral people across the country, and even larger weapons of destruction overseas. It didn't fucking matter that Tony didn't do it himself, but he was aware, and that was more than enough. Tony worked with his father, did demonstrations of his destructive weapons, and had years of experience helping with the supplies before he was abducted.

It took seeing the destruction, feeling the pain that had been felt for decades through his own suffering, for him to understand the gravity of the shit he was part of. The fact that he couldn't come to that conclusion without all of that unnecessary suffering that made your blood boil.

After he praised his father and Stark Industries' history at the Gala, you couldn't take it anymore. 

You were getting too emotional. 

So you followed him into the lab, using your stealth training to sneak in behind him, just before the doors would have locked. Using the training the team had helped teach you against him, you made your move. Your hand on your holster, you silently pulled it out and pointed it towards the back of his head, mind full of doubt and unsteady conviction that told you this was what you had to do. 

His voice startled you as he was still facing the computers, "You've finally come to finish the job, huh?" 

You scoff, gripping your gun a little tighter, "You knew that I was going to do this, and still you let me join."

Tony turns to face you, his hand still holding his glass of whiskey he'd been coddling all night. You were watching him while everyone else conversed— while Steve asked if you were alright, and Bucky tried meeting your gaze. This anger was bright and intense, and it was all his fault. Maybe if he weren't alive, it might calm your thoughts— 

"Well, it's taken you what? Over a year to muster up the courage to kill me. You really think I don't do intensive background checks, sweetheart? Go on then, take your shot." He brought his glass to his lips and drank, testing you. "But you know this is quite ironic, right?" 

Tony was always skilled at this type of thing, riling people up and seeking a reaction. 

Shoving the magazine into place fully, your finger danced over the trigger, "Don't tempt me, Stark. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time."

He steps closer to you, "then why the hell didn't you? You could have, hell, you probably should have done it before you got the rest of the team attached to you."

You didn't let your expression fall, remaining as stoic as you could as you spoke, "I'm only here for you." 

Despite your differences and wanting him dead, you'd grown fond of Tony.

Tony says your name, the sound slightly slurred from drinking too much all night, which you were banking on. A hint of tenderness behind his voice, as though speaking to an old friend. Having him not entirely lucid would've made this easier, but alas, Tony was always even more talkative than usual when he was drunk.

"I know what Stark Industries did to your family and what they," he pauses to correct himself, "what we took. I know I'm not perfect, but you have to acknowledge that what you've done is evil just as the rest." Though his words felt harsh, he spoke as though he wanted you to know it was okay. That he understood. "Just tell me, is revenge what you truly want?"

You didn't trust your voice, so instead you nodded. He continues with the soft scoff, "Did you ever even really care?"

Your breath hitched as the words sank in. You did care, you cared so deeply that it hurt. Still, you let your hurt evolve and eventually involve the people you'd gotten to love. The people you were supposed to hate. But that didn't matter now; you knew you were too far gone. The only thing that should have been on your mind was killing the man in front of you for the crimes of his company. The crimes of his father and his father's father, even if you knew your judgment was bordering on playing God. 

Taking on the role of judge, jury, and executioner, because someone had to, right? If you had to be somebody's villain, then fine, as long as you finally felt like you'd done something. Done anything to ease the pain of the younger version of yourself that lost so much and vowed to do something about it. You shift the weight of the gun in your hand and look back up into Tony's eyes, unrelenting on you. 

You're about to answer him when the door slides open, shifting your focus from Tony and taking in the two men storming in. Bucky and Steve emerged in the midst of a conversation as they took in the scene before them and froze. Bucky's eyes immediately fell on you — gun in your hand, cocked and pointed at Tony. It was unmistakable that you had been playing them, but Bucky didn't want to believe it, not even when Steve put a hand to his shoulder and tried to keep him from moving closer to you. 

He says your name, his voice careful and soft, "What are you doing?" 

You take a shaky breath, trying not to meet his gaze and feigning unamusement, "What does it look like, Barnes?"

The sharpness of your tone made his brows knit into a pained expression. The use of his last name and not calling him James, like you usually would, punched him in the gut. You weren't here to coddle him or anyone else, including yourself. He says your name like he's pleading for you, and you shut your eyes, masking your emotions and swiftly swiping a forming tear away. 

"Don't do this," his voice a pleading whisper as he inches closer to you, but you don't let him.

You ignore him and kick Tony in the back of the knee, knocking him over. You turn to face Bucky, just as he's about to touch you.

The gun turns to him, and he inhales sharply, his resolve crumbling, "baby."

"Don't," you try to hide the shakiness in your voice as Steve also inches closer, "don't call me that and just stay right fucking there. I'm not here for either of you, just Tony."

Bucky's face drops further, a bitterness forming in his mouth as he repeats your harsh words back, "you were never here for me," repeating after you like each word was ripping his throat raw as he said it, "you're here for Stark."

Reluctantly, you nod. This was your mission, this was the vengeance you needed since you were a child, and you'd gone and made it a hell of a lot harder. He nods back, the gears in his mind turning, and his breathing uneven. You knew his tells when he was nervous or in pain, or on the verge of an anxiety attack. This was the ladder, and you were fighting the urge to run to him and explain yourself, but there was no time. There was no point now. 

You bite back the words; I love you, James. I'm so sorry. But you never say it. 

You fire a single round next to where Steve was, making him flinch. Warning him to stop inching closer when he thought you were distracted. Tony looks up to Steve, and they both look at each other like they were asking the other what to do. But Bucky, his gaze never falters from yours. He watches you like he knew this would be the last time, and you swore you could hear his heart breaking. You lower your gaze from his. 

"Both of you need to leave," taking cautious steps away from them and pointing the gun back at Tony. 

"Like hell we are," Steve says as Buckys voice fails to find him. 

Tony looks up at them, "Yeah, guys, listen to the lady. Save yourselves and leave. This is my fight. I made my bed, didn't I, sweetheart?" 

"Shut up, Stark, we aren't leaving." Steve stands, and this time you let him. He says your name like he's reprimanding you, "You need to think about what you're doing, think about the team."

You say nothing, and Steve's eyes catch Buckys briefly. The frustration inside you boils over when Steve speaks again, "Think of how you're hurting Bucky." 

"This isn't about him or us." The sharpness is heavily evident in your tone. 

Bucky's voice seems to find him as your gaze meets accidentally his, his eyes glazed over like he was on the verge of tears, "Isn't it always about us?" 

You don't respond, you can't. 

His big, beautiful, blue eyes were blown out despite how little you seemed to care in this moment for his feelings, or how little you chose to show.

He sees your internal turmoil and inches closer, "Please, I love you. Don't do this."

You bite your lip to stop it from quivering. He hadn't ever admitted his feelings so raw to you, just shown it in a lack of the words he couldn't find just yet. You ignore the loud pattering of your heart as you press the barrel of the gun to his chest, and he just lets you, leaning into it and wrapping his hand around yours— not believing that you'd really shoot him. 

You knew that after this, after killing Tony, Bucky would be far from loving you for what you had done. You weren't sure if you could even blame him for it. If you were in his shoes, you'd assume the same, that you had used him; his time, empathy, and courage to love again. If you were him, you'd hate yourself for making him love like this, and for what? Revenge? Peace of mind? 

You made him feel utterly used all over again, even after he had exposed all his scars to you and told you about his past. You listened with open arms and welcomed him into your embrace, kissing his hands, both metal and flesh, and whispering to him that he was worthy. Breaking his walls down just to make him build them up even higher. 

This is why you weren't supposed to let yourself get too close and too attached to the life you could've had with him and not the one for your own preservation. Vengeance had consumed you whole since the night your parents had died from a senseless attack carrying weapons etched with an Stark Industries on the barrel. How easily accessible these weapons became for people in your neighbourhood to find and purchase, and for worse individuals to buy in mass. All because the Stark family name had to be the top weapons manufacturer, no matter the cost and no matter the lives lost. 

You thought of the bloodshed, of the killings and the destruction that they caused and your blood boiled again. All because Stark Industries didn't do background checks on who they sold their weapons to. Bloomed bright with intentful retribution, you had convinced yourself; this was the only way. 

You let him lean in close, one last time. The familiar scent of him filled your lungs as he gazed into your eyes as though he were begging for you to snap out of it. But you were more yourself now than you had ever been, and you swallowed down the lump in your throat, inching a little closer to him.

"Then you're an idiot for loving me." You pulled your head back just enough to slam into his forehead and send him staggering a few feet backward, and he let your hand go. Before you knew it, he was focused on you again, whispering your name like a call to prayer.

Your hand moved too quickly for him to catch you, and you shot at Tony, striking him between the shoulder blades. Before Tony even falls over and grunts in pain, and Bucky grabs you. He knocks the gun from your hand and topples you over to the ground. 

"Get off of me!" you thrash but he doesn't relent.

He hovers over you, his legs on either side of your body. He thinks he's successfully disarmed you, leaning over and giving you an emphatic look despite how harsh your words and tone was. Despite how you had just shot Tony right in front of him, proving your lack of loyalty to the team.

Desperately clinging onto the hope that you still love him, or that the love was ever real. You buck your hips up high, trying to get him off of you, but he was far heavier than you. You're thrashing beneath him, and he holds your left arm with his flesh one, the metal one caressing your face—an action you helped him learn to do to prove every part of him was worthy to you. 

Steve was holding Tony's wound tight to keep him from bleeding out, but the crimson was spreading fast. The blood is pooling and reaching where you and Bucky were.

Bucky's eyes were glazed over and teary, threatening to fall down his face. The same face that you had become so enamoured with. 

"Please, baby, I don't wanna hurt you," he pleads. 

But you do the one thing you knew would hurt him most. You reach up with your free hand, grazing over his metal arm like you used to, soft and tender with your gaze still on his, a reminder of your intimacy before ruining the trust between you. 

"But I have to hurt you, James," you admit before a mechanical click shifts from beneath your fingertips and his arm dismounts his body, clattering to the floor. 

He leans back off of you, his gaze falling to the vibranium arm before up to your face. Shocked and pained. His expression was beyond broken now, and you wanted so badly to take it back just as you did it, but this was how you made him hate you. A tear slips from his face and lands on your cheek as he stares down at you, never blinking, just staring in utter disbelief. 

Your heart aches and hate yourself for what you were doing, but you seize the opportunity while he is distracted. Shoving Bucky off of you fully, and he doesn't do anything to stop you, his eyes remaining on where you were just lying beneath him. The warmth of your cheek lingering under his phantom arm as he looks to it. 

You don't look back, you don't grab your gun off the ground, and you don't wish to meet anyone's gaze—especially not Buckys. 

You ignore whatever Steve was shouting to Bucky and stride your legs forward. Panting hard, you push yourself toward the glass windows, throwing a chair and causing it to shatter. You were prepared to jump when a bullet flies and grazes you in the side, coaxing a pained shriek from you as your legs work mindlessly, pumping and continuing to push you forward. Adrenaline fuels you as you glance briefly over your shoulder, just in time to see Bucky, with your gun in his hand and his expression utterly shattered like you'd never seen. 

This couldn't be love, because love shouldn't hurt like this. Love shouldn't bleed like this. 

He has to hate you now.

You turn back and leap through the broken glass, Buckys face the last thing on your mind as you descend from the tower. When Bucky ran to look over the edge of the shattered window, looking to where you had landed, you were already gone. The only thing you left behind was the pool of blood Tony was rasping in and a trail of yours, from the wound Bucky had given you.

New York quickly became the place you hated most, so you left the busy streets behind. 

The following weeks left you on a manhunt, from the Avengers, law enforcement, and Bucky Barnes. 

For the next several months, you avoided all places they frequented. After betraying all your friends, you didn't feel the most enthusiastic to return to any place they might be or risk incarceration. Especially not after attempting to kill Tony and finding out through news channels that he had died in a way that you hated— because it was honourable. He did the one thing you never thought he could, and was a hero in the very end. 

This sent you into a spiral that felt endless, and you became a mess of yourself. You started to get sloppy and started seeking old comforts. Natasha's voice would play in your head, nagging you to watch your six and mind the corners of buildings when you crossed the street. She would be the voice of reason in your head when you reached for the phone with no SIM card in your bedroom drawer and contemplated using it to call Bucky. 

She would play in your mind when you went to the deli with the sandwiches Bucky loved and bought his order just to imagine how it would feel to be him. How would it feel to be defiled by the woman you loved? To relearn love just to be used to get to someone else?

You would ruin your own appetite often, and you weren't sure if it was cause of your spiralling thoughts or the fact that you were hallucinating the voice of your dead best friend. 

One winter night, you wore an old jacket that still smelled faintly like Bucky, missing his touch more than usual. Your hands shoved into your pockets, and the jacket zipped up high, covering your nose. You felt the cold metal of something in your pocket. With peaked interest, you pulled your hand out and stared at the key in your hand, the one to the apartment Bucky had. The one he hardly went to. In your mind, it felt like a sign to go there, to feel the air that you both once breathed together in and memorize the smells. You couldn't help it; your legs carried you there without considering the consequences. 

Carefully, you unlocked the door with a swallow creak that echoed in the dark and nearly empty space. Bucky was never one for much decoration, so the apartment only had the necessary furniture and appliances and throw pillows you lent him that never went back home with you. Kicking your shoes off, you walked over to the kitchen, drawn by the hum of the refrigerator. Once you walked close enough, you froze. The fridge was open, the light still on.

Fuck, someone was here. 

Your name is said so softly, so gently, spoken as though afraid it might scare you away. Like he wasn't sure if it was you or a dream. You already knew who it was without even seeing his face.

You turn slowly to meet his eyes—evaluating. 

"James," you breathe, hands clenched inside your jacket pockets. 

The look on his face made you feel all the more worse. His eyes were sunken in like he hadn't slept, red and rimmed. In his hand was a case file with your name on it. 

"I thought you were really gone," the file drops to the floor as he reaches for your face, "I thought you were dead." 

Not expecting him to touch you, you take his hand off of you, "I shouldn't have come here," you sputtered, moving out of the kitchen. 

Bucky followed you out of the room, hot on your tail. You could feel the sharp daggers of his gaze prickling at your back.

He calls out after you, "Hey," you keep walking, ignoring him. he says your name, footsteps heavy after you, "I am talking to you, dammit!" 

Still, you pretended not to feel his presence behind you, walking fast through the hallway. But he wouldn't let you get away from this conversation, not again, and he grabs you by your arm, pulling roughly. "Stop ignoring me," he spat out, glaring at you, "quit shutting me out, you left for months,"

"I can't do this right now, Bucky." you hiss

He flinches at that use of his name, grip tightening, "You can't do this right now, huh? You came here to what, then? Torment me further? Kill me like you tried with Stark? You leave me in the dark for seven months, and you're the one who can't do this right now?" 

You pretend like his tone wasn't puncturing your heart and pull your arm, but he doesn't relent.

His eyes were piercing with intensity and frustration, "Do you have any idea what it's been like, wondering why you pretended to love me? Wondering why you left me like that when I would've given anything you wanted?" his voice rose quickly. 

You try to interrupt him, "You don't understand—"

"You're damn right, I don't understand! Fuck, why did you even come back here if you want to leave so badly? You wanted to disappear, so why come back?" His emotions rose in his tone.

You try again, mumbling his name, but he stops you, yanking you closer, "Shut up and fucking listen! For once in your life, listen to me!" his chest rises and falls, "You could've talked to me and told me what was going on, but instead you just ran!"

"You shot at me!" you counter. 

"You took my arm off of me!" he practically screams your name at you, "If I wanted to fucking shoot you, we both know I wouldn’t have missed.”

You gulp at the realization; he presses closer.

“You used me to get to him, and you knew," his voice breaks, "you knew what that was going to do to me, and you did it anyway."

Everything in his face looked sunken in, like he wasn't taking care of himself since you disappeared. Suddenly, your surroundings overwhelmed you like skeletons in the closet. Dozens of empty cans of beer and bottles of whiskey. Even though he couldn't get drunk, it looked like he had desperately tried. Packages next to the front door, labelled in Sam's handwriting, urging him to eat something inside them. Cardboard boxes full of cases, papers etched over the ground from when he had been frantically rummaging through for any kind of clue.

You hadn't gotten to see just how affected he was until now, and it was eating you alive more than you had already been doing to yourself. 

"You've ruined me. I'm ruined and you're here just to leave me, again." His thumb stroked your cheek lovingly and tenderly, while his words came out broken.

"The worst part is I would let you use me so long as you came back. Why wouldn't you come back for me?" his words sounding utterly broken and more of a statement than a question.

"I should have, James. I didn't mean for it to happen like that—" 

He pushes you against the door to the bedroom, your back hitting it with a thud. Arms on either side as his hips press against yours, pinning you there.

"Don't. Just don't lie to me anymore," he rasps, "you did what you had to, right? You had to use me like a pawn, and I just rolled over for you."

You can't help how your words get lost on you, and you drown in the intensity of his sharp gaze. The tenderness in those blue eyes that you grew to love was gone, but still you desired him more than anything else, and you couldn't help how your eyes flickered over his perfect, plump lips. Even in this moment, you burned for him and only him. His gaze turns into something deeper, something between hurt and lust that you barely recognized. Everything about his body language screamed that he was restraining himself from you. 

He catches your gaze, and his hand mindlessly lifts, caressing the side of your face. 

"God, if you wanted to hurt me, shooting me in the head would have hurt less." chest heaving against yours. 

Tears prickled at your eyes, "I am so sorry, Bucky, I really am."

He shakes his head slowly, "You don't get to apologize, not when you still have me undone for you." His eyes are boring into yours, but his words contrast with his actions: "I fucking hate you, and I want you just as broken by this as I am."

You gulp, "I am broken by this," his hand finds the doorknob and pushes it open, pulling you inside with him. 

"No, you wanted to use me," he walks you backwards and shoves you onto the mattress, and you let him. "I'll show you what it's like to be used."

"James—" you try as he flips you over onto your stomach.

"You want me to stop? You tell me now. Otherwise, I don't wanna hear anymore lies from you."

But you can't tell him to stop. You want him, you'll always want him.

When you turn your head to look at him and nod, he pulls at your hips and keeps you on the edge of the bed as he practically rips your pants off you. Gasping as his metal knuckles grazed up your spine, pulling the fabric up with it and sending shivers like he knew it would.

The way he feels makes your core ache for him despite it all. You missed this— you missed all of him like an addict to his touch. Arching as he presses into you from behind, fisting your hair as he ruts himself against you, reminding you of what could have been.

Bucky was more than just a means to an end, and you wanted him to know that, but how could you? That you are capable of using him despite knowing his past? How do you convince him that you loved him when you'd shown him that you didn't want him? That he shouldn't want you?You've already shown your care to him, and he's well aware of how you'd used him, so maybe hating you was the only answer. Love might not be in your cards, but in this moment, your resilience was pouring through the cracks. If he hated you, then he would be okay, and the damaged parts of you couldn't reach him anymore. 

He leans over your back and shifts his hand from your hair to your throat; tight enough to threaten.

"You wanted this all along, didn't you?" breaths hot against your ear as his belt clinks open, "I've just been a bit of fun for you? An easy, broken man you could use over and over? A quick fuck?" 

Your lip quivers, "You were always more than that."

He releases your throat. Reaching over and down your chest to rip your shirt open easily. The fabric is thin—the buttons pop open and scatter across the room. With one quick, practiced move, he unhooks your bra without even looking at it. You gasp despite yourself and let him pull you up, bare back flush against his.

Your heart crumbles for him, and the damage you'd done that seems to follow you everywhere you go. In his mind, he already had his answer as to why you wouldn't come back, but he still didn't want to believe it. He still wanted you, even if it really were one last time before you left him again. 

Warm, soft tears roll down your cheek and onto his fingers, "James, I really am sorry, you didn't deserve this." 

His heavy length is pressed against your back as he grips your hair roughly, just enough to see your face. Bucky's gaze softens despite how tense he was, but you could still see the uncertainty in his eyes. 

"I told you, I don't want your apologies," tears threaten to spill from his eyes. He runs his fingers up your core, testing the wetness pooling there before he pulls your panties off, "I just want this."

You swallow your tears and the urge to try convincing him again. You nod—needing him just as badly, "Okay." 

The feeling of him alone makes you throb for him, aching for him like you have been for months.

Running his thick and angry red tip through your folds once, he collects the slick and watches your face contort in pleasure. He’s watching as you shut your eyes—savouring the feeling like you were deprived and storing the image in the back of his mind. He aligns himself and pushes the tip inside, making you writhe into the pillow.

But he doesn't coo at you like he normally would, he doesn't praise you the way he knows you like, and he doesn't try to make it slow and passionate. 

This was pure take and desire that consumed you both.

The stretch of him was as glorious as always, but fuck, you wanted to see him. He doesn't give a warning before thrusting in to the hilt, bottoming out and coaxing a sharp gasp from you. His lips close the distance to your neck, leaving wet, sloppy kisses that quickly become rougher as he sucked purple marks—marking you in a physical manifestation of what you'd done to him.

Leaving something behind for you to be reminded of in the morning. 

Gripping your hips tight enough that it would leave bruises, and you didn't care. His hips sank hard, movements meant to reach a peak that could prove something to him or to you somehow. Punishing in his thrusts, rocking the headboard against the wall in every movement.

The soft exterior of the man you loved so badly was gone. He was taking you apart in every way he knew how, because Bucky knew how to make you sing for him and had your body memorized like the back of his hand. 

The sounds he made were between a whimper and a groan, as though everything about this was ripping him apart. You knew him so well, studied him like a roadmap you could never forget. You knew his body like it was tattooed inside your eyelids, never escaping the softness. 

Being rough wasn't something Bucky liked to do with you, unless you asked for it. So this? This was tearing him to shreds. After months without feeling the sweet plush of your skin, Bucky so desperately wanted to take his time, but he couldn't trust himself with being able to leave you alone afterwards.

If he took any more time, he knew he wouldn't be able to let you go. 

You whined his name, wanting to touch him. Reaching back for him, grazing your fingernails over his forearms, and he takes your hands, kissing them like he was sorry. You cry out for him again, but he shoves your face into the pillow, shutting you up and muffling your helpless moans. Putting down his full weight and your hands over your head, whispering breathlessly into your ear. 

"You wanted to use me, so take it. Take all of it." 

Puncuating his words by snapping his hips even deeper into yours and reaching the spongy spot that made you see stars. You push back into him to meet his thrusts, he moans so beautifully for you—and he hated it.

He hated how you had him undone for him and could hurt him so deeply.

Holding both of your hands with his flesh arm so you couldn’t touch him, the metal one comes between you and circles over the sensitive bud, making you jolt. But he won't let you escape the way he made you feel, so he plants a knee on either side of you to cage you under him. He urges you on while keeping his punishing thrusts, snapping even harder, faster. 

Overstimulating all at once; the rigorous pace brings you there faster than you began, and you scream his name as you fall apart. He groans like it hurts as your walls flutter around him and the slickness urges him on. He doesn't relent, pushing deeper into you again and again, chasing his high as you writhe beneath him, cooing at him that it was too much to no avail. He grunts in your ear, and you swear you could've came again just at the rasp of his voice. 

“James please,” you whimper.

Suddenly, he hooks an arm under your knee and flips you onto your back. When you meet his gaze, you see the tears in his eyes just before he crashes his quivering lips into yours. His tongue swipes over your lip before he tangles the muscle with yours, sweeping every crevice of your mouth in a desperately possessive manner. He swallows your whimpered moans and ruts himself in short, deep movements, reaching into you like he could understand you like this. Like he could finally reach your mind and unravel you in this bed.

In his bed. 

The taste of salty tears touches your tongue as he devours your lips. His pace becomes uneven and sloppy as you feel yourself reaching that peak again. He pulls back just to attach his lips to your neck, sucking and biting to leave his mark purposefully. His teeth sink in, and you moan his name loudly as you came again, grabbing at him now that you could. Hissing at your nails against his back, his moans are broken and he twitches and sputters your name quietly, spilling hot inside.

Still thrusting slow and deep like he just couldn’t help himself, he keeps his spend inside, not letting a drop escape as he remains sheathed in between your slick walls. He looks back down, taking in the deep marks he left there, a hint of apology in his eyes. He seems like he wants to say something, but he stops himself, leaning down and kissing you again—softer this time.

He swipes his tongue along your lips to coax you into opening your mouth for him again. He pulls back just enough to spit into your mouth. You swallow it for him, digging your fingers into the nape of his neck and pulling him back down like you couldn't let him go.

This time, Bucky whimpers at the contact you make, biting your bottom lip enough to coax another gasp and then pulling away entirely. He gets off of you, running his hand through his hair and dragging it over his face. He stands up fast and pulls his jeans back on.

"Where are you going?" you ask, but he doesn't look at you. 

"This doesn't change anything," he adjusts his belt through the loops, the sound clinking through the quiet air, besides the sound of both of your heavy breathing. 

You sit up, the evidence of the sanguine and desolate encounter dripping onto his sheets, "James, please, if you would just let me explain." 

He turns quickly, eyes red as he says your name like it physically pains him, "I told you, I fucking despise you. Loathe isn't strong enough to describe how I feel about you." 

You stop breathing for a moment, stuck in place. 

He continues, watching the pained expression on your face grow, "You're like a fucking plague on my mind, and I can't stand you anymore."

He takes backwards steps to the door, turning away from you, "I don't ever want to see you again, so you better be long gone by the time I come back here." 

You can't help the soft scoff that escapes you, gripping the sheet tighter, "and if I don't go?" 

He looks at you for a moment, his eyes trailing over your face and studying each feature. After a beat, he looks back into your eyes. The look he gives you is colder than anything you'd ever seen before from him. 

"Then I will kill you myself." 

He slams the door shut behind him, the sound deafening—making you flinch as you close your eyes. 

You were right before; this wasn't love. Love doesn't hurt like this.

Tony Stark became a name that would send a shiver down your spine, but your fists didn't clench like before. 

You refused to acknowledge it with the same fierceness you had before, since your oversight had blinded you. Now, you could see how partial you were and how you'd let anger cloud your judgment and nearly kill a man for the crimes of people before he was born. You still had hate in your heart for him— how could you forget it? But at least now, that sharp pain shifted to an ache dulled that you only felt in your bones when it was cold and you thought of Manhattan.

Nearly half a decade after you last saw Bucky, your life is much different now. Half the Avengers are either dead or retired. Somehow, you still felt some responsibility for what you'd done back then, and how you could never explain yourself, but you were convinced that you were worthy of it anymore. Apologizing to anyone would be selfish because you knew it was for yourself. 

The apartment you lived in—if you could even call it that—was cluttered with clothes and takeout from weeks prior. You hardly left your place now, even after Tony Stark sacrificed his life for the world and died.

An honourable death, for someone you thought to be the opposite of it entirely.

You didn't know how to deal with that or how to take back the things you'd done on your vengeful path. So instead, you stayed home and watched bad television. You were on your couch, licking ice cream off your spoon, when you saw the face that could've killed you on sight.

The bewitching face of the man you dreamt of more often than you'd ever admit, the piercing blue eyes of his unmistakable face above his scruffy appearance, and neatly tucked hair. He wore a crisp suit that you'd never seen him in before, besides a borrowed one from Steve at the many Galas you'd attended. He walked across wearing his stoic expression, the hint of sadness only you'd recognize behind his brief smile, before he spoke to an audience about a bill you didn't know anything about. 

James Buchanan Barnes was now a Congressman. 

You couldn't help the laugh that rippled through you at the thought that your James, your grumpy and impatient James, was now working a job that required him to not only talk to people often but also attend meetings regularly. The livestream of the video captured him shaking hands with people as he walked down the hall with other politicians, and then stopped. There you saw a short-haired woman, hair cut at her shoulders and a polished smile as Bucky bent down for her to whisper in his ear.

You felt an unfamiliar jealousy bubble in your stomach as you put the pint of ice cream on the table, spoon clattering on the coffee table, muttering to yourself from weeks of having no social interaction. Crossing your arms over your chest just as Bucky leaves the frame, and the woman does too. You throw your remote at the screen in an annoyed groan, hurling it harder than you intended. Wincing as you hear a soft crack and realize you've broken your television. 

When you got restless, you went on runs—always alone. 

That was how Yelena found you, cornering you at an intersection and somehow knowing who you were beneath the layers you wore to conceal your identity. She ran next to you, matching your speed, and you didn't have to turn your head to know it was her. 

"Yelena, long time no see, Sestra," peering over at her as you pull your headphones off.

Yelena smiles at you, "You remembered."

You don't smile back, but give her something in between, "Of course I do."

Yelena was an old friend, a person you knew through her sister Natasha and kept in touch with just barely. After Natasha died, you spoke to Yelena only once, to check on her and for your own peace of mind. You sought her out and cried with her for your fallen friend. You never got to explain yourself to Natasha, but Yelena still trusted you. You pulled her out of a low she didn't know how to navigate while you were going through one of your own. Yelena was the only person you told about what you had done to Tony. She listened carefully when you explained your true intentions for joining the Avengers, to see if she was truly empathizing with you. If anyone knew what it was like to face-to-face with someone who was the reason for your solace, it was her.

Clint was her Tony, and Tony was your Clint.

Though at least Yelena got to talk to him about it and found comfort and closure through it, you didn't even get to say goodbye.

She didn't judge you, not even when you brushed off more personal questions, mentioning the rest of the team, and purposefully glossing over Buckys' part in your story. She knew there was more missing, but she didn't push. You gave her general answers, and you told her of your vengeance and reasoning for doing what you did. You told her she wouldn't be hearing from you, and she did not protest.

But she told you she would come looking for you one day and apparently, today, was that day. 

She says your name, guiding you towards an alleyway. You oblige because you knew that Yelena wouldn't ask for anything from you if it wasn't serious. Yelena and you didn't have to see each other often for the two of you to converse like normal all over again, and you appreciated her for it.

"Are you alright?" you ask her, shoving your phone into your pocket.

"Oh, me? Fine, great. Working with idiots, but I dealt with worse before," she points at your pocket, "give me that."

"What? My phone?" but she's already reaching in your pocket, wiggling her fingers and pulling it out, "oh pfft, sure, yeah, go ahead." 

She types in the password without you having to tell her, saying your name when you're about to protest again, "Oh, shush, I have seen you naked. And you are too sloppy, too predictable," shaking your phone in your face, "you have not changed your password in 5 years."

You pout slightly.

Okay, maybe you have been getting sloppy.

She returns to going through your phone and reading over something aloud to herself before staring up at you. Shaking her head, she continues, swiping and swiping. 

"You have not texted or called anyone in, what the fuck, 6 months?" She pulls the phone case off and takes one of her earrings out, "What happened to having a life?" 

Popping out the SIM card and dropping to the floor before smashing it beneath her boot.

You exclaim, "Yelena!"

"What? You didn't have much on it anyway. Although I guess that means breaking it was useless," she tosses your phone into the bin as well. "I need your help, and we cannot be followed." 

You look entirely annoyed and wide-eyed at her, "You basically just called me a loser and broke my phone. You are going to be followed, whether you like it or not, Lena." 

She smiles then, putting her earring back into her earlobe. "Great, follow me then." 

Grumpily, you take one last look at your poor phone, cracked and at the bottom of the grimy garbage bin, before following after her. Taking a heavy footstep after the other as you follow behind her, just before she turns the corner out of the alleyway and onto the streets again. The familiar presence of her allowed you to roll your tensed shoulders back just a bit, still holding up some of the walls you'd built up high and mighty. You stared down at her shoes as she walked and noted how polished her clothes were, her suit brand new and tailored perfectly to fit her like she was ready for a fight right now. 

She walks across the street, and you suddenly realize where she was taking you, "Why are we going to my place?" 

"You have to change. I cannot take you looking like a teenage boy to meet Valentina," her eyes trailing over your outfit and then back to your face. 

You squint at her as you enter the courtyard—her movements too aware of an apartment building you’d never taken her too. She walks with too familiar a practice and holds the door open for you with a knowing smile, but you don't question it. Not yet at least.

Yelena plops on your couch and picks up a sock from the corner, staring at it, then you. "You live like this? Like slob?" 

You roll your eyes, walking over to her and taking the sock from her hand, tossing it into the laundry basket that you said you were gonna put away two weeks ago,

"I live alone, so who gives a shit." 

She hums at you like she knows something you don't, putting her hand under her chin and watching you, "You used to care how you lived. I don't get how nearly killing Stark made you this depressed."

You say nothing, pulling your hair back from your face and padding back toward the hallway, stripping off your hoodie. You make your way to your room to change, and Yelena stood and followed after you, replacing the couch with your bed. You try changing the subject,

"So, Valentina, huh? You still work for her?" you say as you rummage through your closet, struggling to find something that wasn't a hoodie or a shirt younger than ten years.

"She is the lady who's been giving me jobs, she’s reliable that much and she knows you’re still alive.” twirling her thumbs on the edge of your bed.

You stop moving and turn to face her. "Yelena, I don't do that shit anymore,"

Yelena sits up, "You don't just give that life up, don't kid yourself."

Rubbing the bridge of your nose, "Last time we worked together, neither of us had eyebrows."

She shrugs, "Eh, they came back." When you sigh, exasperated, she continues, "Come on, just this once. Come with me. I just do my job, clock in and clock out. Anyway, you are clearly not busy, so don't tell me you are because I know when you are lying." 

You mentally noted the exhaustion on her face and the bags forming under her smudged eyeliner. Yelena always got through her shit through humour, but something told you to go through with her ask and go anyway. 

Plus, you were bored out of your mind in your apartment.

You nod, "Yeah, sure, will you just come tell me what to wear then? I'm at a loss here."

Yelena stands and stretches her arms, making her way over to you. When she looks into your closet, she snort, "Your closet looks like mine. Lack of fulfillment and desperation."

Yelena purposefully ignores the men’s jacket sitting there, several sizes too big for you. She pulls out an old mission suit from the back of your closet, hidden behind a pile of boxes.

When she turns to hand it to you and sees the look on your face, she rolls her eyes, "I said my closet looks like this too. Jeez, you really don't get out much, can't even take jokes now." 

As you approached the bunker with Yelena, she began briefing you on her target. She explained, very poorly, who the Ghost was and how Valentina had sent you both to take her down by any means necessary. 

Yelena spoke just as you approached the hall. 

"She's stealing the files that Ghost lady. I need you to find them while I take her down, or you take her down, whatever floats your boat or whatever."

With quiet footsteps, the two of you crept into the bunker. The room was filled with boxes you assumed had documents and gadgets you hardly understood. Filing in after Yelena, you followed her to a packet of documents on top of a box, frowning at the symbols etched on the paper. Multiple designs for a suit and the letter S in different fonts stared back at you as you turned your head to her in bewilderment. Just as you looked at her, you caught a glimpse of a gun pointed at her by a tall man in a suit in dirty tones of blue and red. 

"Lena!" You shouted before grabbing her by her shoulders and rolling just in time for the bullets to fly past you.

Both of you huff as you land behind a box, still over Yelena. Getting off of her, you peer over the box, and the man shoots again, making you duck.

Still, you recognize him— John Walker.

While you don't know Walker personally, you know of his history and how he didn't even make it a month as Captain America before killing someone and having his shield revoked. Mentally, you noted how his replica shield wasn't made of vibranium, the same indestructible metal of Buckys arm. 

He says your name as though he knew you, and you snap your eyes up to his. You don't miss the frown on his face as he says your name again. 

"You were in the Avengers. I thought you were dead," clipping his gun into his holster, "Everyone does." 

Yelena peeks out, "You know him?"

You shake your head and step out, also leaving yourself exposed for Walker to establish some kind of connection. Yelena stands behind you when you hear a shadow. She yelps as someone new joins the three of you, flipping her over on her ass. Ghost, you recognized her from Yelenas brief description when another person emerges from the shadows, flipping a gun in their hand. When you turn, the Ghost is gone, and Walker is in your face. 

"Why the hell are you here? All official records say you're dead." His hand was on his holster, close to drawing it out again. 

Stepping backward, you scoff softly, "As you can see, I am very much alive, Walker." 

His eyes widen slightly at your use of his name, partly impressed that you even knew him and half-wary of you. The two of you remain staring at each other as Yelena dusts herself off and starts towards you, pointing at the Ghost who was fighting another person out of your line of sight. Walker draws his gun quickly to point at Yelena. 

"An ex-Avengers death isn't on my conscience," tilting his head at Yelena, and she looks unfazed, "but I am here for you," he says just as a sudden, deafening gunshot snaps the attention of all three of you.

Instinctively, you also draw your weapon, keeping the pistol pointed at Ghost. The three of you focused on the gunshot behind you and the hard thud hitting the ground.

Then you gasp when you see it.

The Taskmaster, someone you did know before and worked with after leaving the Avengers, is dead. Blood pooled over her mask and began spilling on the floor.

In your line of work, this was a common occurrence, bound to happen. But it has been a while since you’d seen a body of someone you knew, even vaguely. Your eyes shift up to the Ghosts as her mask cyphers off. 

"Well, my job is complete," she announces, stepping over the body.

John scoffs, disregarding the body like he were used to the sight, gun still in his hand, "mine isn't. Valentina was clear about needing you gone, Yelena." 

Just then, the sound of retching and dry heaving catches everyone's attention. You'll turn in unison, guns drawn and pointed at the new found voice when you see a man in blue scrubs, hair dishevelled and looking utterly afraid.

He keeps his hands up, a dry nervous laughter leaving him before he speaks, "um, is she, are they really dead?"

John ignores his question and walks towards him, boots heavy with practiced military precision in each step, "Just who in the fuck are you, guy?" 

"Bob, I'm Bob," he gulps as John waves his gun to urge him to continue explaining himself, "I just woke up in here. One minute I was doing a medical study, the next I'm here.”

You all exchanged glances, uncertain and confused.

Bob stammers as he racks his brain, trying to convince the menacing group in front of him of his innocence, “Please, you gotta believe me." 

You look over to the capsule behind him, the mould of a body in a high-tech casing that makes your thoughts race. If he were telling the truth, then he was a definitive experiment for Valentina just as you suspected John Walker to be. His enhanced strength only something you’d seen from your former Avengers—Steve Rogers and Bucky.

You thought back to when Bucky told you about the super soldier serum and how people continued to test in cruel ways to see just how far they could push the human body and create the perfect human.

The perfect experiment and weapon.

Your brows knit together, and you met Yelenas gaze. She's frowning like the gears of her mind have clicked into place and made the same realization as you. Of course, Valentina was playing you, she was always playing both of you. 

Valentina was killing people she had working for her previously—this was cleanup and you were doing the fucking dirty work for her.

"Okay," Yelena says finally, her gun going into her waistband and her other hand reaching to yours, lowering the weapon, "it's clear we have all been played here and all worked for Valentina in some capacity."

John grumbles, lowering his gun too, "What are you saying?" 

The Ghost rolls her eyes, "Are you a dense, dime-store Captain America? Valentina clearly sent us here to die," gesturing around the room. 

John stares at her, evaluating and intense, "I didn't know that Ghosts could speak." 

She smiles, a small hum of a laugh that was entirely humourless, "It's Ava, actually."

John scoffs again just as alarms blare and the bunker goes into lockdown. Bob scurries closer, and no one stops him. 

Yelena breathes out heavily, "We don't have time for this, you guys," staring at the elevator shaft, then at Ava, "We have to get out of here." 

Then they're all moving.

Without really telling anyone what to do, they were working in unison, as though this was what they were meant to be doing. John breaks open the power source, Ava unlocks the door, and Bob has the bright idea to get out of the Bunker by climbing. After listening to them bickering and scraping your knees against the elevator shaft a couple of times, you eventually do get out. 

In the car, Yelena shot an apologetic look at you from the front seat.

You gave her a tight, slightly annoyed smile back. You were sitting next to John Walker and the Ghost lady you now identified as Ava, and the loud man driving the car kept nudging Yelena and asking her questions, whispering about her having found her calling. You smirk to yourself a little when you see Yelenas' look of annoyance, not missing the silent acceptance there that she had found something worth fighting for. Ava adjusts something on her suit, while you stare out the window over John's head to watch the landscape. But he catches your eye, staring at you.

You frown, "What?" 

"You're Bucky Barnes's ex," he announces, and the pair in the front stop talking. 

"What does he say? Winter Soldier has a girlfriend?" Alexei catches your eye in the rear-view mirror, "You are Winter Soldier's girlfriend?"

You stammer, "No, I'm not."

"She is right technically, she's not his girlfriend." John says again, never shifting his gaze from you, "She's the one who backstabbed the Avengers." 

You wince, and Alexei gasps. Yelena doesn't even move because she already knew about this, even without you telling her about the part about Bucky. Ava doesn't budge either, unfazed by the declaration of your disloyalty as though she had anticipated it or had known somehow. 

Alexei suddenly laughs, "You are badass, like Lena, like Tasha!" he looks to Yelena, then you in the mirror again, "No mercy like the Soviet Union!" 

Yelena cuts him off, "Okay, Dad, please just stop. Let's just get out of here and go home." 

"Go home?" Alexei says, looking personally offended by her declaration, "No, no, no, this is a beautiful group, a new friendship and family to have and cherish. You cannot go home and forget all about this, Lena." 

"There is no point, they took Bob already," she says, looking out the side mirrors. 

"This is a glorious team! Just like when Natasha was Avenger!" Alexei gleams. Yelena shakes her head and groans at him. 

John snorts from next to you, "Yeah, go Thunderbolts." 

Alexei gasps dramatically, "You tell them of your little league team? Oh my, you already bonded." he snaps his head to look at you all, making the car jerk, "You know, one time someone pooped in the middle of the game, right there, on the field. It was so funny, they were so bad." Yelena grabs the steering wheel, steadying them. 

Ava suddenly announces that; "someone is following us."

Without waiting for anyone to say anything, she puts her mask back on and geo-leaps to the trunk of the car, facing the vehicle chasing you. 

Everyone quiets to look.

Yelena glances out her window, spotting three bulletproof vehicles roaring behind Alexlei's shitty taxi car. Despite his claim that it was bulletproof earlier, the shells whizzing past you now and shattering the windows proved otherwise.

A deafening screeching sound is played over the speakers of the truck behind you, and Ava nearly falls out of the car when you and John yank her back in through the broken window. She's disoriented over your lap as the shooting ensues.

In a swift move, Yelena peels out of the car, shooting out one of the tires and sending the vehicle crashing. Amongst the fiery crash, the other two roar closer to Alexei's terribly slow car.

Yelena sits back inside, fiddling with her gun, "That was my only bullet." 

John reaches for his gun, the magazine missing, "shit, I'm out too."

He glances back through the broken window, a roaring motorcycle appearing from the smoke of the crash, chasing behind the last of the three.

The name he utters makes the colour drain from your face, "Bucky?" 

You turn with him, and there he was. You feel your body run cold again, blood freezing in your veins. Bucky suddenly stops his motorcycle, grabbing the hitch of the other vehicle and pulling it to a taut. Anyone else would’ve been ripped in half but the sheer strength of him, Bucky yanked the enormous tank backward, punch the chain hard into the concrete below him. The car is then flying away from you and rolling into another fiery crash before you knew it.

John and Alexei laugh in relief as Bucky launches something beneath the other car, causing it to explode. Alexei hits the steering wheel, hollering something about ‘the Winter Soldier never retiring.’

The cheering dies down as Bucky turns his focus on Alexeis' car, pointing his weapon at it. 

But it felt like he was pointing right at you.

Suddenly, something is launched beneath Alexei's car and John curses. The explosion booms white as the car is airborne. Then you're sliding from the backseat, gasping as the car begins to flip. Ava and John hold onto the grab handles of the car, but you don't grab anything in time. 

You groan awake, wanting to rub your head.

Cuffs digging into your wrists as your eyelids flutter open.

Chatter makes your ears perk up, recalling what had happened, turning your disoriented head around and taking in the faces around you. You glance to your left, looking at John as he notices you lucid again, shooting you a reassuring smile— something you weren't sure about just yet. He mouths, asking if you were alright, and you nod, giving him a tight smile before turning your attention to a loud Yelena and Ava. 

"Yes, Bob!" Yelena exclaims as Ava continues for her, "We have been trying to tell you that!" 

But you feel eyes on you, piercing and intense. The hairs on your neck stick up. Looking into his eyes, you felt like all of your old emotions were back in full force, like they had never even left. His hands were on his hips, listening but not really hearing them as he watched you. Looking past all the other obstacles and through you like he knew what you were thinking. Probably because he knew you better than anyone else—and it felt like you were alone in the room when you looked up into his eyes. 

Shamefully, you looked back down, not wanting to meet his gaze. It was too hard, and you didn't know if you could take it. The last time you'd seen him, he said he never wanted to see you again. Said that if he saw you ever again, he would kill you. You betrayed him, broke his heart and made him feel like he was when controlled by Hydra; used and weaponized.

After a beat, he speaks, interrupting the rest of the group's bickering, “we have to move then.”

To your surprise, he walks over and uncuffs Yelena, breaking off the cuffs swiftly then Ava’s. "Valentina won't expect us to go together, let alone work together." 

Ava narrows her eyes, "You're letting us go?"

He moves to uncuff Alexei and Walker. 

"No, not exactly. But I'm trusting you guys won't betray me," he says, and you bite back a wince at his words.

Still, you avoid looking at him, staring down at your shoes as though it could get you out of this situation. John leads them outside as they’re too focused on their own quiet discussion to notice the tension between you and Bucky. 

Finally, Bucky stops behind you as everyone else regroups. He bends close to your ear, hands undoing your wrists, taking more time than you knew he needed.

He says your name, "So, will you?" 

"W—what?" you rasp, rubbing your unbound wrists together and trying not to look into his piercing blue eyes.

Watching you intently, he tilts his head ever so slightly, as though he were studying you. Looking over just enough to catch your eyes.

"Betray me again. Can I trust that you won't do that?"

You couldn't stop staring at the facial hair on his face and how his scruff had grown fuller. You wanted to badly to lean into him again, feel the touch of the one you'd been aching for and finally force him to listen to you, even if you knew it was self-serving to do it now that he'd clearly gotten over you.

You nod your head at him, biting the inside of your cheek. The sound of Yelena calling you guys to hurry up and come out from outside doesn't make him flinch, and he leans in a little closer.

The familiar scent of him—cedarwood and rich suede—engulfs your senses. 

An unexpected tug at the corners of his lips makes your skin bloom bright as he eyes the features of your face, stopping over the curve of your lips. He steps away enough to give you space to move. Reluctantly, you stand and walk over to the door, needing a breath of fresh air from his sudden proximity—when you catch something he says something just before you walk outside. A foot out the door and you still hear him with the smirk in his voice evident.

"You're so beautiful, even when you lie to me."

A familiar sense of bitterness filled your mouth when you entered the Watchtower. 

You probably should've been more specific about when asking Yelena about where she was leading you up to, because she failed to mention that the Watchtower was just the Avengers tower—renamed.

As you got out of the elevator, you couldn't help but notice the same features in the building you once resided in. Your eyes trailed over to the kitchen, where you'd cook with Natasha and Steve. Where you'd walk in at an ungodly hour for a snack, and Bucky would find you. The place Bucky cooked the meal for your first not-date, setting out wine, pasta and salad— before Sam and Steve had crashed it and ate more than either of you. It was once domestic and safe, but you could never fully let yourself simmer in it. Nagging in the back of your head like a virus that had no cure, you would never relax entirely. 

Distant discussion grabs your attention as you emerge from the elevator. 

"We are taking you in Val," John crosses his arms, staring over at Valentina, who had shifted her attention to you as you walked in with Yelena.

"Hmm, I don't think so, Junior varsity, Captain America." She smiled wickedly as John angrily pulled his gun out of his holster. 

A familiar velvety smooth voice called out to John to stop—Buckys.

"Walker," Bucky warned, and John let his gun fall back into his side. 

Valentina giggled, swirling her drink in her hand and looked to Ava, "Ah, Ava, it's nice to see you again," she shifted her focus over to Yelena, "Yelena, you look awful."

Before turning back to you and saying your name slowly, "I knew you wouldn't stay dead."

You give her a tight, unamused smile, "Still a cunt then, Valentina?" 

She smiles right back, turning to Bucky, "One betrayal wasn't enough, Congressmen? You want her to actually kill someone from your adorable little team this time?" and his jaw tightens uncomfortably. She continues, looking back to Yelena, "And you, are you sure you're still ready for that public-facing role?"

Yelena steps forward, "Hmm, eat shit, Valentina. Where is Bob?"

"You mean Sentry?" She tilts her head, and you turn to Yelena again, the documents you saw at the bunker filling in the blanks, "come on out." 

You all turn to see Bob walking down the stairs, clad in bright yellow and gold attire, looking entirely imperfect. His hair is now blonde and slicked back neatly. Yelena breathes out his name, but he avoids her gaze. His smile was uncertain and nervous as he stood next to Valentina. 

"Sentry is my protection plan, and my reason to sway the committee. I will be unimpeachable," she smugly glances around for your reactions. 

Bucky scoffs, "That is never going to happen."

"Enough talk, nobody messes with the West Chesapeake Valley," Alexei charges forward, towards Bob, "Thunderbolts!" 

Without breaking a sweat, Bob punches Alexei once, sending him flying backward into the wall.

Everyone is suddenly on edge as Bob becomes a bigger threat than anyone had expected. Your fists clench as you feel the tension rise above anything you could ever contain, snapping as the unsheathing of weapons filled the air around you.

Bucky points his gun, Ava geo-leaps and reappears behind him before he sends her staggering back again. John launches his shield, and Bob easily sends it back to him like a Frisbee. Yelena begs them to stop, both of you running towards him when Bob sends a current of energy, sending all four of you flying backwards again.

You groan as you hit the hard wall next to Alexei, distant thoughts of CTE rummaged as you daze at the concrete. Alexei is up before you and warily he helps you stand again. 

Bucky looks back towards you, sending you an evaluative look that borders on concern, before turning his attention to Bob and firing straight at him. You gasp when Bob stops the bullets midair and pushes them full force back towards Bucky, moving too fast for him to dodge them. Pushing yourself forward, his name name slips from between your lips. Everything swirls, it happens so fast, but John is there faster, blocking the bullets with his shield and staggering backwards. Ava and Alexei get there in time again for Bob to disarm them both effortlessly and throw them to the corner of the room. 

Yelena pleads again, jumping onto Bob's back, electricity flowing from her gloves to his neck, "Bob, you don't have to do this, you have a choice."

You feel your face heat; the situation Bob was in was all too familiar to your own, and Buckys ' gaze prickled at your back. You knew it was useless, but you grabbed Buckys disgraced gun off the floor and pointed it up at Bob since Yelena clearly didn't believe that he would disarm her like the rest of them. Suddenly, the metal of the gun is burning your skin and slipping through your fingers. You yelp at the seering sensation, dropping it to the ground, watching as the gun melts into a mush.

John reapproaches him as Bob throws Yelena over to the elevator and grabs John's shield, bending it in half. John eyes widen in shock as Bob grabs you both by your necks. You’re thrashing, clawing with the remains of metal flicking off your gloves as you try to get him off before he’s flinging you over to where the rest of the team was lying. 

Then Bucky flips his knife in his hand, launching it before John pulls him forward with just his mind. The knife uselessly clattering next to Bob. He holds him in the air for a moment before letting him crash to the ground again. But Bucky was headstrong, and you knew he wouldn't give up so easily.

He strips off his jacket, horrifically seductive in a time like this, and strides back for Bob, punching at him hard with his vibranium arm. But Bob was too strong, beyond anything any of you had ever seen and he catches Buckys hand, gripping tight. Bucky groans, trying to free himself when Bob yanks his arm out from his body, and you gasp sharply. Swaying a little, Bob hits Bucky hard over the head with his arm and knocks him out as he's sent back over to the five of you. 

You crawl over to his unconscious form and cradle his head in your lap, frantic.

"James, hey, wake up," lightly grazing his cheek as you shook him slightly.

The rest of the team is up quickly, Ava grabbing Bucky's arm off the ground and Alexei and John moving towards Bucky. You let them hold him up and drag him out of the room, into the elevator. Bob lets you all leave, the look of regret evident on his face, which made your heart pang for him, because you knew that look.

You’d basked in that feeling for too long, the emptiness and the loneliness that devoured you whole; you could see it all on his face even as the elevator doors closed. 

Staring at the Buckys' arm in Ava's hand, you couldn't help but think about when you had done the same to him. You gulp as you step away from him, hand clutched over your mouth with effort, just as the doors opened and Bucky began to stir awake.

Stomach twisting in knots as his detached arm brings you back. You look to Yelena, stepping out of the elevator before anyone else,

"I shouldn't be here when he's awake again." 

She briefly met your eyes, her own teetering on the edge of disdain for herself and for Valentina for turning Bob into this. But she knew what you meant and gave you a tight nod. 

You brush past the rest of them, walking fast and panting harder, memories flooding back in full force. Unable to stop yourself from dry heaving into your palm, anxiety peaked and caused you to breathe harder. Once you were far enough, you turned into an alleyway and threw up, clutching the brick wall for something, anything to ground you. Hacking up the shame and the guilt, despite not knowing when you had last eaten.

Bucky slips out of John's grip and mutters a quiet thanks as his eyes immediately begin scanning around— for you. 

He walks over to Ava, taking his arm from her and clicking it back into place, swinging his arm and recalibrating it. He says your name, "Where did she go?"

Ava shrugged, "Not sure, but she seemed kind of out of it before she walked off." Bucky frowns, and she continues, "She said something to Yelena before leaving, maybe ask her?" 

"Right, thanks," but Ava stops him from leaving too quickly.

"You two used to date, right?" she asks softly, like she wanted to coax the answer from him. But Bucky didn't need any coaxing. 

He nods and smiles fondly, "Yeah, we used to be together. Why do you ask?" 

She smiles at his admission, as though she knew something he didn't, "Oh, no reason." Bucky narrows his eyes but drops it, giving her another thanks before starting after Yelena and Alexei. 

He jogs into the street, finding civilians running around aimlessly. He ushers some of them quickly, yelling to get inside. He moves further into the crowds to find you and Yelena, helping a family up and inside another building. Multiple crashes shift his focus again. A helicopter strikes a nearby apartment building and sends debris flying towards a young girl. Alexei runs fast, getting to her and shielding her with his body. Alexei crouched over, standing once the debris broke over his broad shoulders. Alexei helps the girl up just as a dark shadow looms over the streets of New York and people begin disappearing. The little girl next to Alexei also disappears. The thought of you also getting engulfed in the darkness suddenly sends him into a panic, and he runs toward you and Yelena, yelling your names. 

"We need to get inside, come on," he rasps, urging you both. You nod at him, pulling Yelenas arm along, but she stays standing there, staring up at Bob. 

Your eyes shift to Alexei, dangerously close to being in the darkness as well, "Okay, look, you get him, Bucky, I will bring her," letting out a shaky breath, he doesn't move yet, so you try again, "I will be right behind you." 

He hesitates and then reluctantly nods because you were right and you were more than capable, he knew that. He starts towards Alexei and from the corner of his eye, Ava hauls John up onto his feet, and sprints towards the nearest building where the darkness hadn't reached quite yet.

In seconds, Bucky is pulling Alexei up, who was still trying to wrap his head around the little girl flickering out as well. They reach the arch of the building, panting and overexerted. Ava and John are already there, hands holding the wall as they try to catch their breath.

Bucky glances around, turning over, scanning and searching for you.

But you still weren't there yet. 

Alexei pipes up from next to him, glancing over to John, then to Bucky, "Where is Yelena?"

Ava points toward the dark shadows looming beneath the Void—Bob.

There was Yelena, walking closer and closer to it, and you, inches behind her. It looks like you’re saying something to her, but she doesn’t run. You keep following. Moments later, Yelena disappears, shifting from physical form into a shadow. Milliseconds later, you follow her, drowned out and turned into a shadow of yourself.

Alexei screams, moving out of the arch to get to her, but John holds him back tightly, not letting him go.

And Bucky nearly folds in on himself, breathlessly leaning forwards like the sight of you disappearing had punched him in the gut. He had just gotten you back, even if it was glimpses. He was breathing the same air as you just like before, and he refused to lose it again. You didn’t have enough time yet—he had to right his wrongs this time.

Bucky's body moves before his mind does, starting after you when John calls his name, "Bucky, you can't!" 

His chest heaves, "Why the hell not?" 

"It makes you relive things,” giving Bucky a solemn, knowing look, “it’s like a shame room that loops your worst mistakes. It's gonna make you— wait!, Bucky, hold on!” 

Bucky knew you must've been eating yourself alive for what happened back then. He knew you already had demons before he even met you, that kept you from being entirely honest with him, and that was enough for him. He doesn’t wait for another reason, running into the shadows of his past life and aching for his future to emerge—you.

Bucky crashes through mirrors and drowns in baths of blood in his shame rooms. He relives the worst things he'd ever done and has to feel the weight of the lives he'd taken as the Winter Soldier. Memories of the training he had done in the Red Room, where he had trained countless Widows and ultimately led them to their demise. 

He gets out of it, out of all of it, because he had made his peace and found the closure he needed years ago, because of you. 

While it hurt and he hated himself for those things he had done, he shook the you had already helped him through all of this and brought him to the conclusion that it was not his fault. This was forced onto him, and he was weaponized for this. 

That's what gets him through his shame rooms. 

In a blink, Bucky finds himself in the old Avengers tower in an all too familiar room — your old bedroom. Under the morning light, shining and glittering against your soft, bare skin, there you were, smiling at a past version of him. The two of you were lying under the sheets, naked and tangled together. He was asleep there, which was rare for him until he had met you. He watched as your eyes scanned over his sleeping form, running your fingers softly through his dishevelled hair and grazing his scalp, pulling a soft hum from him. he didn't understand why this was part of your shame room. He didn't understand why this moment could have been so shameful for you if this was all it was, since it felt domestic. 

That was until you kissed his cheek lightly, like waking him was a sin. Your expression shifted to a pained one as you scanned over his sleeping face, burning it into your memory. You spoke softly, careful not to startle him awake,

"I love you, James," tears prickling your pretty eyes as you lay your head on his chest, "I am so sorry that I love you because this is gonna hurt so much more. And it's my fault." Wet droplets touch his sleeping form as he stirs and grips you tighter amid his dreams. 

He furrows his brows at the scene before him. The thought that you loved him enough to be ashamed of it, confusing him all over again. His stomach backflips when he recounts your words. It dawns on him that you really did care for him and didn't mean to fall in love with him. At least it was real to both of you. He steps closer to the bed to watch you there, resting on his chest, eyes closed and eyelashes wet, when the memory reloops itself. 

You weren't in this memory, so that meant you got out of it.

This wasn't your worst. 

He leaves the bedroom and that memory behind, starting down the hallway of the tower. The sound of distant yelling pulls him in that direction, and he jogs faster, reaching the lab and pushing the door open. There you were, the past version of you that he had been pained over for so long that it started to numb itself. You were beneath the past version of him, wide-eyed as Steve held Tony's gunshot wound to keep him from bleeding out. 

You writhe from under his weight, bucking your hips up to get him off of you. He watched you closer, not missing the desperation in your attempts and the pain in your eyes this time. He watches as a single tear slips down your face, as though in preparation for what you had to do, while the past Bucky adjusted himself over you, gripping one of your hands tight to stop your pounding at his chest.

"Please, baby, I don't wanna hurt you," he pleads. 

He watches as regret begins to flood your face and you reach up his arm, grazing up it like practiced movements. because you had done it dozens of times before, showing him that you loved him despite all of the odds and all of the things he had been forced to do. Showing him that you loved him, despite his past. He knows what's going to come next, and he hears your voice crack like it wounded you to say it this time around.

"But I need to hurt you, James," you admit before a mechanical click shifts from beneath your fingertips and his arm dismounts his body, clattering to the floor. 

The past version of him backs off from you and stares at the metal, hitting the ground, not taking in the look on your face. The past version of him didn't see the immediate regret plastered on your expression and the way you shut your eyes before moving and getting up. 

Then the memory loops. 

The pieces he had missed years ago were falling into place, and he was understanding you better now. With a heavier heart, Bucky looks around the room, looking for the next memory you might be stuck in. He stops at a reflective surface beneath a computer when he sees a glimpse of you—the real you.

The room was dark and only illuminated by the dark street lights. But there you were, sitting on the twin-sized bed, hunched over and looking towards another person. A younger girl with the same colour of hair and skin sat by the window, still, looking outside. The girl was maybe ten or eleven years old, and her back was facing him. Bucky couldn't shake the feeling that he knew her. He calls your name, and nothing happens. He tries again, and the lab darkens, mimicking the memory you were stuck in. He turns around to find you closer and himself in the room with you. He hesitates to reach out and touch you when a distant gunshot rips through the air, and he sees you flinch, retracting his hands. Deciding to watch and try to understand what you could never tell him, he sits next to you quietly, your eyes still trained on the younger version of you.

He watches the scene before him just as the memory reloops itself. 

A ten-year-old version of you sat by your window, reading from a book: The Giver. The spine was cracked, and you had a finger in your mouth, biting your nail like the story was keeping you on the edge of your seat. Before his brows could furrow, the doorbell rang, and you perked up. You called out your parents' names—no response. Placing your book carefully upside down to keep your page open, you stood up and walked out of your room and past your father's study. He was on the phone, looking angry and completely busy, your mother asleep in her bedroom after a long day at work. You thought you were being helpful. 

The young you rubbed at her eyes and walked to the front door, undoing the latch and unlocking it. When you opened the door, a tall man wearing a suit and tie peered down at the young you, grinning wickedly. 

"Are your parents home, sweetheart?" the man asked, taking his hands out of his pockets. 

"Yeah, who are you?" you asked. 

He said your father's full name and his workplace, easing the tension on your face. You thought you could trust him.

"I have a meeting with him, hmm? Would you let me inside to see him?" his eyes were dark with malicious intentions that a child would never understand.

You nodded and let him inside, pointing him toward his study. You were so young, so naive. You thought you were doing them a favour by allowing him inside the house. You thought that this was your father's friend, or his business partner or something. A horrible gut feeling pulled at Bucky as he was forced to watch what he already felt was coming. 

"Dad?" you called out, pushing your father's study open, the man inches behind you. 

Your father looked up at you, his expression quickly falling at the man standing there, holding a gun just low enough that you couldn't even see, but your father could.

"Be a dear, go get your mother too," the man said. 

You turned to ask him why when you saw it, the weapon in his hands. The white gun aimed towards you, bearing the symbol of the enormous building situated in New York.

The unmistakable name etched on the barrel of the gun—Stark Industries. 

You stared at it a moment too long, focused on the name and sealing it in your core memories. Encoding the name and wondering where you recognized it from, when the man nudged you.

"Get your mother. Now." 

Panic set in, and you turned to your father, a similar look painted over his. He nodded for you to listen and gave you a smile that was meant to soothe you. Even the young version of you understood, something was wrong.

You left the room, walking as quickly as your little legs could take you to the master bedroom and pushing the door open. 

She sat up, calling your name and asking if everything was alright. You told her everything, stuttering at parts because it was happening so fast. She calmed you down, sat you in her lap. She asked you to describe the man, and when you did, you saw the colour drain from her face. Now you knew you really had messed up, and you started to cry. She sat you on the bed alone, moving to her closet to the safe you were never allowed to touch and unlocked it. 

When she came back to you, she pressed a heavy gun to your hand and whispered your name, hurried in her actions. 

"I want you to lock the door after we leave. When you do that, go to your room and stay there. Do not open the door for anyone," you were crying as you listened to her. You protested, trying to put the gun down, but she held it in your hands, "If someone comes upstairs, you use this." 

You were shaking with fear and guilt for letting the man into the house, crying for your mother not to leave when she stood up. She kissed and hugged you tightly, and you knew what it meant. She left the room and walked towards your father's study. After a minute, you heard arguing about money, about a debt. The man laughed while you heard your mother cry. Suddenly, the study door opened, and hurried footsteps went through the front door. You ran after them, doing as your mother said and closing the door, locking both bolts. 

You sprinted back up to your room, sitting by the window still and knocking the book you had been reading earlier to the ground, letting it shut. Distant pleading bled through the glass of your bedroom window as the man dragged them out back, exactly where your room was facing. He lined them up, facing towards the house, on their knees. The man held the gun to the back of your father's head first, before turning it on your mother's. The gunshot rang through the air and through Bucky's ears, and instinctively, his eyes shut. The man in the suit left them there, bloodied and horrific, just below where you were, and purposefully met your eyes. The bastard knew you were watching, giving you the same wicked smile as before as he waved his gun at you and walked away. 

The young you watched the whole scene, hand pressed over your mouth to muffle your cries, as the real you remained slumped next to him, letting the scene replay all over again. Bucky didn't even realize his face was wet with tears until he looked back at you, watching your expression. He says your name softly, touching your shoulder. 

A shudder leaves you at the contact, finally looking up into his eyes, 

"I killed them, Bucky. Not Tony, not his fucking father. It was me."

He shook his head, turning you to look at him, "No, you didn't kill them. That man did. He pulled the damn trigger." When you shook your head and tears rolled faster, he cupped your cheek, concern etched over his face, "You can't blame yourself for this, sweetheart."

The distant chatter of the younger you leading the man up the stairs, letting him go to your dad's study, it was all too much. You had been in this room for so long, you couldn't recall when you weren't anymore. You gasped for air through your tears, trying to inflate your lungs fully but you couldn't do it. 

The air felt thicker—it felt wrong. 

It felt like the air that was filling your lungs was solidifying as it sat there, weighing you down. Bucky saw it; he always caught it. He says your name again, but it dilutes itself between your ears, echoing off the thumping of your heart. The sound is an echo in the cave between your chest cavity. 

You rasped through your tears, "Their blood is on me, James. I let him inside," pulse pounding through your ears. You're ripping at your chest as breaths come too short and words too fast, "It was me all along and I blamed Tony, and now he's dead and I can't take it back—"

Bucky recognizes the signs of a panic attack, having had many himself. 

His face shifts and his eyes grow warmer, "Hey, don't do that," pulling your hand off your chest and taking it in his, "You gotta breathe for me." 

He takes deep breaths, encouraging you to copy him. You do, but are continually unable to calm yourself down. He kneels on the ground, his hands still holding yours as he situates himself between your knees. For a few minutes, he just stays there, breathing with you. The warmth of his hands grounded you amidst the cold storm that threatened to pull you under again. Wiping the tears as they flowed down your face. You couldn't help but lean into his familiar touch, seeking his reassurance.

He spoke softly, squeezing your hand gently, "You were a child then, sweetheart. You couldn't have known." You couldn't tell where reality began and the past ended, but his voice, his grip, grounded you. You began breathing more evenly. He waited for you to calm down enough to squeeze his hands back before pulling them to his lips and kissing them softly, "It's not your fault, you hear me? You did what you thought you had to."

Your breath still stuttered, but your stomach twists, "Why are you in here, Buck?" 

Bucky doesn't look at you for a moment, and he doesn't answer right away. Then he looks up with his gaze of something too raw to name, "you. I came for you." 

You feel your throat tighten at his confession; you want to say something, but you're at a loss. The gunshot echoes through the air again, and you squeezed your eyes shut before the memory started to loop once again. 

He stands, pulling you up with him and steadying you next to him with a hand around your waist, "We gotta go, okay?" 

You nod. He lets you stay silent, giving you time to gather it all and find your peace in the quiet. Without disturbing your sobered tranquillity, he leads the way out. 

Back at the Watchtower, you were bundled up in an old blanket you found in the closet. Thickly knit and cozy, it faintly smelled of antiseptics. You knew it must have been one of Bruce's he'd kept in the lab for when he would work too late in the evening and sleep there. Vaguely, you wondered if Bruce came by this tower anymore or if he and Clint even spoke. 

The television was on and snapped your attention just as it showed a rerun of an important announcement. Valentina had announced the New Avengers, featuring you, Yelena, Alexei, Ava, John, and Bucky. The crowd oohs and ahs as the group of you steps forward. You watch as Yelena leans forward to whisper in Valentina's ear, and her face pales. 

Bucky walks in, holding a stack of paper in his hands and reading it like he had a personal vendetta. He was focused muttering to himself about his distaste for the people he works with. You sit up straighter, pulling the blanket off you slightly,

"Hey."

His eyes meet yours and he gives a slow, warm smile, "Hey."

You catch his eyes scanning over you, fondly like he remembered something.

Bucky crosses the room, setting his paperwork down on the table. He glances over at the television, "You were there, remember? What are you watching this for?" 

Glad that he didn't start with unpacking the heaviness in the room, you shrug, "I just turned it on, and I don't mind watching Valentina realize she's fucked herself over with us."

Bucky snorts, scooching himself closer to you. You're not sure how well you hid your surprise when he lifted the blanket and situated himself underneath with you, the domestication of the action making your heart skip. The warmth of his skin radiated off the shell of his thin shirt, even though he isn't touching you, just hovering close enough. You sigh softly, shifting your back against the couch to create some distance. 

"Thank you," and his eyes snap to yours, expression turning more serious. 

"Don't thank me," shifting in his seat and tugging the blanket, "I did what I had to." 

You frown a little, brows knitting as you turn your head back at the television. He was being serious, or he was just flat out lying to you now, right? 

You murmur your words, "You didn't have to come in after me. Especially not after everything I put you through." 

From the corner of your eye, you see his lips curl into a smile. 

"I think if you did try to kill me, I might thank you at this point," he turns to face you fully, tulting his head so he could see your whole face, "I mean, as long as you don't leave again. Or try to kill someone on the team. Actually, forget that last part, I can excuse it.”

You shake your head in disbelief, "You don't mean that." 

Squinting at you, he takes your hands off your lap and leans over, closing the distance between you, dropping his head in your lap. You freeze with your hands lingering just over his head as he situates himself, ocean eyes staring up at you like you'd hung the stars. The feelings, the memories, the love, all of it came flooding back like a dam that had been straining against itself, the current overwhelming. 

"You need to stop telling me what I do and don't mean." his hand comes up to tuck your hair behind your ear, "This would've all been solved a lot quicker if you would quit doing that, sweetheart." 

His fingers linger a moment longer than necessary over your ear, moving over to cup your cheek. Alleviated from his touch alone—you don't know how to trust it or yourself not to ruin things again. His eyes shone as they looked into yours and through you, as though he alone could grasp your thoughts. 

"If you told me you wanted Stark dead, I would've listened to you." Bucky quietly admits, his head still in your lap. 

"W—what?" You look down at him, not sure you heard him right. 

"I would've followed you anywhere, I would've loved you even after you did all of that." he slowly sits up, "You and Steve were the only ones who saw me beyond the things I’ve done. I know it’s wrong and I know it wasn’t his fault but for you…” he trails off before finding other words, “you just had to say the word.”

The sincerity in his tone felt like it had seized time, and you swore you could hear a pin drop.

How do you even respond to that?

Here you were thinking he hated you for all of this, and he's telling you he just wanted the truth from you. Mindlessly, your hands ran through his hair, calming your nerves and earning a soft hum from him.

With Bucky, you had been the one who first uncovered the mush of a man he always was behind that hardened armor—but he did the same to you.

Your guard was always down at his touch. He says your name like honey on his tongue, the sound familiar to your starved ears.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, but you can't tear your gaze from wanting to smooth the lines around his eyes when he’s deep in thought or touching the stubble he’d grown in your absence. 

"I'm thinking of how to apologize," your voice soft, hands even softer as you massaged his scalp for what felt the first time in an eternity, "and I don't know where to begin with it, and you're being too nice about it, like I didn't treat you badly." 

He laughs, hands dropping in surrender, "Being nice is a problem now?" 

"It is when you've fucked up and hurt the people you care about as many times as I have, James," and he laughs again but you can’t help but crack a smile back, "what the hell is so funny?" 

"I just realized you only call me James when you get worked up about something," you sigh, and he continues, "and you know I am not exactly the most innocent person in the world. I have definitely fucked up plenty more than you, and I will continue to fuck up cause that's just life." 

"You make it sound so simple," 

"And you make it harder than it needs to be. Redemption isn't erasing the blood that's been spilt to stop the bleeding; that's just counterintuitive. You're the one who helped me come to terms with that.” He touches your hand, “Let me help you do the same, hmm?"

You ponder it, not sure what to say. With a heavy sigh, you let it soak in the self-doubt and confusion that deluded you. When the weight feels like it has condensed, he sits up next to you. 

"When did you get so wise, Mr. Barnes?" 

"Oof," clutching his chest dramatically, "I was born in the 40's, pretty girl. I know a thing or two about life and having regrets.”

You laugh a little and he smiles at the victory, "But really, I am sorry for, you know, taking your arm and not telling you what I was really feeling."

He coos, "Yeah, that was a low blow, babe, hitting a man while he's already broken-hearted by taking his metal arm? You're a menace.”

His expression shifts into something more serious as he is more intentional with his words. Running a hand through his hair he sighs,

“Truthfully, you have haunted me for years. And that version of myself. What I said to you…” he trails off.

You let the air fill with uncertainty and unease as he tries to find the words; you didn’t have anything to say and ease the quiet with. When he sighs deeply, your eyes briefly meet his and his brows lift as the words finally find him.

“—When I told you to leave that day, I didn’t mean it. I wanted you to stay, and I have nightmares of the last time we spoke often. Every waking moment we have been apart has felt like I couldn't breathe freely."

"James," you breathe like the rug might get pulled from under you. You don’t miss the quiver of his lips as his gaze falters.

"—I thought you might've been the bane of my existence, but after I saw you again, that weight was lifted and I could breathe. I can't sleep without you near me. No, I haven't slept without you. I went to morgues, I called hospitals, I became a fucking Congressman to get access to more government documents, just in case you were mentioned in something, anything—"

The gasp that left you was soft and surprised. You couldn't help how your hands trailed up his arms while he continued pouring his heart out as though he just couldn't stop. 

"—I knew I’d fucked up as soon as I closed that door behind me. I should've let you explain, and I shouldn't have told you to go," but you're moving over him, starting to straddle him as he spirals in his own doubt, "I wanted you to stay so badly but you seemed so hellbent on leaving, I thought saying that might've made you stay, or helped me cope with it—" 

"James, I love you too," snapping his attention to you, holding his face in your palms.

He lets out a shaky breath, hands resting on your thighs in uncertainty and barely concealed restraint, “you do?”

You nod as his hands wrap around your torso, finally. Holding you tightly like he needed you to ground him in this moment to believe it. The feeling familiar but something still felt far away. You sigh deeply, trying to revel in the feelings of him, trying to hide the exasperation in your tone.

"You don't have to say it back, but you said it in the lab, and I should've said it back then." 

He shakes his head quickly, "but I do. Fuck, I do. I love you, I—I, God, I have always loved you, and it has been consuming me." 

You pull back just to look at him, and he immediately closes the distance, crushing his lips into yours. It was hurried, exhausted and hungry all at once. it was the kind of kiss you’d wanted from him for so long, the press of his soft lips threatened inhibitions. The taste of him could get you addicted all over, like a drug you’d long forgotten. You craved him and he was already here. You couldn’t have enough of him and you just got it back.

This feeling could drowned you with ecstasy but it be worth every second, as long as you felt it this vividly. The promise of his permanence could make you a religious person. The threat of not touching him like this again, it could end your sanity.

He breathes you in as you scrape your nails up into the nape of his neck, laughing into his mouth as he moans into yours. 

"You have no idea how long I have been dreaming of this," pressing quick, wet kisses, “of you.”

His hands tangling softly through your hair as though he couldn't possibly let go. Pecking sweet kisses as if he couldn't believe this were real and he needed to touch you just to know it was really happening.

He drops his hands to trail down your sides and graze the curves he had memorized so fondly. Trailing to your hips and gripping them tight, he bucks his instinctively up into yours, coaxing a moan to let his tongue slide inside. He sucks on your tongue, persuading another gasp and making you say his name. you try to pull away for some semblance but he follows your candied lips, entirely feral. 

“Down boy,” You say as you try to pull away again, putting a hand on his chest in between you. But he won’t let you, chest pressed flush against yours like he couldn’t bear being further.

"I'm not letting you go again," your back arches as you lean backward, laughing as you try to create space.

Bucky has that same charm, smiling against your lips to make all reason disappear as you kiss him with the same reverence. You whimper into him as he drags your hips back and forth, just the way he knows you always liked.

He moans as you give in, almost whining when you follow his hips, "missed you baby. I’m never leaving you alone now yeah? Better get used to this sweetheart." 

You’re about to say something when a voice from the doorway startles both of you, "I don't think I'm ever going to get used to this, ugh."

You nearly jump out of his lap as you turn to face John, looking at you in disgust. Ava, Yelena, and Bob snickering next to him, Alexei striding in past them, headed straight for the fridge. Yelena walks past the couch to get to the kitchen, Bob and Ava following behind her and shooting you smiles like they knew this was coming. You mutter quiet apologies as Bucky rolls his eyes, not sorry at all.

They stop at the kitchen island just as Bucky reluctantly lets you hop off of his lap to sit next to him, adjusting your top and dishevelled hair. You reach over to fix Buckys, and he smiles at you almost drunkenly, his lips swollen from ferociously attacking yours. 

You don't have to look at Bob to hear the smile in his voice, "I think you guys are perfect for each other." 

Yelena snorts, "Yes, both are broody and try to kill people, so perfect."

"That is what all good relationships have, Lena, passion! That means they love each other, eh?" Alexei winks at you. 

Heat prickles at your cheeks as you look over to Bucky, who's already staring at you, smiling sheepishly when you catch him. He can't help the need to be closer to you, and he tugs you closer to his chest. You let him, humming in content as he pulls the blanket over both of you once again.

Everyone else is already lost in their own conversations, the sounds of utensils and pans clanking—you're distracted by the sounds that prove Bucky is alive.

Drowning out everything that isn't the sound of his heart thumping under your ear and the rumble in his voice when he talks. You're shutting your eyes and smiling when he catches you basking in the feeling of him. He kisses the top of your head as he changes the news channel to something else that you couldn’t care less about.

The weight of the world rolled off your shoulders like raindrops and everything that had been done felt fleeting and utterly unimportant. You drift asleep for the first time in a long time and, with photo evidence that Yelena showed you the next day, so does he.

In his strong arms, forgiveness came easy and adoration could’ve consumed you whole. You were smitten but he was infatuated.

Unconditionally, undeniably, and terribly in love.

tag, you’re it: @herejustforbuckybarnes @thewitchhofoz @sebastians-love @onlyjunisworld @houseofhyde @letterstoangel @your-everyday-weirdo @flockoff-featherface @bratsoldier @wandanatissuperior @glorpalicious @little-letti @metal-armed-muse @emmaiscool22 @yyiikes @mamacocha9 @taylordaughter @heldbybarnes @mfstargrll @sakiigami @ultrahoney @skitwantstaste @winterdvil @himikoquack @dansplayboy

a/n: my first long fic, i’d love your thoughts and theories<3

[inseobts]

Just One Date

portgas d. ace x gn!reader

after many rejects you have to go on a date with ace and your plan is to do your worse to ruin it — you fail!

a/n: okay this one is made with the same prompt as the law one!

tags: first date, fluff, kinda enemies to lovers, soft, humor

word count: 4.4k

ace m.list || anime m.list || ao3 || ko-fi || requests list

You should have known this would happen.

It always starts the same way.

A lazy afternoon with the ship rocking gently and the crew scattered across the deck.

And him…

Always him…

“Hey.”

You don’t look at him “No.”

Ace laughs.

You don’t even need to see his face to know he’s smiling.

“I didn’t even ask yet.”

“You were going to.”

“Yeah.” he admits easily.

You sigh and finally look at him.

He’s sitting backwards on a chair, arms folded over the backrest, chin resting on them like this is the most natural thing in the world.

“You should really start saving yourself the effort,” you mutter “it’s still no.”

“C’mon,” he says lightly “just one date.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

You stare at him… because you’re tired, because he’s warm and loud and impossible to ignore, because everyone loves him, because you don’t trust things that feel that easy.

You look away “Because I said so.”

Ace tilts his head.

He doesn’t push immediately.

“…You don’t even hesitate.” he says quietly.

“I don’t need to.”

“Alright,” he says, standing “means I’ll ask again tomorrow.”

You groan “You’re insufferable.”

“You’ll miss me when I stop.”

You snort “That’s not happening.”

He just smiles like he knows something you don’t.

You hate that smile. You hate how it makes your chest feel weird.

It becomes routine annoyingly fast.

Breakfast?

“Morning. Date?”

“No.”

Lunch?

“So, later?”

“No.”

Training deck?

“You know, sunsets are romantic.”

“No.”

Evening?

“One day you’re gonna say yes.”

“In your dreams maybe.”

You tell yourself it’s harmless, he’s just like this… persistent and bright.

He asks like it’s a joke, like it doesn’t matter, like your answer doesn’t carry weight.

That’s why you keep saying no. Maybe if it mattered you don’t let yourself finish that thought.

“You’re being mean.”

You look up.

Thatch is leaning against the railing, watching you with an amused expression.

“I’m being realistic.” you reply.

“He likes you, you know.”

You immediately stiffen “No he doesn’t.”

Thatch raises an eyebrow “Kid, he asks you out every single day.”

“He asks everyone for things.” you argue.

“Not like that.”

You glare at the deck “He’ll get bored soon or later.”

Thatch goes quiet “…Is that what you’re waiting for?”

You don’t answer.

You know that at first people burn bright, but then they leave ashes.

You don’t say it out loud, but something must show on your face because Thatch’s expression softens.

“He’s not like that.” he says gently.

You shake your head “They all are.”

You almost forget about it.

Until that night.

You’re heading below deck when you see him sitting on the railing, legs dangling over the sea, firelight flickering faintly in his palm.

You try to walk past quietly.

“Hey.” he sayv without turning.

You stop “…What?”

He looks over his shoulder, softer now. This time there's no grin… no teasing.

“You never actually told me why.”

Your chest tightens “Why what?”

“Why you keep saying no.”

You cross your arms “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

He nods “You’re right.”

And that should be the end of it, but he keeps looking at you as if he's waiting for something.

It makes something twist inside you and you hate that, so you go on the offensive.

“You ask like it’s nothing,” you say sharply “like it’s just a game. And to be honest, I just don't like playing.”

His brows knit slightly “It’s not a game.”

“Then why do you keep asking?” you snap “You barely even know me.”

That’s not true and you both know it, but you say it anyway. Because distance is safer than honesty.

Ace looks at you for a long moment, then he looks back at the ocean.

“…I know enough.” he says quietly.

Something in your throat tightens.

You hate this.

You hate how he says things like that.

Simple.

Honest.

You look away.

“You’ll get tired of it,” you say “everyone does.”

The words slip out before you can stop them.

Ace goes very still.

“…Is that what you think?” he asks softly.

You don’t answer… because yes.

“…One date.” he says.

You blink “What?”

“One.” he repeats “That’s it.”

You stare at him.

He’s not smiling. Not joking.

“If you still don’t want me around after that,” he says, voice steady, “I’ll stop asking.”

Your heart stutters.

You frown “You’re serious.”

“Yeah.”

You study his face, searching for the punchline. There isn’t one.

That makes it worse.

You should say no.

You want to say no.

You open your mouth… and hesitate.

One date.

And that will be proof that the warmth is temporary, that he’ll lose interest and that you’re right.

You inhale slowly “…Fine.”

The word slips out before you can stop it.

Ace freezes.

“You’re joking.” he says.

“I’m not,” you mutter immediately, “but don’t get too excited.”

Too late because his entire face lights up like sunrise.

You regret everything instantly.

“Just one,” you warn “and if I won't change my mind about you, you stop asking.”

He laughs, bright and disbelieving “Deal.”

You turn away quickly before you can see how happy he looks.

As you walk off, you don’t notice the way his smile softens into something quieter.

“…One date…” he murmurs to himself like it’s something precious, like it matters more than he’s letting on.

You regret agreeing immediately.

It starts the second the ship docks.

A new island.

You’re halfway through stretching your arms when you hear “Hey!”

You don’t even have to turn around.

“No.” you say automatically.

“I didn’t ask yet!”

You groan into your hands.

Too early for this.

You turn slowly.

He’s already looking at you like a kid who just remembered a holiday.

“…Today.” he says, pointing at the island like it personally owes him something “We’re here. New place. Perfect timing.”

Your stomach drops “No.”

His grin widens “You promised.”

You hate that he’s right.

“…Fine,” you mutter “later.”

“Now.” he says immediately.

You stare at him.

He looks genuinely hopeful.

That makes it worse.

“…Give me time to get ready.” you grumble.

His face lights up again “Okay!”

You don’t get ready.

You stare at your clothes for a long time.

You could dress up.

You could make an effort.

You could make this feel real.

But at the end you grab the same clothes you always wear.

If this is going to end badly, you’re not dressing for the occasion.

You step out of your room with zero ceremony and immediately freeze… because the entire crew is on deck.

And at the center of it? Him.

Leaning against the railing.

Surrounded.

Grinning nervously while everyone absolutely destroys him.

“Look at him!” someone laughs “He’s pacing!”

“You’ve been up here for an hour!”

“Did you bring flowers??”

“I swear if you start crying—”

“I am not gonna cry!” Ace protests.

You almost turn around but it’s too late.

Someone already spotted you “Oh!”

Heads turn.

You consider jumping overboard but you step forward instead.

You’re hyperaware of everything. The way the crew goes quiet. The way some of them grin.

The way Ace turns and stops completely. His expression softens instantly.

Not surprised.

Not disappointed.

Just… soft.

Like he expected you exactly like this.

You look away quickly.

“…What?” you mutter defensively “I said I’d come. I didn’t say I’d dress up.”

“I didn’t expect you to.” he says gently.

You blink and risk a glance.

He means it.

That annoys you more than anything.

You cross your arms “Good.”

Behind him, someone coughs dramatically.

“Oh my god he’s gone soft.”

“Look at his face!”

“He’s doomed.”

You want to disappear.

Ace groans “You guys are the worst.”

Then he turns back to you and pulls something from behind his back.

Your brain short-circuits.

A handful of bright flowers tied together with a thin string.

Your stomach drops.

You were not prepared for that.

“…I, uh…” he says, suddenly awkward “Found them earlier.”

The deck is too quiet.

You don’t know what to do with your hands. You don’t know what to do with your face.

No one warned you there would be flowers.

You stare at them, then at him.

He looks weirdly nervous now.

“…You didn’t have to.” you say quickly.

“I wanted to.”

Simple.

You take them and your fingers brush his.

Warm.

You immediately pull back.

“…Thanks.” you mutter.

You don’t look at him.

You can feel the crew vibrating with contained chaos.

Someone is absolutely about to scream.

You panic.

You pass the flowers to the nearest person without looking.

“Here.” you say, shoving the bouquet into their hands “Put these in water. I guess.”

They freeze “You just—”

You’re already walking away, off the ship, before anyone can react or say anything.

Before you can think too hard about how your hands are shaking.

“Hey— wait!” of course he follows.

You hear his footsteps hitting the dock behind you, light and quick.

You don’t slow down.

He catches up easily and he doesn’t say anything for a second.

You shove your hands into your pockets.

“…So,” you mutter, not looking at him “what’s the plan?”

He lights up.

“Oh! Okay, so—” he starts, already talking with his hands “I asked around earlier, and there’s this market near the center of town? And they’ve got food stalls and music and—”

You glance at him despite yourself.

He’s animated and excited.

“And then,” he continues, barely pausing for air, “there’s this hill that overlooks the harbor. Someone said the sunset’s really good from there. I figured we could go later, if you’re not tired, I mean, we don’t have to—”

He stops suddenly, like he just realized he’s rambling.

“…Sorry,” he says, scratching the back of his neck “I might’ve planned too much.”

You didn’t expect this.

You look away quickly when you realise you're staring.

“…You’re doing a lot for one date.” you say.

He shrugs, a little sheepish “I told you it mattered.”

Your chest tightens.

You weren’t supposed to hear that.

You kick a small pebble on the dock.

“…You’re weird.” you mutter.

He grins again, softer “Yeah.”

You exhale slowly.

This is already going wrong.

You tell yourself this is still a mission for you.

A very important one, make Ace stop liking you.

It should be easy.

You’ve survived worse, life threatening missions.

The island is loud and bright and alive, full of music and chatter and colors that feel way too cheerful for your mood. You still walk a step ahead of Ace, hands shoved into your pockets, trying to look as uninterested as possible.

He’s doing the opposite.

He’s practically bouncing beside you.

“So first,” he says, pointing dramatically down the street, “food.”

You sigh “Of course it is.”

“You can’t have a proper date without food.” he insists.

“It’s not a date.”

He grins “Sure.”

You glare at him.

He just keeps smiling.

Very annoying.

The food stall smells amazing. Which is unfortunate, because you’re trying to be awful, not enjoy yourself.

Ace orders like he hasn’t eaten in years, stacking plates between you both until the tiny wooden table looks like it might collapse.

You stare at the mountain of food “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Nope,” he says cheerfully “just trying to impress you.”

You snort “With carbs? Not that I mind them but…”

“With love.” he corrects.

You immediately shove food into your mouth so you don’t have to answer.

You eat fast and messy on purpose. Sauce drips on your fingers. Rice falls everywhere. You chew loudly. You even slouch.

You are the worst date in existence.

You even burp. Loud.

Okay… that might’ve been too much.

You slowly look up, ready to see horror, regret, disgust.

Ace’s eyes go wide.

And then he smiles “Nice.”

Before you can react he leans back and lets out a burp that is way louder than yours.

You stare at him in disbelief.

He looks proud.

“That was amazing,” he says, wiping his mouth “You’re amazing.”

“…You’re disgusting…” you say weakly.

He laughs like you just told the best joke in the world.

And somehow, against your will, your lips twitch.

You leave before the smile can betray you.

The market is even more crowded now, people brushing past you, music drifting from somewhere nearby.

You spot a stall filled with random accessories, bright scarves, weird hats, gaudy trinkets.

You stop suddenly.

Ace almost walks into you.

“What?” he asks.

You point at the ugliest thing you can find.

It’s… a hat, if you can even call it that.

It’s oversized, neon orange, with fake feathers sticking out and little dangling bells that jingle when the wind moves.

You stare at it with the most serious face you can manage “That would look good on you.”

You expect confusion, maybe offense, at least hesitation.

Instead Ace’s eyes light up “Really?”

You blink “No, I—”

Too late because he grabs it.

“How much?” he asks the vendor.

You stare, horrified, as he slaps the coins down and plops the monstrosity onto his head.

It is worse than you imagined.

He turns to you, glowing “Well?”

You really try…… You press your lips together, looking away, pretending to inspect another stall. But you see him in your peripheral vision, standing there like an excited kid, waiting for your reaction.

And then a small, accidental but real laugh escapes.

Your hand flies to your mouth too late.

Ace goes still.

You freeze too.

He’s staring at you softly.

“You smiled…” he says quietly.

You immediately look away “Don’t get used to it.”

His grin returns, brighter than before.

You need to regain control.

Your eyes scan the market until they land on a display inside a fancy shop window.

Jewelry. Ridiculously expensive-looking.

You walk straight toward it.

Ace follows, bells jingling with every step.

You stop in front of the display and point at the most over-the-top item you can find.

A bracelet.

Studded with gemstones that probably cost more than an entire ship “I want that.”

You say it flatly.

The worst version of yourself.

Ace doesn’t even hesitate “Okay.”

He walks inside.

You stare.

No no no.

You rush after him “Wait—”

Too late.

He’s already talking to the shopkeeper “How much for that one?”

The number the shopkeeper says makes your stomach drop.

You almost choke.

That’s not expensive.

That’s catastrophic.

And Ace… just nods.

Reaches for his pouch.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

Is he insane?!

“That’s the crew’s money.” you hiss, grabbing his wrist.

The moment your fingers wrap around his arm he stops.

You feel his warmth immediately.

You look up and see that his face is red all the way to his ears.

You realize you’re still holding him.

Your brain short-circuits.

You let go like you’ve been burned.

“I— don’t buy it.” you mutter, suddenly very interested in the floor “It’s ugly anyway.”

Silence.

You risk a glance.

He’s still looking at you.

Still flushed.

Then he smiles.

“Okay.” he says quietly.

And somehow that makes your chest feel weird. In a way that has (unfortunately) nothing to do with you ruining the date anymore.

You don’t notice when it happens and that’s the worst part. At some point between the ugly hat, the food, the chaos, and the warmth of his laugh… you stop trying to ruin the date. You stop planning your next disaster. You stop thinking about how to ruin the moment.

And somehow, you’re actually having fun.

The kind that sneaks up on you and sits quietly in your chest until you suddenly realize it’s there.

You’re laughing at something stupid he says.

You’re pointing at random things for fun now, not to test his patience.

You’re arguing about which stall smells better.

You forget to be difficult.

You forget to be cold.

You forget your own plan.

And that realization hits you like a brick.

You’re still trying to process that terrifying truth when Ace suddenly stops walking.

“We’re close.” he says, softer now.

You blink “To what?”

He looks at you, and for once, he’s not grinning like an idiot “The last part.”

The fireworks.

You swallow “…Lead the way.”

The climb isn’t hard, but it’s quiet.

The noise of the island fades behind you with every step, replaced by wind and distant music and chatter drifting up from the town below.

When you reach the top, you stop without meaning to.

It’s beautiful.

The hill overlooks the entire island, lights scattered below like fallen stars. The ocean stretches endlessly beyond it, reflecting the moon.

And there’s a bench.

You look at him.

He shrugs, suddenly shy “I found it earlier.”

You don’t tease him, you just sit.

He sits beside you, not too close but not too far.

The sky above is clear, scattered with stars that feel brighter away from the island lights.

For a while, neither of you speaks,  but it’s not awkward, it’s… calm.

You hate how much you like it.

Ace is quieter and softer. Even his energy feels warmer instead of his usual loudness.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low.

“Still early,” he murmurs, looking up “fireworks aren’t for a bit.”

You nod.

You should say something sarcastic, something mean, something that puts the distance back where it belongs.

Instead, you hear yourself ask, “Did you come here earlier?”

He smiles faintly “Nah. First time.”

“…Then how were you so sure about it?”

He scratches the back of his neck “I asked around. Wanted somewhere… special. And a lot of people pointed at this.”

Your heart stutters.

You stare harder at the sky.

You realize you’re staring at him. You don’t even know when you started…

Maybe when his voice softened, maybe when the wind moved his hair, or maybe when he stopped trying to impress you and just… existed.

You’re staring way too much.

You force yourself to look away but then he speaks again “You know?”

Your chest tightens.

“I don’t know how you feel now about this date,” he says quietly, eyes still on the sky “but I was and still am serious about it… and about you.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look at you.

“I’m not asking you out just for the fun of it as you said…” he continues “I had a crush on you since… ever.”

Your brain goes blank.

The words don’t feel real, they float in the air between you, fragile and warm.

You can’t move, can’t speak.

And he keeps going.

“You said I don’t even know you,” he murmurs “but I actually know a lot.”

Your hands tighten in your lap.

“I know that you like…” and he does a full list of things you really like and that you thought no one knew.

He continues “I know that you hate loud mornings. That you pretend you don’t care about sunsets but you always look at them. That you act tough when you’re tired. That you hum when you think no one’s listening.”

Your heart is pounding now, too fast and too loud.

“And I know you hate…” he continues softly, almost smiling “being the center of attention. People touching your stuff without asking. Losing at card games. When people lie to you.”

You can’t breathe.

You can’t think.

He exhales slowly.

“And I know about your past,” he adds quietly “about everything that happened to you…”

Your eyes burn.

“And not to look like a stalker,” he says quickly, almost nervous now, smiling at the sky to not look at you “but we’ve been friends. You’re the one who told me all these things. I just… listened. And paid attention to the details.”

Silence. The kind that wraps around you and squeezes your chest.

You don’t know what to do with this… or with him and the fact that he noticed, that he remembered.

That he cared.

A distant boom cracks the air.

The first firework explodes above the island, blooming into color.

Ace’s face and eyes light up in pure awe, like a child seeing magic for the first time.

You don’t look at the fireworks. You can’t because you can’t stop staring at him from the shock of the things he said.

And suddenly, everything makes sense.

Why he kept asking.

Why he never gave up.

Why he looked at you like that.

Why today felt different.

Why your chest feels like it’s about to burst.

You’ve been trying so hard to push him away.

And he’s just been… there.

You swallow.

Your voice comes out small “Ace...”

He turns immediately, half worried from your tone and half still dreamy from the fireworks and from everything he had the courage to say.

“Yeah?”

And that’s the moment, the point of no return.

Before your brain can stop you, your hands reach up, cupping his cheeks.

He freezes completely.

His freckles are closer than you’ve ever seen them.

His eyes widen and you kiss him softly and carefully. For a heartbeat, he don’t move, still in pure shock.

Then he closes his eyes and he melts in the kiss as his hand comes up instinctively, fingers brushing your wrist before sliding to your waist.

He kisses you back, deeper and warmer, taking the lead without hesitation.

Fireworks explode behind you two, lighting the sky in bursts of lights and warm colours, but you barely see them., all you feel is warmth and him, and the way your chest finally feels right.

When you pull back, you’re both breathless and stunned. A little dazed.

You rest your forehead against his for a second before whispering “I’m glad you made me change my mind about this date…”

He stares at you like you just gave him the world.

Then he smiles brightly, and before you can get embarrassed he leans in and kisses you again quick and happy, like he can’t help it.

Then he pulls you into a hug, arms wrapping around you tight and warm as if he’s having a cute aggression.

You don’t resist.

As he calms down, you lean into him, resting against his chest as the fireworks continue to bloom across the sky, and finally you watch them together.

The walk back is quiet, but not awkward.

Your fingers are laced with his, warm and solid and very, very real.

Every now and then, Ace swings your joined hands slightly like he can’t help himself, like he’s having the best moment of his life.

You just smile and let him, and, of course, you don’t let go.

The island is calmer now. The festival has started winding down, lanterns glowing softer, laughter drifting through the streets like echoes instead of noise.

“You’re quiet.” Ace murmurs.

You glance at him “So are you.”

He grins sheepishly “I’m trying not to mess it up.”

Your chest tightens “Mess what up?”

He squeezes your hand gently “This.”

Your ears burn.

You look away immediately “You’re being dramatic.”

“Always have been.” he says easily.

You try to roll your eyes, but the smile creeping onto your face betrays you.

He notices and his grin grows.

The ship comes into view too soon.

You stop walking.

Ace takes one more step before realizing you’re not moving anymore.

He turns “Hey, what—”

You’re staring at the Moby Dick like it personally betrayed you.

“…We have to face them…” you mutter.

The realization hits “Oh.”

You both look at the ship, then at each other, then back at the ship.

You can almost hear the chaos waiting up there.

Ace scratches his cheek “We could… run away.”

You snort “We’d last five minutes before Marco finds us.”

“…Fair.”

You sigh deeply.

You’ve fought marines. Sea kings. Warlords. And somehow, this feels worse.

You climb aboard together still holding hands.

You don’t realize you’re still doing it until you hear an… “OH MY GOD.”

Way too late.

Half the crew is already there like vultures waiting, watching and smiling.

You and Ace freeze.

Your hands are still linked.

Someone drops something dramatically in the background.

“I KNEW IT!” someone shouts.

“PAY UP!” another voice yells.

You close your eyes slowly.

This is a nightmare. A living, breathing nightmare.

“SO…” a voice sings.

You open one eye.

Of course it’s Thatch, grinning like he’s been waiting his entire life for this moment.

You immediately try to let go of Ace’s hand but he tightens his grip and the traitor he is.

You shoot him a look and he looks back with a sheepish smile that says sorry not sorry.

Unbelievable.

“Well?” Thatch leans forward “How was the date?”

“It wasn’t a date.” you say instantly.

“It was the best date.” Ace says at the exact same time.

You both turn to glare at each other.

The crew explodes in laughter and whistles. Someone is clapping like they’re at a play.

You consider jumping overboard.

Marco is leaning against the railing, smirking in that calm, knowing way that makes everything worse.

“So,” he says lazily, “you finally figured it out, huh?”

“Figured what out?” you snap.

He just gestures vaguely at your hands.

You look down and your face burns.

“You kissed, didn’t you?” someone shouts.

You and Ace choke.

The crew goes feral.

You try to yank your hand free again and this time, Ace lets go, but not because he wants to, you can tell.

He rubs the back of his neck, laughing awkwardly “Okay, okay, that’s enough—”

“DID YOU CRY?” someone yells.

“WERE THERE FIREWORKS?”

You and Ace freeze painfully slowly, and look at each other.

The crew goes silent. Then erupts louder than before.

You bury your face in your hands.

You’re never recovering from this.

You might actually die right here on this deck from embarrassment instead of the pirate life.

Then warm fingers brush yours again, tentative and careful.

You look up.

Ace isn’t laughing anymore.

He’s smiling softly at you, and suddenly, the noise fades a little.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You should lie, but instead, you sigh “…No.”

He laughs softly, then, without hesitation, he takes your hand again, firm this time.

Your heart flips.

The crew notices immediately, but this time, you don’t let go, you squeeze back.

And the teasing doesn’t stop, the laughter doesn’t stop, the chaos definitely doesn’t stop, but for this time you don’t mind facing it, because you’re not facing it alone.

[tonycries]

CASE 143 - N.K.

Synopsis. CASE 143. Objective: To take care of the problem that is Agent 7:3 [CONFIDENTIAL—Name: Nanami Kento, Age: 27] once and for all. The most feared spy in all of Tokyo’s underbelly, with a conviction rate of 100%. And, this time, he’s probed into your higher-ups far too deeply—to take him out you must go undercover…as his wife. The problem: You're Wanted, and Nanami Kento wants you. Badly.

Pairing. Nanami Kento x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!assassin!reader, spy!Nanami, Spy x Family AU, married couple, marriage of convenience, secret plots, espíonage, vioIence, you’re attempting to kiII him, he knows and likes it, they’re slightly unhinged, romcom vibes, Yuj cameo, Papamin, domestic, apothecaries, aphrodísiac, he’s GONE, he’s pússydrúnk, handcuffs, heels, pIot, oraI (fem rec.), spítting, chokíng, face-ríding, p worship, body worship, Nanami’s big nose, service Nanami, matíng presses, MlLKING him, he’s here to pIease, markíng, manhandIing, cervíx smooching, DÚMBlFICATION, passionate s, heavy overstím, slight marathon, ínappropríate uses of his tie, making it fit, talking you through it, he just wants to be your real HUSBAND, creampíes, cúmpIay, STUFFING YOU, proposals, HAPPY ENDING, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 16.9k (ermmmm)

A/N. CONGRATSSSS Nanami nation for winning The Bachelorette poll mwahaha I told you babygirls there’d be a surprise-

Yet another bead of sweat glides down Nanami’s temple; consequences of tugging and prying at the restraints around his wrists to no avail. Hard metal handcuffs. Coiled snakes of metal - he isn’t sure whether it’s the tightness or the temperature that bites into his skin the most. 

Though something else was gnawing at him entirely.

He’s seated in the darkness upon a rickety wooden chair, his hands forcefully held behind him. Golden tresses stick to his forehead- and he’s looking up through them as you close in. Eyes narrowed. Something dark shifting behind them…

His voice rasps out, “You have me.”

And you smile.

Pressing the tip of your golden dagger to his throat, stepping the point of your heels between his legs- “Honey, I’ve always had you.”

And he knows he should be trembling at the thought of finally falling into the Garden’s clutches, at the exposure of his identity, at the breach of his secrets.

But he had another problem.

Nanami Kento has never been harder.

Soon enough, you’re rovering your heel ambly up and down the plane of his thighs, up and down, up and down—in nothing but a mere graze. 

The tips of his ears scorch red as he feels his smart, smoothened trousers getting tighter n’ tighter by the second. Nanami fights not to let his gaze dart downwards, he fights—but the slightest sensation of your heel inching closer, and he cracks.

Soon enough, your stare follows.

And you’re letting out a curious hum as you take in the bulge he was embarrassingly sporting. 

“Oh? What’s this?” He damn-near flinches at the tone of your voice - so mockingly innocent. Nanami knew better- he knew so much better. “My portfolio never said you were such a pervert, Agent 7:3.”

He spits out, “No-”

“Yes.”

And he’s always loved those jet-black, barrel-black, heels of yours- honestly! 

They sat collecting dust in a corner of your half of the closet, and he always did think they contrasted perfectly with his pale-green suits. 

Though, he did often wonder when you’d bring them out.

He just never could’ve expected this…

Nanami lets out a pained hiss- letting his head drop backwards ever-so-slightly as you’re stepping down even harder. “Hard?” Your smile widens, feeling him throb and twitch beneath your heel. “Getting even harder? How did we ever get here, hubby—?”

How did you two ever get here, indeed.

.

.

.

Nanami remembers the pre-mission briefing perfectly- he always was told he had a photographic memory. However, the details of this particular day stand out so crystal clear in his brain that it was almost too sharp; like a rusty nail, or the point of your heel.

It’d been a sunny Thursday, even though daylight never pierced the headquarters of JISE (Japanese Intelligence Services’ Eastern-focused division). Nanami - though he wasn’t Nanami Kento, here, he was Agent 7:3 - had done this same song and dance, song and dance, song and dance over a hundred times already. It was routine as he flipped through the thick file that’d been slid over to him.

Agent Corpse [CONFIDENTIAL—Yaga Masamichi] sat with his arms crossed and a grim expression upon him that he wore nearly as much as his sunglasses. He waited patiently as Nanami finished reading through the miniscule blocked typing and looked up at him.

“So…” He started, neatly closing the file. “The mission seems standard, I don’t see why I would have any trouble with it.”

Yaga sighed and pushed his shades up, “It’s not the intelligence-gathering I see you having trouble with, rather it’s the…social aspects.”

Nanami raised a blond brow, “Social?”

“This mission-” Yaga sternly tapped the top of the file, “This isn’t one of your lone wolf operations, 7:3. To get close to the head of the Zenin family, you need to take on more roles than one. A family man. A father. A husband.”

The blond man steeped in his silence as his higher-up continued. 

“You need to really live in this role, Kento—” He was startled - Yaga almost never called him that. Through his dark sunglasses, the older man’s eyes twinkled. “You need to believe it.” 

“I…”

Without waiting for the rest of his sentence, he flicked open the file to a comprehensive list of potential orphanages and single women around his age in Tokyo: the building blocks to his faux-family. “Two people here will be counting on you to believe in your role.” Yaga spoke low, “And whatever that means for them after this mission is over…” This was always the hardest part. “From now onwards, consider yourself a husband and father before a spy. First and foremost.”

Nanami had never carried out a mission that involved other people.

And there was silence that stretched taut and nearly snapped- before Nanami answered in the only way he knew he could. 

He looked at nanami with steely brown eyes, “Respectfully, I am the best spy in all of Japan’s Eastern Division for a reason, sir.”

Yaga slammed the file shut. It resounds louder than it should’ve - and there was the slightest smile twitching at his lips. “Good.”

For the good of the nation. 

The days thereafter weren’t what Nanami would consider a blur—rather a list of procedures pertinent to his mission, of which he went through them all step by step, strictly and methodically. An exercise so tried and tired by him that he could do them in his sleep (he always slept with one eye open).

First, he rented out a nice home in suburban Shibuya, a spy’s-distance away from the Zenin ancestral home. It was a cosy cookie-cutter home for the cosy cookie-cutter life that he supposes normal civilians have the privilege to live, with cookie-cutter welcome mats and a patch of green garden from which sprouted a spare sprig that one could never be too sure wasn’t plastic. It had a dog home, too. Not because of any request or seeking from Nanami’s side, but because most families that lived in such a place owned one.

So he went out and adopted a shelter dog to keep up with appearances. 

And how to explain the mysterious funds to the nosy neighbors? Well, his cover story of living in Denmark because of his grandfather’s side could only hold up for so long - Nanami got a cover job as a psychiatrist at the nearest affluent hospital. And then…

Then came the slightly difficult part.

Nanami Kento had done research on twenty-one different orphanages in Tokyo and several more outside before he’d finally landed in Sendai. And that was where he met Itadori Yuji.

Name: Itadori Yuji.

Age: 6 [March 20th]

Family: None alive. His parents died shortly after his birth [cause unknown], and he was taken care of by his paternal grandfather - his only living family - until he, too, passed from illness [lung cancer].

Other: Has been rehomed four times in the four-month span that he’s been living at the institution. Gets along well with others, cheerful disposition—is generally a good kid, though he seems to have trouble finding a guardian that can handle his energy. No matter how much they tease and taunt him - in the cruel, unknowingly callous way of children - Itadori still attempts to engage with them day after day, particularly with his tiger toy. He just needs some love. 

Nanami’s stern eyes lingered on that last word. 

He looked up from the sheet that the caregiver had handed to him. It was the first one that he’d been given- and by the sheer speed at which they had, he assumed that they’d been more than eager to get rid of the pink-haired little boy. Nanami glanced around the cream-colored room; small and cardboard-strong. This was a shady place.

He makes note of its location and organization to pass over to Yaga later. 

Under the rim of the paper, he could see two small shoes getting scuffed on the carpet.

And as he puts it down to stare at Itadori, the boy raises his tiger toy upwards. An offering.

Wide chocolate eyes and trembling lips.

He looked as if he was about to cry.

Nanami doesn’t take the offering—though he did crouch down and reach his hand out to clasp one chubby, cotton-stuffed hand, he mimicked shaking hands. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Tiger.” Albeit a little stiffly - Nanami somewhat awkwardly attempted to smooth his features down to something warm as he looked at the boy then. “And who might you be?”

He’s never seen a smile wider.

And thus, everything was going according to plan.

There was the slightest hiccup when it turned out that Itadori Yuji needed tutoring - a lot of tutoring - that Nanami pored and labored over until he was seeing fractions in his nightmares, before he could complete the entrance exam for Jujutsu Academy. But he got in—by some cosmic miracle, Itadori Yuji got in. 

He’s never been prouder- as a fake father, of course. 

Everything really was going to plan. First came the baby, then came the prestigious school acceptance to get Itadori to form an acquaintance with Fushiguro Megumi, then came the marriage. 

A little out of order, he knows.

And then after bumping into you at the local bakery he often frequented, he knew he’d found his future wife.

Not in a romantic way—he swears! 

He swears.

“Oh…you dropped this.” You’d caught his attention in that gentle tone of yours. 

Dropping down, you’d handed him an embroidered handkerchief he’d dropped during the collision - his favorite item to carry, in addition to the fact that it had a slip of poison stuffed between the folds. One he’d been planning to use on one of the Zenin elders just today…

What would he have done without you?

Similarly crouching before you straightened yourself, Nanami had met your eyes tenderly as he took the poisoned handkerchief from you. “Thank you…and your name?”

You’d looked down shyly as you answered. Venom at your fingertips.

He killed a man that evening and could only think about you the entire time- in the best way.

Name: Well, he’d turned it over and over in his mind until it was practically emblazoned.

Age: You never ask a lady her age.

Occupation: Clerk at Tokyo City Hall.

Family/ friends: None of note.

Looks: Perfect.

And Nanami was never a romantic type of man to begin with - it was always work, work, work, espionage. And after a long, hard day of his duties (spying was surprisingly not as thrilling as the movies made it seem) he rarely had the time to think about anything more than that. Something…beyond just his responsibilities.

Something in the future. 

He knew he wanted to retire, some day, but that was in a future he didn’t care to set a date on. Setting a date on it made it seem more real.

A picket-fence. A garden. A dog running around that he pretended to grumble at. The pitter-patter of small feet and the laughing of the one that followed it—all while he watched from the front porch. Flashes of such nonsense have run through his mind; but only in the dead of night when he could pass those off as fever dreams. And pretend to forget them in the morning. 

And so Nanami Kento got married.

It was a hasty affair - about a week after he met you. Three dates and one introduction to Itadori later (it was important he liked you…because how else would the ruse of a happy family be believable?) and you were submitting a form of marriage registration to the very City Hall you worked at. New to the neighborhood, you didn’t have a lot of friends nor family to invite, which just made Nanami’s just so much easier.

To your coworkers, however, it had garnered the most amusing reaction.

Nanami had been present for a work function of yours, when you’d mustered up your courage and commented to one of your associates that he wasn’t just your boyfriend, and then you’d showed them the ring. He’s never seen more smug jaws dropped.

It’s then that he’d decided you were actually rather humorous. Humorous enough that perhaps this mission, despite its unknowing collaborators, won’t be too hellish after all…

Perhaps he’d even have a decent time playing pretend.

Before he has to leave it all - the home, the doghouse, the dog and the kid who’d be rehomed with a loving family he handpicks, and you.

.

.

.

One week before the marriage. 

“You understand that he will be the most difficult target you’ve yet to encounter?”

“I understand.”

“You understand that he is highly-trained, highly-experienced, and dangerous?”

“I understand.”

The masked higher-up straightens and snarls at your assertiveness, “You understand that your mission is not over until you’ve succeeded in assassinating Nanami Kento?”

“I understand.” But no matter how much they attempt to deter you - you’re keeping your head held as high as ever. Hands behind your back. Dagger cutting through the dim lighting with its malicious glints. After so many years in this profession, you can only grow as miserable and nerve-wracked to an extent before every target simply becomes a job.

More than that; you fume silently as those damn higher-ups at the Garden underestimate you.

The Garden was a group of specially-trained assassins operating predominantly within inner-Tokyo, though you did branch off to other wards when required. And of them all, you were their #1: the best of the best, a kill count that you’d stopped measuring, the one they sent on only the most hazardous missions. 

There was a reason you’d been nicknamed The Phantom.

Playboys. Politicians. Athletes and singers—you’ve seen it all. The good and the bad. The deserving and perhaps the undeserving- though you never pondered upon it.

They were all the same faceless, breathless targets to you. And your dagger always hit bullseye.

Sometimes, however…sometimes you did wonder what the bigger ripples of your jobs were. Would anyone search for them? Would anyone notice? Would anyone cry nor care? Was this, perhaps, what stopped you from finally leaving this damn place - were you deserving of such leniency?

Sometimes you did wonder whether you withheld from the simple pleasures in life because you were punishing yourself, in a way. A family. A hearth. A home. But a guilty assassin was no better than one of their own targets - there are more ways to die than just in the physical. 

And so you didn’t think about it.

You didn’t do anything but glare at the higher-up that sat behind his desk, his papers, and his smooth white mask. Who were they to undermine you? “I have never failed a mission before, and I will never fail a mission ahead. I will take this job and complete it before you even know what’s happened.”

He lets out a wheezing chuckle- it was abnormal for them to be so flippant about your success rate when it comes to a job. “That’s the spirit.” He throws over a paper-thin file, “You’ll need it.”

You’ve taken down spies before- hell, you’ve even taken down other assassins. To have him act so dubious about this job? Jolting a step towards him, it really made you wonder about the nature of this particular target…

And so you’re flipping through the single page of information the Garden had on him.

Case 143

Codename: Agent 7:3 [rumored to be linked to the target’s impeccable ability to find the weakest points when attacking any building, vault, or person.]

Name: Nanami Kento.

Age: 27

Height: 6’1 - 6’2

Looks: Blond hair. Hazel eyes. Fine features. Broad-shouldered and fairly toned, he is known to be partial to suits and other clean-cut clothes above anything else. 

Profession: Secret agent.

Family: Unknown.

Residence: Unknown.

Current mission: Unknown.

Status: Currently active and HIGHLY DANGEROUS.

Those last two words had been underlined twice.

But you were determined. 

In the time assigned to you by the higher-ups, you deduced that you’d have about three attempts. 

What’s that saying about keeping your friends close but your enemies closer? You wondered whether there was anything in there about marrying them.

.

.

.

First attempt.

Long-distance sniping wasn’t exactly the most comfortable technique. 

Then again, perhaps you were just experienced enough to worry about such a thing. You’d be lucky.

You’re laid low on your front; against the slightly-damp rooftop of a building between SHIBUYA SKY and Shibuya Hikarie. The cold, hard floor pushed against your body and lifted you meters overlooking the scramble below—humans, animals, cars, all in a symbiotic collision of which contact never happened. 

You’ve been married to Nanami Kento for about a week now.

And in that week you’ve taken note of his routine, his work hours, his favorite stops along the route…home. All under the guise - the guise - of being his considerate wife. 

And it’d turned out to be a worthy sacrifice in the end once you’d discovered that the stoic, sensible Agent 7:3 had what you’d never have expected of him: a sweet tooth. Everyday after work, no matter how tired he is, he’d stop by the bakery he met you in—picking out a few treats to bring home to you and Itadori. 

It was a cosy establishment squatted on a corner of Shibuya Crossing and next to the apothecary; vines creeping down the sides, wide-open wooden doors, and decorated with luscious baked goods in the window. The only reason you yourself had gone there was to manufacture a meeting with Nanami. But here he was right now, seated in a window booth with a book in his hands. Gold-rimmed glasses on his nosebridge. Legs stretched out beneath the table. Blond brows furrowed just a little as his eyes scanned the page.

He looked almost like something out of a movie. Perhaps he couldn’t have looked more unassuming if he tried. 

You’re letting your gaze linger on him through the rifle scope for a few seconds. 

And it’s in this brief pocket of time that Nanami sets his book down, takes off his glasses, and looks through the window straight in your direction. Yours. 

You startle.

You take perfect aim at his head and shoot.

BANG!

Meanwhile, Nanami Kento is having a quiet relaxation - a rare moment. His ‘job’ as a psychiatrist kept him more busy than he would have expected, on top of using the position to spy on the vast Zenin members that flitted in and out of the hospital sometimes. He was about halfway through the last story of The King in Yellow, marking down notes on the Zenins in its margins, when he straightens up and glances down at his watch.

Humming to himself at the time, Nanami gathers his things and looks up at the sunny sky above. It was a beautiful day.

Thus, in prim, precise movements, he’s getting up - not too fast - and making his way to the counter to tip the serving staff extra.

CRASH!

Nanami’s taken just a single step away from where the bullet surely would have struck him—a honed head of metal that shatters the Tokyo atmosphere at over 1200 meters per second. With a deafening cracking sound, it makes the bakery window burst beneath its pressure, sending shards of glass flickering in his direction; Nanami steadily puts his open book down and lets the fragments hit the leather cover instead of him. 

There’s a scream.

And then there’s chaos.

People running. Children crying. Cars stopping on the road. No one was hurt in the least - if anything, it was just that poor book he’d have to replace with a new cover. 

But he understands that this line of work meant he was more used to such things than civilians- perhaps more than he should be. And he was a Wanted man - not by the law but by those who think they’re above it. And so he’s calmly walking over to the counter as the rest of the customers inside the bakery evacuate. Placing a large wad of cash on its wooden plane, he’s just about to leave before he looks more suspicious—before turning right back around and plucking out something from the lavish sweet display - your favorite. And then one more loaf of milk bread for Itadori.

Plopping them down in a bag, he makes his way out. 

This morning, he’d told Itadori to meet him on the other side of Shibuya Crossing- he steps onto the zebra-patterned road right now and can see the little boy waving frantically from the other side. A ball of sunshine energy and a coat of orange far too big for him, but it’s one that he’d grow into - or at least, that’s the excuse Nanami had made when it’d turned out that he’d picked the wrong size. Damn, he needs to fix that.

For the mission, of course. Nanami shakes his head back into rationality. 

Quickly crossing the road, the boy throws his arms around the blond man’s legs.

“Papa—!” He squeals, chubby hands grabbing at his three-piece suit. Itadori’s Spider-Man backpack jostles just a little as he jumps up and down, “What took you so long? It was so scawy waiting here…people are running about.”

“My apologies, Yuji.” Nanami responds, looking behind his small figure. “But I see you brought your friends along for moral support.”

Pink brows frown, “What’s mowal support?”

Behind him, the frames of Kugisaki Nobara and Fushiguro Megumi shuffle about - his (temporary) son’s best friends from school, and it was just as convenient that the black-haired boy was exactly their ticket into siphoning more information about the Zenin family - and Nanami nods at them graciously. “Thank you for walking my son here.”

“Hah, no problem.” Kugisaki crosses her arms smugly, “He was scared so of course we had to-”

“Was not—!”

Fushiguro, meanwhile, just squints at the sky. “There was a strange noise. It sounded like thunder.”

“There was, wasn’t there?” Nanami responds, looking around. The chaos had largely calmed down by now, and as police surrounded the bakery, little by little Shibuya seemed to be getting back to its usual sort of commotion—he looks down at the oblivious starry-eyed boy. “Perhaps that was your mother on her way, I always do say she fell from heaven.”

Itadori frowns, “That sounds like it would hurt.”

Fushiguro scoffs, “That sounds illogical.”

“What’s illogicwal mean?”

Kugisaki squeals, “That sounds romantic-”

“Ewwwww.”

“That’s right.” Nanami tilts his head up and looks in the direction between SHIBUYA SKY and Shibuya Hikarie. Where the shot had come from, he does not need to wonder why. “That is romantic, isn’t it?”

Again, right at you.

And from on top of that rooftop, the long-range rifle drops from your hands.

You hadn’t known that he’d be meeting the three kids afterwards. And perhaps if you’d had an inkling then…

No.

Even as you watched the miniscule shape of Nanami Kento - Agent 7:3 - throw Itadori over his shoulders and clasp both Fushiguro and Kugisaki’s hands as he carefully crossed the bustling road with them, heading in the direction of the sweets’ shop down the road (his second-favorite stop to spoil Itadori), you knew you had a job to do.

And you had to do it, even if it killed you in the process.

That evening, you’re home when he comes back.

“I’m home, darling.” Setting his heavy bags down, as usual. Letting Itadori in before gently clicking the door shut, as usual. Asking you how your day at ‘work’ was before wrapping you in a hug, as usual.

If he suspected you had anything to do with that stray gunshot at the bakery, then he’s made no indication since- you’d seen nothing on the news, either. And by now you’ve convinced yourself that the intensity of his gaze upon you on Shibuya Crossing was a mere fluke. A mere coincidence. Perhaps he was just looking at a strangely-shaped cloud above—

And then he produces the paper bag in his hands.

Looking inside, you gulp.

He’d memorized your order perfectly.

“I got the last one, can you believe it? It seems that the bakery will be undergoing some construction in the following weeks.” Nanami spoke as he shrugs off his coat, looking at you with a slight twinkle in his eyes. “It’s your luck, my love.”

“R-really…?” You didn’t know what to say. Merely holding the bag limply in your hands, as if it would detonate any second now. Just your luck, indeed…

Unsure where to even look- you’re staring after the pink-haired boy that’d rampaged inside, pretending he was Spider-Man. 

“Mhm.” Nanami mutters to himself as he walks inside. “I’ll have to learn to make it at home, however…”

.

.

.

Second attempt.

Perhaps you needed some collaborators, too.

It’d been a beautiful summer-drenched Friday when Nanami had suggested taking Itadori and his two best friends out to the aquarium. 

It was one of his few days off- which in and of itself was shocking. It seems that Nanami had been working himself to the bone recently, and the office had taken initiative to force the blond man into taking a holiday. You’d perked up in your love seat, a novel in your hands—but between the pages was a leaflet on poison concoctions that you’d been reading through. 

“The aquarium?” You’re smiling sweetly up at your handsome husband, running about a hundred different ways you could kill him there. “Why, that sounds wonderful, Kento. I’ll get Yuji from the garden-”

“You just get yourself ready, darling.” Nanami’s voice was deep and warm - it felt like the spread of heat after drinking hot cocoa, the way it starts from the pit of your stomach before eventually ebbing into every one of your fingertips. “I’ll worry about wrangling Yuji into the bath. Take your time.”

Oh—all the assassination plans you could concoct in that time! 

Attempting to keep the smile off of your face, you’re leaping up onto your feet and heading in the direction of your shared bedroom to get ready. Making just about one step- two- three…before halting in your tracks and swivelling right back around. Nanami’s keen ears catch onto the difference in the determined cadence of your footsteps and he looks back at you.

Questions ready on his tongue, “What’s wro-”

And for perhaps the first time, the ever-eloquent Nanami Kento is rendered speechless. 

Because you’re placing a hand on his shoulder and leaning him towards you with a single tug- pressing your lips against his svelte cheek. 

Nanami’s skin is warm against yours - and you know it only makes logical sense, but some part of you had perhaps wondered whether his body was just as cold as his professional demeanor. Despite being married you hadn’t quite…consummated the marriage yet—and he understood, he could wait. He didn’t need something if it wasn’t related to his mission, of course

And you’re trying to convince yourself that this is part of yours- to gain trust, you rationalize. 

The kiss lasts less than two seconds, and your heart thump-thump-thumps against your chest as you pull away. Refusing to meet his eyes, his raised brows, his speechlessness, you’re turning heel and speed-walking to the bedroom.

All for the mission.

All for the mission.

All for the mission.

Little did you know that someone else in the house was thinking the same thing.

Nanami stands there unsteadily for a few seconds before heading to the garden to gather Itadori. 

Before high noon, you were all ready and had picked up Kugisaki and Fushiguro to go to the aquarium - during which Nanami had been glad to snoop around the Zenin family home as he took the little boy off his guardian’s hands. 

The aquarium was an entire ecosystem itself.

The entire world was seeped in blue, and sunlight dazzled from above the largest attractions to create patterns of gold that looked almost unearthly. Parents tugged by children, teenagers tugged by parents; friends and couples that flitted from tank to colorful tank in a near-aqueous way. Laughs and excited gasps—melding in symphony with the honking of clown horns, with the occasional burst of a balloon. It seems that many families - and you use the term because there was none better - had the same idea as yours, and the smell of sticky, sweet strawberry ice cream hits your nose as soon as you enter the area for water exhibits.

Passing by the lively tanks, hand-in-hand with Itadori, your gaze catches on something that sparks an idea in your mind. “Yuji…” You’re dropping down to be eye-level with the pink-haired little boy, “Why don’t you and your friends go and check out the touch tank over there?”

“The touch tank?” He nervously looks over to the lowly-fenced exhibit surrounded by children and a few handlers. It was a well-managed tank, widespread with nooks and crannies and rock masses along the sides, a hand-washing station before it; squeals emerged occasionally where a participant happened to touch something particularly slimy. He kicks the ground, “Hmm.”

Kugisaki wraps her arms around one of his, “Oh- c’mon, idiot.”

“Hey-”

And then she leans in and whispers in something that wasn’t a whisper at all - but what would a six-year-old know about secrets? Adults knew far too much. “Your momma obviously wants to spend some romantic time with your papa, don’t you have common sense?”

You have to bite back a laugh- sure, you wanted to be alone with him. 

Though not for any reason they could conjure up.

He sputters, “I-I…” Looking over at Fushiguro for help.

Fushiguro, notably, doesn’t help.

Instead he walks over to an exhibit of sea urchins.

“I want momma and papa to be happy.” Itadori fiddles with his orange overcoat. And your heart clenches—when this is all over you don’t know how you’re going to explain this to him. But you’d be damned if you weren’t allowed to take him for yourself- wait.

You’re shaking your head.

You were thinking nonsense.

And you’re composing yourself just in time for Itadori to look up at Nanami and receive a gentle nod in reassurance - whatever he does, the older man would be content with.

Itadori lets himself be dragged away by the ginger-haired girl- only if that meant he could drag the human version of a disgruntled little sea urchin with him, too. And as the kids have their fun, you’re promising that the two of you won’t be too far away and to definitely call one of you if they need you—before you’re wrapping both arms around one of Nanami’s.

Hugging him to you, you peer into his gold-flecked eyes softly. “I’d really like to see the blue-ringed octopus exhibit, Kento.”

He slightly coughs out his answer, “A-and so we shall, my love.”

And so here was the plan: the venomous creatures were the least-visited. So you’d drag the spy away where one couldn’t see, get him distracted by them, and knock him unconscious with the chloroform-soaked handkerchief you had carefully packaged in one pocket. Dagger in your other pocket. Then you’d finish the job, of course.

Then, outside, was a Discretion Team from the Garden that would discard the evidence, and let you take the kids back home- perhaps even concoct some excuse about ‘a work thing’ coming up at the hospital and causing him to leave.

It was perfect.

It was perfect.

 Next to the squid exhibition and the camouflage section, Nanami Kento was completely and utterly entranced by the octopus exhibit. His face paints in a blue light as he watches the alien-like movements of the creatures, so much so that he doesn’t even notice you slipping behind him—digging through your pockets before plastering his face with the damp handkerchief. 

Nanami’s hand comes up to touch your wrist, though you’re unmoveable. 

He breathes the chloroform in deep.

And then he wavers.

You got him.

Your heart rate spikes, thinking it’s time- fuck, you’ve finally gotten him. Keeping one hand with the chloroform pressed up against him, you’re just about to reach for the dagger snuck into your pocket. He was on the verge of being completely knocked out.

But someone on the verge of being completely knocked out wouldn’t tighten his grip on your wrist, would he? 

Your heart runs cold. 

Preventing you from grabbing your weapon, you feel Nanami smile beneath the thin fabric. Before imitating a sneeze into the handkerchief- “A—choo! Thank you, my love. How did you know I was allergic to the smell of squid ink?”

“You-” And you’re tugging your hand - and the venomous handkerchief - away from him as though his skin burned. 

“Yes?”

But he keeps his fingers intertwined with yours even as you pull away, letting them dangle between you two when you’re stepping into his line of sight once more and assessing every inch of him. His eyes? Clear. His gait? Steady. His expression? Normal (handsome).

No signs of dizziness, fatigue, or the signs of your plan working in motion.

But the chloroform—

Eventually, he lets your hands fall limply to your sides, and you’re looking down at the fabric in shock. Nanami Kento was still standing- and he hums as he turns back to the blue-ringed octopuses; slithering underneath an arch of coral as they, too, went into hiding. 

He clasps his hands behind his back and speaks to no one in particular, “Odd, isn’t it? I’m immune to 562 poisons and over a thousand toxic substances, but it’s squid ink that makes my system flare up.” 

Your jaw drops. Silently, solemnly, you find yourself standing beside him. “You’re…immune…”

He merely nods, staring through the tank. Gaze on something far away.

“I bet that was difficult.” There was a Poisons Division in the Garden as well, and you’d heard of the sheer torture they had to go through to make themselves immune to such things: one could make the body a scab to all things toxic, but underneath that was still a wound. You yourself knew that all too well. Ultimately, you say. “Must have to do with your work as a psychiatrist.”

Nanami nods, “Must have.”

There’s a shriek then the pitter-patter of small footsteps. 

You’re so wound-up and taut that it makes you jump slightly closer to Nanami- and he’s readily steadying you against his side. Arms on your shoulders.

“See, I told you they were being all romantic—!”

Nanami holds back a chuckle, “We should get going.” And unbeknownst to you, his eyes follow…follow…follow a man with dark hair streaked with grey, one that could only ever belong to the Zenin family. Zenin Naobito was lurking in the corners of the aquarium, the most unassuming place for one to conduct secret meetings with contractors that pretended they weren’t here for the same reason.

Because why else would Nanami go on a family outing, right?

Right? 

.

.

.

Third (and final) attempt.

“—and don’t forget your second change of clothes.” The only thing preventing Itadori from darting out of the house and into any oncoming cars was your single hand hooked around the handle of his Spider-Man backpack.

The only thing keeping him in one place.

Somewhat.

With the other, you’re attempting to shove down the spare t-shirt and shorts you’d picked out for him. Knowing your son, there wasn’t any sort of trouble, puddle, or cake batter that he wouldn’t somehow find and get into. And you don’t know what sort of house the Zenins ran, but you were determined to be on their good side.

And so you’re huffing and puffing, beads of sweat forming at your forehead, as you attempt to push it down the humble space- honestly, you didn’t understand why they didn’t just make these things a bit bigger. Just the slightest bit.

At this rate, he’s never going to…

“Itadori Yuji.” Your voice comes out deadpan, and the pink-haired boy turns to you with wide, innocent eyes.

Sweetly, “Yes, momma?”

“Why have you packed your entire Hot Wheels collection for a sleepover?”

Whatever he spouts about wanting to show Fushiguro and Kugisaki, whatever explanations he’s giving about moral support (honestly, where did he even learn such a thing?), goes in one ear and out the other.

Because yes—Fushiguro had invited Itadori and Kugisaki over for a sleepover at their home. It was convenient given that the two boys were practically next-door neighbors, and after the success of their aquarium visit you were hesitant to part the trio. Thus, it seems that Fushiguro had all but thrown a tantrum and attempted to run away from home in order to convince his guardian to agree to a sleepover. Which was sweet, of course.

But this was Itadori’s first, and any mother would be nervous about that sort of thing- wait.

But you weren’t a mother…technically. This was all a ruse for your mission, and so you’re shaking your head and pushing the bundled-up clothes deeper into his backpack, perhaps in order to drive that point home.

You’re interrupted by a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Let me take over, my love.”

You’re shifting aside to let Nanami handle the little issue swiftly—with a firm hand - thick fingers, prominent veins, that wedding ring on his left hand - he tugs Itadori back inside the house. “Now now, sunshine. What have we said about taking our toys out of the house?”

He tilts his head up n’ juts his little bottom lip out, “To take only one.”

Nanami lifts the bag just slightly to the side and takes a glance, “And does this look like only one?”

“No…” Itadori sighs.

Soon, you’re finding just about half the Hot Wheels production line laid out, side-by-side and color-coordinated, on the threshold to your home. It looked like a miniature parking lot of which Itadori grumbled as he pushed the clothes into the newly-presented space inside the bag and zipped it shut. Pouting.

Nanami chuckles gently, crouching down so that he was eye-level with the boy. ”You know momma and papa love you, right, sunshine?”

“I know…”

“And you understand why it would be difficult to take all the cars?”

Itadori takes a second to think, before giving you both a determined nod. “I do.” And you’re feeling something within you soar- but you’re forgoing wondering just what it means to feel so proud for the boy. 

“Good.” Your blond husband stands with heave, taking one of Itadori’s arms and turning around to look at you. “Say bye-bye to momma, Yuji.”

He turns with a beaming smile and a chubby arm raised in goodbye. “Bye-bye, momma.”

“I’ll see you in a bit, my love.” Nanami leans in and—presses a sweet, sweet peck to your cheek. Heat seems to sear from where his lips touched, spreading across your chest and all the way down to your toes. You feel your heat batter against your ribcage- fuck.

Was this what he’d felt the other day?

Two seconds; it’s as far as your intimacy as a married couple goes. And in that time Itadori brings his hands up to cover his eyes with a giggled, “Ewwwww—!” 

With an amused shake of his head, the father-son duo set off. Since the Zenin household was in the same neighborhood, about a street away, it was only about a five-minute walk to get there. 

Which is why you had to act fast.

Nanami Kento would be home in less than ten minutes - he wouldn’t have Itadori to slow down his long strides on the way back. And you’re standing there with the front door ajar as they leave, waving…waving…waving-

The very moment their backs disappear, you’re slamming the door shut and racing to the kitchen.

There, you’re reaching up to the very topmost cabinet: grabbing the new liquorice-flavored cereal you knew that no one in the house would touch. Of course, you’d emptied out the cereal this very morning.

And all that remained in the cardboard box inside was a slim vial you’d bought from the apothecary. 

It wasn’t exactly what one would consider menacing, but it was exactly what you needed for your Hail Mary attempt at completing your mission. It was made of a crystal-clear glass, fashioned into a reticello design, with a label containing some information and a stopper of gold that made the contents within seem far more elegant than they were in reality.

Dark brown powder that looked like ground up dirt.

An unassuming little substance you’d rippled with excitement over at the apothecary’s. So much so that you’d damn-near didn’t hear half the things she said- but it’s fine. You were an assassin, right?

And what was an assassin that didn’t know how to use the most powerful poison in the nation? 

Material XXX.

You’ve never seen it with your own two eyes. Nanami might have been immune to chloroform, but there was no living person on Earth that could resist this. 

Oh—it was beautiful…And it mixed so perfectly with the ground-up coffee you were adding to your coffee maker. One steaming hot cup of coffee had already been made and upon the kitchen counter beside you, it let out hot swirls of heat as you tampered with the other one. Sweetly fragrant. 

You smile- he’ll be dead in one sip. And, sure, you might have some explaining to do to Itadori - but doesn’t all good coffee spark conversation?

You’re still running through the list of excuses in your mind once the brewing comes to a stop.

And just in time, the front door clicks! open.

“He was so excited he tripped five times.” Nanami’s deep sigh echoes into the kitchen. You hear the shuffling sounds of him taking his shoes off, shrugging his coat onto the rack, stepping inside. “Though the other two were just the same- could you please make us some coffee, darling, while I get started on dinner?”

“You’ll ruin your dinner, Kento.” You call out to him, “And I already have.”

His handsome head pops out from the door, golden strands slightly tousled from the walk. Nanami breathes in the unmistakable scent of coffee piercing the kitchen air, and smiles. “You’re the best.”

“In many ways.” Leaning back against the counter, you’re handing his freshly-made cup - poured into a large mug that said #1 Papa - to him. 

Nanami’s large hands pluck it from yours and he whispers, “Thank you.” Looking down at the scalding concoction that still swirled within, “I really mean it, you know.”

“What?” You’re looking up at him in surprise.

“You’re the best.”

Your fingers grow tighter around your own mug: World’s Best Momma.

“Drink your coffee before it gets cold, Kento.”

He hums through a smile, before blowing on the similarly-fragrant steam. It smelled of jasmine and spring and something like love; but you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? It’s almost a tease—watching Nanami swirl the coffee around a bit, watching him affirm his grip, watching him leeeean his stern lips in before-

“Aren’t you going to drink up, my love?” You almost startle - Nanami was staring at you through his blond tresses, brows furrowed in slight concern. “Are you alright? You look a little…tense.”

“I-I’m perfectly alright—” You hasten to explain- if Nanami got suspicious now and refused to drink his coffee, then there was no way you’re completing this mission. Without wasting anymore time, you’re bringing your coffee up to your own lips - though you don’t take a sip just yet. “Just thinking about work, you know how it is…”

He nods. “We’ve both been really busy lately, haven’t we? I apologize if I’ve made you feel a little lonely these days-”

“Not at all-”

“But still.” Nanami was determined. Those molten brown eyes of his seemed to be pinning you down to the tiled kitchen floor, and the heat of your body contrasted with its frigidness. “I apologize. Tonight, let’s just take some time for the two of us—we can watch a show, we can do some puzzles, tell me about your favorite book and we can read it together.”

You’re refusing to meet his eyes- you can’t. “That…that would be lovely.”

“To us.” Your husband - the spy, you have to remind yourself - outreaches his arm and clinks! your two mugs together in a toast.

“To us.” You weakly whisper. 

And then you take a sip and watch him do the same.

Immediately, you know something’s wrong.

From the slightly sour- slightly sweet- taste coating your tongue—to the way that Nanami takes a long, deep swig and sighs out in satisfaction. He doesn’t drop dead. He doesn’t grab his throat in agony. He doesn’t even stagger where he’s standing as he loses consciousness- 

Nanami sets his coffee mug down and grins.

“Poison working for you, darling?” And your own drops from your hand and shatters. “Oh dear, let me take care of that-”

“Stop.”

In the middle of reaching for the sweeping pan, Nanami halts and looks at you with slightly unfocused, glazed eyes. Heat rising to his cheeks. Breaths coming out in murked pants. Ones that you were sure mirrored your own. 

You felt as if you had a fever five times over and someone had still set you on fire—

Your temperature was soaring through the roof and searing through your skin, making your clothes feel clammy and clinging onto your form. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of your temple. But even more than that was the way that- fuck, it was the heat between your damn legs. It was aching. Something deep and primal—something clawing at you from your insides and making you shudder as you lock eyes with Nanami once again.

Before you know it, he’s wrapping an arm around your waist to help steady you. And nothing more- did you want something more?!

You’re boring into his eyes and finding out that he wasn’t any better. Not in the least.

In fact, he’d drunk more of the potioned coffee than you.

Your wettened lips part and out comes the only thing you know how to say right now, “Kento.”

He jolts at the sound of his first name wrapped around your tongue. So sexual.

And his own words come out a gravelly croon, “Didn’t read the label, assassin?” That smile of his looked almost feral in the light you were looking at him right now. “Because I did.”

He attempts to pull away to show the label to you- the vial of powder he’d found. 

The plans he’d ruined.

The secrets he’d discovered.

The temperature in the kitchen was near-sizzling.

But the only thing you can think to do is claw your hands outwards and clutch his white shirt with an unfounded ferocity. One of his buttons pop! off and end up on the kitchen floor.

Chuckling, he gives up letting you see the label for yourself. If you won’t let him go, then…without a single warning, Nanami’s leaning in so that his pretty lips graze your ear. The front of his toned chest pushes up against you- and perhaps the only thing that helps you focus is the rapid, ravenous ba-dump! Ba-dump! Ba-dump! of his heart. Pummeling. “Because if you did, then perhaps you’d have seen that Material XXX isn’t supposed to come into contact with caffeine, my love…”

You gasp, hands twisting even deeper into his button-up.

“Because then, it doesn’t become a poison at all.” The long line of his nose glides down your throat, sending shivers skittering across wherever he was in contact with. He stops against a spot you knew was sensitive and softly blooooooows—cold air against hot skin. 

You shiver.

And he merely continues in a rasp, “Because then, it becomes a substance that draws out your deepest desires. Amplifying pre-existing needs that the host contains, those that might be hidden due to…other reasons. So consider it an experiment of sorts. Can you recognize what this concoction is for you, darling?”

“A-an aphrodisiac.” Your eyes threaten to flutter shut- the mere breeze of his breath makes your thighs clench. 

He nods. “An aphrodisiac.”

“How long have you known?” More honest than ever; the question blurts out of your lips.

Nanami takes the time to think, “Since the sniping in Shibuya is when I knew.” With lewd, lethargic eyes he looks you up and down- up and down…“But to be honest, I’ve always suspected.”

You growl—“So then you know I’m here to kill you-” 

“So try me.”

You lunge.

.

.

.

And perhaps that was how he got here.

Nanami feels the very pointed tip of your heel graze his bulging erection- and he bucks. Not enough to finally free himself, but enough that it makes the chair cricket—and you’re looking down at him through your lashes.

He’s forced to stop his head from throwing backwards, bearing his sensitive throat. Maybe it was the pressure, maybe it was the aphrodisiac, maybe it was the fact that he’s wanted you for so fucking long now- but he feels zaps of white-hot pleasure course through his body.

All the way from the in-betweens of his meaty thighs, riveting like snakes into every one of his limbs. Eventually up to his poor brain.

Slow and steady; you’re watching the fabric of Nanami’s trousers darken. Seeping and spreading the more he tried to press his legs together to hide it.

And once you’re roverin’ your foot over his cock- he moans. 

Grin spreading, the further you step down on him, the louder those squelches from his puddle of cum were. “Awww, already, Kento? They didn’t have that in your file.”

Somehow through it all, he manages out such a ravenously handsome grin. Blond hairs disarrayed. Tie askew. Shirt unbuttoned down until you could see golden hairs peeking out. “Th-they probably didn’t have a lot of things.”

“True.” You respond, stepping down harder and he gasps- “But remember who’s in charge now.”

Nanami looks at you through unfocused, half-lidded eyes. “Always was you, darling.”

“Flatterer.” Harder. 

“Fuh-fuuuuck…” He spits. Head dropping forwards, a thin line of drivel escapes from his parted mouth and adds onto the mess below. You’re watching it glisten underneath the dim lighting of the bedroom - one you’d somehow manage to drag the blond spy into. “Do that again and I’m going to cream my pants once more, my love.”

Your jaw slightly drops at the matter-of-fact way he was phrasing it. The Nanami Kento you’d been married to never uttered a word like this- “Well…”

“Is that what you’d like?” And, suddenly, his eyes are sharper than before. You had your leg raised so that you could step on his most sensitive bits, but you failed to realize that also meant he had access to your own…to rub his cheek against your inner thigh like a cat yearning for the cream. “Is that what you want your husband to do in repentance?”

“W-we’re not even really married-” Taken aback. Heat flaring where his pants fanned you- your dagger trembles where you held it against his throat. Close enough to cut.

And yet he was still craning his face - his mouth - as near as he could get to your cunt. Mouth watering. A crimson bead where your blade was rested-

“But we could be.” And you’re lost for words. Nanami just looked so pathetic beneath you in ways you never could’ve even imagined: eyes blown wide and dazed, mouth permanently unhinged as he inched towards your soaked underwear, breaths getting more n’ more labored the longer you kept pinning his clothed cock down with your heel. 

He had his hands cuffed behind him and was aching to get between those legs - and you’re unsure whether you should blame just the aphrodisiac. Desperation seeps into his words, “But we could consummate this marriage.”

Your lips part.

He doesn’t waste a second.

“Seven times over just to make up for the time we’ve lost.” And then he’s tipping his head back and bearing you with a grin, “Fuck my cock raw, my wife.”

And how could you ever say no to that?

You don’t—instead, what you’re doing is taking advantage of the needy way his jaw was unhinged in a soundless prayer. One that you’re answering with a direct spit- lips pursed, you’re letting a glittering glob of saliva paste against his lips.

Purposefully missing the precise target, the lewd translucent liquid splatters against the side of his lips before ultimately trickling inwards. And you’re watching with your jaw dropped as his Adam’s apple bobs- as he swallows.

Perhaps that was the last straw.

The tip of your glinting blade draws a perfect line down Nanami’s middle - just enough pressure to scrape a harmless line of white down his exposed skin. And then you’re slashing those ropes that bound him to the chair. 

Metal restraints, you watch him semi-free himself.

And you’re turning around and walking to the bed.

Sitting at the very edge.

Resting your palms behind you.

Your legs spread-spread-spreeeeeead wide enough that he gets a view good enough to make his slightly-teary eyes bulge. Lips parting. Cock twitching. You’re tilting your head casually to the side and beckoning him—“If you want it, come and get it, Nanami Kento.”

Handcuffed and hands behind his back, the famous agent has no other choice than to get on his knees and crawl over to you.

Fucking crawling.

The carpet chafes beneath his knees, the sound echoes as he inches and inches- torturously slow. Body bowed. Chest heaving. 

Whilst you don’t move a single degree.

It might have been hours- it might have been fucking eons that are passing by before Nanami reaches the foot of the bed; burning up far more from the fever of wanting you than any aphrodisiac in existence. He honed senses raise into the air - and he’s getting a whiff of that honeyed fragrance from your pussy. Almost singing to him, surely it wasn’t just because of that powder that he thinks it’s the most delicious-smelling thing on Earth.

His stomach nearly growls. 

And then Nanami’s between your parted legs and famished. 

All good spies deserve a treat, right?

Before you know it, Nanami’s leaned in and having his lips glued to your clothed cunt. Fucking glued. They were puckered and pert—both pairs of lips, and the vibrations of his moan make your back arch as he tastes you for the very first time.

Just the most innocent kiss. 

The first time that he’s getting everything he’s fucking dreamed of.

Because whenever you left the house dressed so prettily, whenever you hummed at the taste of your favorite baked good, whenever you bent over to pick up something- you didn’t know it, but…Nanami stared.

Oh, how he stared n’ licked his hungry lips. 

Wondering just how sweet your pretty, pretty cunt would taste - just how fucking sooooft and tender your pussylips would feel once he’s finally giving them that nice French kiss they deserved. All up on his tongue.

Despite being such a gentleman to everyone around him—who’d have guessed that Nanami Kento would have the dirtiest thoughts of them all? That whenever he gazed upon you with that ‘ruse’ of affection, he was actually hiding something far…far darker. 

The dirtiest thoughts that he was acting upon right now. 

With his honed tastebuds swipin’ down your wet slit, Nanami counts every bead of slick that you’re leaking through your panties. Sugary sweet. He’s boring his smoldering gaze into yours as he—with a slurp! lets those pearly translucent droplets collect on the tip of his tongue, and then glide, glide, gliiiiiide deep down to the back of his throat.

Blond lashes flickering his eyes shut at the flavorful taste, Nanami groans. 

“C-can I prove it now…?”

You almost don’t recognize his voice.

The tone of it sends fire shooting straight between your legs- and without thinking twice, you lean your weight on your hands and edge even closer. Whining, “Prove what, Kento?”

And he seems almost embarrassed to answer.

Almost shy now—

Though the heat of the aphrodisiac and the globules of slick stuck to his chin were making him more of an honest man by the second. “I need to prove that m’worthy of being your husband, pussy.”

Was he talking to you or…?

Fuck.

Sense coming back to him in bursts and stutters, Nanami shakes his head briefly- “I mean-” A blush rises to the tips of his ears, though his eyes remain as starved as ever—“I need to prove that m’worthy of being a good husband to both you and-” His biceps bulge as he struggles against the handscuffs briefly, pathetically and lovingly nuzzling the hot in-betweens of your folds. “-this girl right here.”

The way he says it…fuck.

He gives off the impression of a man that’s been starved for ages- for eons. There was something almost wolfish imprinted onto his expression, and the whites of his teeth feature an appearance between your legs as Nanami leans in; with knitted brows and a ragged emphasis, he’s asking - begging - once more. “Please-” Mahogany eyes just so earnest, “Marry me?”

Marry him?

Your jaw drops.

Was he so pussydrunk already that he’s genuinely proposing? 

Or was it just the aphrodisiac—you’re not waiting to find out.

Readily, Nanami only needs to feel a single shove of your glistenin’ wet pussy against his mouth - before he’s letting his eyes roll to the back of his skull. Farther and farther. Almost blindly, he uses his pointed chin to dig himself even deeper. And he couldn’t spread your pretty thighs apart with his arms, so he’s resorting to fitting his burly body - shoving your legs apart with his broad shoulders - until he gets closer to your core. Your dripping wet core,

Simply soaked.

Just a single strand of blond sticks to his forehead—usually-slicked hair coming out of its neat style now. And Nanami isn’t shy to sliiiide apart your drenched panties with his tongue, then start pressing kiss after open-mouthed kiss. 

Wide-mouthed. Gaping. 

Just the most teasing, faintish whispers of his tongue. Feverish in speed.

The sopping, smooth edge of his tastebuds lodge inside and slathers itself in all of your syrupy juices. Jaggedly probin’ in and out. “Is this how my wife wants it? Does this, mmm- feel good, my love?”

And you hadn’t even realized that your eyes were closed until you’re fluttering them open—looking through tear-filled lashes at the handsome man between your legs. “Y-yessss…deeper, Kento.”

His eyes suddenly clear in urgency.

Mind befogged with lust - but he’s alert enough to recognize your pretty pleas. And without a single second wasted, the slashes of his tongue scour even deeper inwards. With all his slick inches he’s tunneling into your pussy- and your toes curl at the sensation of him driving into spots unknown. “A-and?” He spits, “Is this good?”

He’s just so eager to please. “Nghhh, yes.” Blabbering out, “Just a bit more to the side now, honey.”

Obediently, he cocks his head and angles his kisses. The layers of his lips smush with your delicate pussy, until it was as if he’s stuck there by adhesive - you don’t think he’s pulling away enough to even breathe…and he wouldn’t mind forgoing his own comfort to make sure you’re feeling your best. “Is this good?” The big, bad spy that has all of Tokyo’s underbelly trembling pleads.

“Yes-”

“And what else?”

“Wh-what…?” Stare widening in surprise. 

That cute expression of yours - the way your cunt seems to splash! another wad of your slick onto his ready tastebuds - makes him rattle at his chains. As though to break through. As though to ravish you whole. 

But the only thing he’s succeeding in doing is letting gravity stoop his face even lower onto your pulsating pussy. Every throb was just so delicous—and Nanami swears he’s feeling his own heartbeat synchronize with the rapid cadence of it. “What else do you need from your husband? Do you need more tongue?” 

Just then, you’re feeling the ridged texture of his tastebuds start drilling even deeper. That cutely pink tip of his tongue starts bludgeoning inside as though reaching for your very cervix.

And he’s hatching out something- something almost delirious. “Do you need it sloppier? Because I can- mmm, do sloppier.” The cacophonous noise from beneath your swollen folds starts growing in both pitch and volume as he increases his speed, thick, ribbony strings of slick coating the edges of his mouth - “I can make it faster. Slower. Sexier.”

You’re straining your hamstrings to push off the springy mattress, “P-please—”

“I can eat you out like a husband should.” 

Munch-munching away at everything your pussy had to offer. Everything and anything.

He’s jostling his body so painfully close to yours- skin against skin. Lips against lips. Without the gesticulation of his hands to balance himself, it was rare that he’d find a moment to push up and part from your pussy - and whenever he did, it just meant he wasn’t doing his job well enough.

Nanami chases after even the slightest movements of your restless hips. And there’s a slight crack emanating from his metal handcuffs when the straight top of his nose taps your throbbing clit. 

“Tell me, my wife—tell me what you want.”

It feels like you’re being struck by shards of lighting itself, “J-just like that, Kento-”

“Just like that? Or even more- hah.” He pants out in a raspy wheeze. Nanami’s voice was low- lower than you can ever recall it being. “Don’t hafta lie to me, darling. Your husband can give you aaaaanything and everything.”

A shallow moan cracks at the back of your throat by the way he’s emphasizing his words- notably by reeling his thick tongue out and drag-drag-draaaagging it all across the forefront of your cunt. “Th-then…ngh, I want whatever it is that you want, Kento.”

His golden brows shoot up to his hairline, “What’s- hck! that, my love?”

And in a split-second - perhaps it’s your assassin side coming out, perhaps it’s the aphrodisiac that’s dialing every emotion up to the max - you’re grabbing a searing hold of Nanami’s pale tresses. A proper fistful that lets you jerk the strong man off of your cunt and gazing his glistening peripherals up at you.

He’s drawing his mouth away with a wet plop! The jutted-out edge of his lower lip trembles at the thought of not being in contact with your tasty cunt, and you have to tap the side of Nanami’s face to  get him to fully focus his attention on you.

It takes a little while for his lava-like eyes to peer up at you. “Y-yes, my wife…?”

Chuckling just a bit at the way he’s lost his train of thought - perhaps every thought he’s ever conjured up once he’s tasting your cunt. “What do you want, Kento? Tell me what you’d like…tha’s gonna please me the most.”

“But I beg to-”

“I know you want it.” And he didn’t forget about those ruthless heels of yours, did he? The broad frame of Nanami Kento shudders at the pointed sensation of your heels gliding up his open thighs. Trouser-covered and cum-drenched, you’re feeling for the bumpy area where his fat cock throbbed- and crushing down on it with the flats of your shoe. “This thing doesn’t lie to me, honey. Just tell me what the little spy wants.”

“I…fuck, this is embarrasing- this is so ungentlemanly-” But that was a ship long sailed. And he finds himself drooping even further into the heavenly in-betweens of your legs.

And you’re witnessing the veins on his beefy forearms pop out, the skin of his forehead perspiring- and it almost feels to you as if the blond man was holding himself back at this very moment. A shiver runs through you as you wonder just what him giving his all would mean for you…

And his swollen mouth cracks open, “Please…” And it’s not you that’s starting to beg…it’s Nanami himself. Deep and guttural wrenched out from his voicebox, he sends rumbles across your body like thunder. “Please push me even d-deeper into your cunt.” Nuzzlin’ your clit with his nose, he murmurs. “Push me so far deep- ride my tongue- use me until my mouth’s raw and I can’t even breathe.”

And you know you’re the one that asked him…but you can’t help but let your jaw hang speechlessly.

“I need you to make you c-cum on my tongue five times before I can call myself your husband.”

The answer takes some time to choke out, and when it finally does you’re feeling embarrassed at the slightly pitchy tone it takes. “Then do it.” With his sweaty strands plastered to your palm, and your heel being used to steady yourself—and push down on his convulsing cock. You give him no warning before pushing him down deeper. 

He sputters-

“I’m going to ride your face now, Kento.” And you’re shocked by your ability to keep your words from slurrin’ together now. “Do it- do everything it is that you want to do. But no pulling back to breathe. No cumming until I do.”

And he’s peering up at you with the most loving half-lidded eyes, “Yes, my wife.”

That man was a goner for his wife—you. 

“Hngh—mmm- K-Kento!” It’s just about the only thing your spit-drivelled lips can echo right now. The sound travels across the room before bouncin’ into Nanami’s eardrums, and he swears it’s the most beautiful sound he’s heard. Because in a sultry split-second, he’s loosening his body up and letting you pin his face between your legs.

Then veering your hips upwards and upwards.

Frenzied, squelching movements of your hips. Your body was just crashing into his in the most sinful collision, and it was making the skin of his high cheekbones start to redden and sting- Nanami barely has the time to part his lips and take in an inhale—

Before your sopping pussylips are plastering to his mouth once more. And he’s lappin’ his tongue away wilding onto every inch he could reach - all around the hidden crevices of your cunt, before entering through your tight hole.

Nanami’s muscle was just so thick that he made you keen with the intrusion of his tastebuds. Feeling up the hugging walls of your channel, before you’re swearing he’s reaching for that one spot that made your eyes roll.

“Shit-” You’re babbling out, hands shaking where you held him down. “Sh-shiiiiiit, just like that. Does that feel good for you too, baby?”

He’s feeling the flaps of his lips start to swell and his lungs ache for breath- “Yes.” He’s never answered anything truer in his life - and it wasn’t just the aphrodisiac, though it did only seem to be getting stronger by the second. “Fuck—yes, and d-don’t keep doing that with your heel or m’gonna cum.”

“What?” You ask innocently - fully knowing the ministrations you were carrying out beneath your line of sight and his. Your heel was flattened over his massive bulge and smoothing up and down, up and down, up and down—practically jerking Nanami off though more with the pressure you were pitting against him.

The nib of your heel grazes his mushroomy tip and he bucks- “M’gonna cum, my love…”

Almost in agony. 

You smile as you reply, “Me too.” Before leaning down just the slightest inch in proximity of him - as though sharing a secret between just the two of you in this world. “But that’s only one of five.”

He grunts.

Fuck- he didn’t want to disappoint his beautiful wife. He can’t. He couldn’t.

And as though crazed, Nanami’s flickering the inches of his tongue through and through that dripping entrance of yours. In and out. Stirrin’ around his lengthy muscle in juuuust the way he knew would hit those pretty orifices that made you cry out so loud, Nanami’s focusing on your g-spot for a few seconds at a time to make sure you’re experiencing as much pleasure as possible with every thrust.

Through it all, his nose remains pressed up against your throbbing clit. “One down, four to go.”

“What do you…” Your toes curl then—because Nanami had predicted it before you had. With a sudden flash behind your eyes, you’re crashing into one wave of pleasure after the other - starting up from the pleasure-riddled area between your legs and climbing up into every cranny of your body afterwards.

Your arms go limp. Your back arches perfectly.

“Sh-shiiiiiit- that feels so good.” Your head tilts backwards as the sudden euphoria overtakes you, and your heartbeat only seems to accelerate by twofold after you take a look down at Nanami himself.

His eyes were rolling to the depths of his skull, until only the whites of them were visible. His mouth was agape and his body was almost moving on autopilot—pure carnal instinct simply lappin’ and lappin’ away at your cunt - sending sparks roaring through your body every time his dexterous nose struck your clit. His cock was twitching away furiously beneath your long heels.

And you’re quite sure that Nanami himself was on the verge of an orgasm- “Don’t cum.” You’re pressing down on his cock.

He jolts ever-so-slightly - though his movements don’t falter for a single second. And he was slightly muffled from his…position, though you do manage to make out a scoff. “Who did you think I was?” Nanami responds in a gravelly tone, “M’your husband, darling. And a husband is always supposed to keep his vows.”

You don’t mention that you technically didn’t have a ceremony with vows and everything.

Because in the next mere moments, Nanami has his tongue thrusted back inside and his chin glued to the bottom of your wet slit. No matter how much you’re bucking and moaning, he’s determined to accomplish that little wish you—he had had.

And with the textured swabs of his tongue, he’s pulling out one more orgasm. Two more. Three more-

You think you’ve lost count by the time you’re all sprawled out and spent on the bed. Throwing your head back, letting your heels hook onto his shoulders and tug him even closer - you’re all but begging for mercy as dopamine leaves stars bursting behind your eyelids. 

Your cunt was just so heated and raw at this point - though the aphrodisiac kept your slippery slick coming until it was drenchin’ Nanami all the way down to his collarbones.

His invisible dusting of blond on top of his upper lip glistens with the sap that clings onto it, and Nanami peers up at you with hollow, drunken eyes finally. “How many was that, my love?”

Would he believe it if you said you didn’t fucking know—

Apparently you didn’t have to remain wondering, because those words are leaving your lips mindlessly. They take a few seconds to penetrate Nanami’s own foggy mind- but with something akin to a crooked grin, he raises his head. “S’that so?” 

You’re shivering once he pulls his tongue out and presses a loud peck on top of your cunt.

“My poor, poor wife—did your husband go too hard?” And you’re not sure what’s in his intense gaze that makes you gesture out a single nod - an embarrassing nod. But you’re doing so anyway, and you hiss when he presses a final kiss and raises himself up onto his haunches. “But I have kept my end of the deal, darling. Didn’t your husband make you proud?”

“Y-yes—” 

“Didn’t your husband make you cum?”

“Yes-”

“Not five times, yet.” And through sheer will and the use of his incredible core strength, the trained spy stands up without breaking a sweat. “There’s one more to go…”

“Oh- let me.” Using whatever strength hasn’t been wrung out of you from the marathon of your highs - barely worrying about your refractory period - you’re surging upwards and reaching behind him. Those handcuffs you’d put him in were professional-grade and used on the job sometimes, nothing like the kinky toys that one might normally prefer.

Though this wasn’t initially supposed to be play at all.

And perhaps it’s the aphrodisiac that’s clouding your judgement- you know you can’t keep blaming it any longer when…But you’re soon looking around the room for the key that you’d dropped.

You think you had a spare in the bedside cabinet but you couldn’t be too sure- but then again, the original must have fallen somewhere on the carpet during the height of your nervous excitement—

“Looking for the key, mm?” Nanami’s deep croon jolts you out of your single-minded mission. And you somewhat jolt as you look up at his impressive height; his handsome face. 

Your cunt had pooled slick right down to his clothes- the collar of it noticeably darker than the rest of the fabric, with his buttons shining as though polished a thousand times over. And his trousers were just as ruined.

Blond hair completely unruly now. Pupils blown-out through his glasses.

His lips were all reddened n’ puffy with the prolonged contact with the sweetest dessert he’s ever tasted: you. And he’s wearing your slathered layers of slick like a medal of honor, glistening proudly across his mouth and jawline—evidence of his desperation. He husks, “No need to worry yourself, my sweet wife.” Just then, he’s straining his forearms to pull at the handcuffs with brute force - one vein on his forehead popping, skin flushing an even deeper red.

You don’t think he’s going to do it - no one’s ever escaped you when you used those.

But suddenly there’s a screech of metal and a clink! 

Before Nanami Kento’s rubbing at the slight bite of metal upon either of his wrists. His free wrists. His unrestrained wrists.

His unrestrained hunger as he then looms his chiselled body above yours- as you push yourself further and further up to the headboard, Nanami follows. He follows. He follows. He follows until your back hits the wooden panel connected to the wall, and those half-lidded eyes bore down upon you deliciously.

“Can we consummate our marriage now, my love?”

Your words could not be more sheerly needy- “Yes.”

And soon enough you’re helping Nanami out of his button-up, his vest, his trousers. Only his boxers stand in the way now and you’re just impatiently tugging them down—finding your jaw dropping at the sight of him.

Because Nanami was big as far as you’d felt.

But this was…what was that saying about it always being the quiet ones? Nanami’s length laid thick and throbbing between his milky legs; the tip of his shaft flushed an angry red, he’s leaking hot precum in lines down your inner thighs.

Dribbling out from the heavy volumes of his ballsack, and ending up coating his cherry tip in a cute white. 

In the saturated air, his cock twitches upwards a few times. Makin’ stray beads gliiiiide along the vein-covered length of his shaft- down and doooooown to soak into his burnt golden curls at the very base. The entire image was just so sexy that you can’t help but let out a moan—

And Nanami chuckles before he turns his tender lovin’ eyes towards you. “Don’t worry. You’re next, darling.”

Your clothes are shed at an even faster rate.

Soon enough, it’s just him sandwichin’ his bulbous tip between your folds. Too big to immediately slide into your cunt, too covered in so many wads of your slick - slippery with your own sap - that he occasionally eases inside and makes you yelp at the stretch. “It just feels so- fuck, I just know s’gonna feel so good.” Your hands claw down Nanami’s broad back, “I need you, Kento. Badly.”

“How badly?” He crouches over you, lips centimeters from yours. “I need to make sure you’re not jus’ talking out of your pussy, my wife.”

“I’m not—” You promise. “I need you- fuck, I need you.”

“Need me to what, however?” Nanami cocks his head and almost meanly asks- he never knew he could make you sputter so much. It was just so fun watching your pretty mouth fall slightly apart as you registered his teasing—it almost made him want to spit between your lips.

He does.

And Nanami continues shoving his expanding erection just between your thighs, “Do you need me to take this pretty pussy like it’s our wedding night? Do you need me to m-make love to this pretty pussy like we’ve been married for years? What is it…?”

You’re mouthing something that his popped eardrums don’t hear.

Leaning in, “What’s that, darling?”

And so you’re repeating - just a little louder than before. “I n-need you to fuck me like you’re trying to prove you’re my husband.”

Just like before.

And that seems to flip a switch in the stern, stoic Nanami Kento.

Just a little.

Because the next time you’re blinking your teary eyes open- it’s to see the harrowed furrow between his brows as Nanami reels his hips back n’ positions his largely flared tip between your legs. Right where he needs to be.

And then he push-pushes inside—

“Fuck-” He spits- strong hand darting out to grip the headboard. You hear it splinter—“Fuck.”

“Please…” Looking up, you’re letting out a soft gasp at the way the muscles on his arm bulge and make themselves clear next to you. The sheer strength. The sheer pressure. The sheer streeeetch between your legs that you’re being fed inch by solid inch.

It’s almost too much - so much more than you ever thought possible to take in one go. Your throat feels clogged with saliva and Nanami’s sheer size as his cockhead thoroughly pierces your channel.

Smearin’ your gluey walls to either side of him, he enters you slowly yet mercilessly. More and more. 

Your head falls back against the plush pillow directly beneath you-

“Now now- stay with me, darling.” Nanami’s strict sentence was less of a command and more of a sweet willing for you to open your eyes once more—to let him see those pretty, heart-shaped peripherals as he fucked you long and sweet. 

He was burrowed just about halfway in at this point and starting to thrust.

It didn’t matter if he wasn’t completely drenched in your sweetest caverns yet, as long as your thighs were quivering with the utmost pleasure. 

And Nanami collapses his rock-hard, chiselled front on top of your body - almost crushing you under the weight of him. Though you admit that the pressure was one so pleasurable that it sends zaps of electricity shooting to your toes—oh, did you mention that he’d kept your heels on, still?

And right now he was hooking his right set of fingers underneath your thigh, pressing your capped knees all the way up to your tits. 

You’re mooooaning at the burning stretch of your hamstrings.

And he’s letting you ease into it for a few more moments before throwing both legs over each side of his shoulders. Wet with perspiration, you’re letting your heeled feet slide down his hard muscles before finally managing to loop them around your neck.

“This is a mating press- yeah.” He whispers, “D’you like this, my wife?”

Nodding fervently. 

Leaning down to lick off the salty-sweet tears that were streaming down your cheeks, “Good girl.” The nickname slips between Nanami’s pussydrunken mouth before he can stop himself. And when he feels the huggin’ entrance of your cunt grow even wetter at the sound of it…oh.

The tips of his digits damn-near tremble with excitement as the blond-haired man plucks a pillow from one of the many you were laying against. Fluffing it up. Promptly placing it underneath the base of your spine, just where that curve was supposed to start, and raising your hips just a little.

That change of angle made the thump-thump-thumping tip of his cock just slightly press against the roof of your cunt, and you whine. “Sh-shit…”

“D’you know what that’s for, my love?”

“Huh?” You respond hazily, and he gestures towards the pillow. Just so gone- on his cock, on the aphrodisiac, on the primal instincts on the verge of screaming at him to shove even deeper. “Um…”

Nanami leans in and presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, “That’s alright. I’ll teach you later, my love. For now…”

For now, what was that you’d begged for earlier?

Ah…

For now, he was going to fuck you like a loving husband fucks his beloved, beloved wife.

And he was going to prove it to this pussy that he was your husband—is. There were no two ways of going about it- Nanami’s leaning his toned torso backwards and suddenly rammin’ into you with all his strength.

He doesn’t stop until he’s sure he can hear the damn thwack! of his mazin’ tip reaching for your deepest depths. The sensation of your cervix was just so smoooooth and spongy, and it takes you longer than it should’ve to realize that the notorious man had just bottomed out on your tight, tight pussy. 

You’re keening at the way your folds can do nothing but quiver n’ take and take. Gulping down those greedy inches that he was funneling over and over again into you—the scruff of his tawny happy trail scrapes your sensitive pussylips and you buck-

“And don’t think that you can run away.” He was amused.

For every millimeter that you were arching off of the mattress due to oversensitivity, Nanami was making up for it with yet another two rugged slams of his hips. He just loved that surprised expression upon your face when you found yourself being dragged right back, being manhandled, with a mere tug of his trained physique.

One hand on the right side of your waist.

One hand bracing his gluttonous base.

He furrows his brows and tightens his jaw as he haaaaauls you right back down- and soon enough, you’re finding that perhaps - perhaps - you’re shifting yourself away just to have him do it all over again.

And he indulges you, of course. Spearing between your glossed-up pussylips from tip to bottom end.

Fat inches that were making themselves at home.

Eventually, Nanami’s hungry gaze pins you down- first. Before the rest of his Herculean sculptured body chooses to rest further on top of you n’ glue your skin, your hips, to his own—preventing you from moving just a centimeter further than he wanted you to. Preventing you from shifting his determined cock around. He’s practically melding your bodies into one—he almost wishes he could.

Before Nanami had finally scoured ‘round your insides and located your g-spot. And he couldn’t have you moving around when his entire mission was to make you numb with pleasure, could he?

The heat between you two crackles in the air, and Nanami fucks you slow and shallow with his flared red tip. Rovering over that one spot-

“O-oh my god, oh my god, Kento—” Words slurring into one. Nearly indiscernible. 

And through your tears, you’re making out Nanami’s lips pursing into something gentle. “Shhhhh…” The breeze of his scorching pants waft over you, dialing your own body temperature up into something insatiable. Aphrodisiac or…no, just the two of you. “You’ve got this, my love- fuck, you’ve got this.”

“I…” Eyes scrunching shut. “N-never felt anything like this before, honey.”

“You can take it.”

“I am- I am-”

The way his thrusts were probin’ into you was just indescribable- though Nanami Kento might have been a gentleman to everyone that ever encountered him - and yes, you suppose that even included the targets for his missions - you were briefed and trained to see him as the complete opposite. 

Unlike most, you knew Nanami Kento as the agent…the danger…the target for your own mission.

But his cock was drilling into you over and over in sharp, rapid thrusts and you’re thinking that perhaps you hadn’t been so correct about him after all…

Calculated thrusts.

Nanami was making sure that you were wringing out the maximum amount of pleasure from each one of them. Not wasting time between smooching the door to your womb—thud-thud-thud. And between reeling his hips all the way back until your cunt was wet and gaping around where the circumference of his tip was the fattest. The neediest. Red-hot.

And then he’d be sliiiiiiding one of his most prominent veins down the middle along the most tender of your nerves. Kissing it.

Making white-hot bliss burst through your body as he’s managing to hit eeeevery single fucking orifice that made you swoon. Those large arms of his cage you safely, and Nanami already knows by now that you’re drunk on his hips. “Feels good, yeah?” He asks you-

And you almost have the heart to respond with something feisty—well, obviously. But the sincerity in his eyes makes you prattle out, “Feels s-soooo good. Didn’t even know that it could feel this good…”

He smiles proudly, “Yeah? Oh yeah—” Patting your sensitive clit with his abdomen, “And how’s the- haaaaaah, fuuuck, keep squeezing me like that- How’s the speed, my love?”

“P-perfect…” Cockdrunken. Bed creaking.

But Nanami merely nods and licks at the walloping amounts of saliva pouring from one end of your mouth and onto the silken covers of the pillows. “Mhmmmmm…and what else? How’s the angle?”

Your eyes damn-near bulge out of your skull. “The- angle—oh.” Just then, he’s adjusting his hips just the slightest few degrees so that his bludgeoning cock would hit a fresh new target tilted slightly upwards to the roof of your cut. And you’re practically yowling out, “That one- ngh, that’s the one.” Nails possessively claiming his back with countless scratches and indentations of your nails, “P-pleeeeease keep that one, Kento.”

“Like it that much, huh?” He hums to himself, “But of course, m’not gonna change it when s’my wife’s favorite.”

In a small thank-you, you’re craning your head up and attempting to kiss him. 

He meets your lips halfway, but don’t think that that’s the only thing his vicious hips could do.

“Now now, don’t tap out…” Nanami grunts n’ shudders to himself—he has to gnaw down on the plushness of his bottom lip to compose himself at least somewhat. “And how about the feeling of my balls- hah- feel how biiiiiig and heavy they are, just for you?”

Struck and feeling his cadence accelerating, you can only nod and nod.

“Feel how rock-hard I am for you?”

Nodding.

“Feel the way I- fuck, the way m’only getting harder?”

Nodding.

“Feel the way your g-spot just throbs whenever I’m near?” His crowned and hungry tip pauses just to prove his point, and you’re dragging your nails down his biceps with a disappointed whine. A call to continue if there was any.

To which he does.

Harder than before- pap-pap-papping—! the front of his hips against yours.

“And feel the way m’pumping out so much- fuck- precum?” Just then - as if on fucking cue - you’re feeling a wet draaaaag of his pre being pushed deeper inside you. Pooling on layers on top of your cervix n’ swirling around every time you’re being moved, “Shit, m’gonna make a mess again. See what you do to me?”

“I do-”

Nanami scoffs, “You know I’d do anything to make you feel good, my love.” Boring those golden eyes into yours- yes, they looked damn golden in this lighting and in the hazy state of your mind. “Anything-”

One of his thick hands scrape down your front- they were the hands of someone that’s trained and worked and fought to get to where he is today. And you’re shivering at the slight callouses that massage you—

Your husband continues, “Never think that you’re- hah, any less loveable- desirable, because of anyone or anything before.” And despite the fact that you two were connected on levels, physical ones, that were the farthest they could go…it still feels the most intimate once he rests his clammy forehead onto yours and whispers. “Because I’m here- fuck.”

Toes curling atop his shoulders - doesn’t matter how much you’re thrashing them out of sheer pleasure at the stretch, he’s taking every bruise head-on. “Yes, yes, yes—mmm, yes…fuck, it shouldn’t feel this good- ngh, legally it shouldn’t feel this good.”

“When have we ever cared about the legal labels?”

Those pearly whites of his gnaw down on your lips n’ drag you into a kiss. 

He utters, “Because your Kento’s here.”

Whimpering up at him when all the constant kissin’ at your g-spot almost gets too much to bear. So overstimulated. “A-and why do you say that, Kento?”

He could coo at the cute way you’re asking that question.

With your legs shakily squeezing around his neck, with your lips trembling and threatening to escape a sob. The way your cunt swallowed him up and dragged him to the very depths of your cunt was almost dizzying for him to feel—and he knows his balls were thwacking so hot and headily against the forefront of your cunt. He knows he’s close.

He knows the patterns of his zig-zagging veins were outlining themselves upon either side of your walls- he could feel it.

He knows that these were the pearly gates of heaven themselves. Opened right with your legs.

And Nanami has to force himself to not fucking throw his head back with a thunderous groan—more to hear your sweet, sweet noises than anything. And instead, he nuzzles his sweaty face into the crook of your neck and lets out looooow, trundling whispers. “You’re s-seriously asking me that, my love? Don’t mock me-”

“I’m not-”

“Because the answer should be obvious.” And this is the first and only time that the Nanami Kento would interrupt you on any matter. “S’because I’m fucking made for you, aren’t I?”

And with that being said, it seems his cadence is only growing faster. Harder. Hittin’ your lower half at what, to you, almost feels like the speed of light - his blushin’ tip only grows bigger and concrete-hard as he keeps jutting into the crevices of your cervix.

Running the lines of his veiny shaft down your channel all the while—

Soon enough: your pulsing clit finds home between Nanami’s thumb and index finger. 

On his left hand.

Which meant the stark frigidness of his wedding ring was making your body thrust itself into the throes of pleasure - not quite cumming, though considering just how overstimulated you were, you wouldn’t be surprised if you ended up shattering all over him without any warning. Instead, you’re finding your mouth babbling away whatever stupid concoction of words was entering your mind- “A-and how can you say that-”

“That’s because I’m your husband.” He kisses your forehead softly once more, “Forget all those other boys and whoever that came- hah, before me, darling. They’ve never yearned—ached, prayed for this pussy like I have…”

A disbelieving laugh bubbles up at your throat, “Y-yearned—? K-Kento, you can’t be serious.”

His dazed eyes widen, mouth stupidly agape. “Dead fucking serious.”

What’s the word to describe him…enamored? In…love? Pussy-whipped? But in all the best ways.

And he himself didn’t sound like he could compute the words that were falling from his mouth. Escaping, more like. He tut-tuts, “My wife…I fear I don’t even- haaaah, know who I am without this pussy. She’s all I’ve been thinking about these past few days. She’s all I’ve been…hungry for. She’s all I’ve been- fuck, needing to make myself run to the b-bathroom and jerk myself off until I see stars—”

“S-stars-” Repeating breathlessly to yourself. Such words from him of all people…especially when it pertained to you…you just couldn’t believe it.

“Making you feel good as your husband is my only goal, my love.” And he means it so earnestly- from anyone else you would have scoffed and rolled your eyes. But Nanami’s staring into your widely-blown peripherals as though he was exposing every shred and fissure in his soul.

He rolls his thumb over the nub of your clit.

Your voicebox raggedly wrenches out, “All this time you’ve…”

And fuck- he’s so far gone that he can’t hold back the fucking lewd grin as he admits—

“All this time-” Planting one chaste peck on your forehead while he fucks you, “-your husband has been-” Then another one on your right cheek, “-a damn pervert waiting for you to catch him.” In more ways than one. And then a final one on your left cheek.

He pulls away and admires you.

“And how does that make you feel, my wife?”

“It m-makes me feel…” Spit drivels from the leaky orifice of your mouth along with a few whining pleas here and there. And before Nanami’s lust-hazed brain can begin to compute it, you’re reaching outwards and grabbing ahold of yet another fistful of his hair.

Dragging him towards you with a persistent few tugs.

Surprise and arousal flash across his face and steep into his already-agonized expression once you pull him close enough.

You enunciate up at him, “It makes me feel like m’gonna cum, soon…” Eyes flapping shut, chest arching up into his firmly-toned one. You hiccup, “-my husband.”

His hips stutter sloppily.

But you weren’t done just yet—“A-and I know you’re close, too.” Gaze flickering down to the briefest flash of his bulbous, red tip as he pulls out- only to be shoved between your pussylips once more. Again and again. “I want you to not hold back, Kento. No matter how hard it is- ngh, don’t hold back on me.”

He repeats, breathlessly. “Don’t hold back…don’t…” Nodding and nodding. 

And then you’re watching the line of his vision sharply stray to something above your head-

To the discarded fabric of his favorite tie.

And do you know how many times spies have been trained to get out of and create restraints? You don’t think it takes Nanami even two heartbeats to swipe the tie somewhere from the headboard and reach behind you to loop around your wrists.

Pinning them together.

Tying them blindly.

Tugging you to him with a flex of his muscles.

You’re being manhandled like so through a few slammin’ stripes down on the innermost layer of your pussy- he seemed to be reaching even deeper with this slight change in position.

“Please-” You can’t catch your breath fast enough—and the sheer sensation of Nanami throwin’ you around like a ragdoll whilst he fucked you like an absolute gentleman was enough to make you stutter out in just a few more moments- “P-please…Kento, m’gonna cum-”

Smack! The skin of his pelvis practically glues against yours. “Cum on your husband’s cock, my dear.”

And with the most sinful, squelching sound of your thighs tightening around his waist- you’re cumming. The fifth time tonight; it sears through every vessel in your body stronger and faster than you remember any previous orgasm being.

A buzzing electricity- turned zapping.

Curdling at the pit of your stomach and making you arch up into Nanami as many times as your limbs could weakly carry you…

Your heels claw ravaged marks down his shoulders, “C-cumming-” Babbling out as stars of pleasure formulate and burst behind your eyes, “Kento—fuck. Fuck, Kento, it feels so good—” 

“Fuck.” He grunts himself.

Entire body shaking as the wave of euphoria roars over you.

Flashing and overstimulated.

Then you’re peering up at him with tear-filled eyes, “Kento, I want you to cum, too-”

And that’s when it hits him.

Almost as if his body had been waiting for permission from you this entire time, as though he’d react to you above anything or anyone else. Orders. Though they were ones that his brain would gladly follow- Nanami throws his head back just a little and stammers his hips.

The round curve of his tip plasterin’ against your sweet, spongy cervix and holding there for a few seconds—before he, too, ends up giving into his pleasure.

Making you cum five times and this was the first time he’s cumming inside.

Brows knitting, his strong jaw drops ever-so-slightly ajar as he feels a sensation like never before. No matter how much of his creamy white cum he’s emptying out- your cushy walls were sucking him up for more, more, more…“Sh-shit—you don’t know what you do to me.” And with that said, he’s raising his knee up and setting it where the pillow underneath your hips was, “I think you a-already know what this pillow is for, hm?”

Nodding, “I do I do-” You could’ve guessed either way.

Especially by the way the spurs of his cum were barreling inside- being fucked deep inside. Deep inside. And because of the positioning of your hips, no matter how much you jostle or buck, his hot wads remain webbin’ up every orifice inside.

Glued to your cervix like adhesive.

The pillow only helped if you wanted to…expand the family.

Another toe-curling burst of pleasure runs through him at the mere thought of it, and Nanami turns his head to kiss the pretty side of your calf. Legs still limply wrapped around his head.

He hums, “And does this go against your mission, my assassin?”

You’re shaking your head.

Quite frankly, the only other thing you can think to do is to tug him closer with your lower half. 

Nanami’s shaft was thick and throbbing—burnished red at the top and polished with so many layers of cum. Hot puddles of it. He was making sure not to waste a single - not even a single - drop of it as he emptied out inside, though the sheer force of his thrusts did end up frothing some of his powdery-white cum between your trembling legs. So full that you were leaking from your hole.

He spits down on your stuffed pussy, fingers twiddling on your clit. “Then how about trying to kill me by milking me dry next?”

His heavy balls clench.

Your jaw drops.

And it really wasn’t just the aphrodisiac. 

You are the one that won’t be making it out of this alive.

.

.

.

“—no…no, it’s not for a lack of resources. No- no one’s threatening me.” Speaking sharply into the receiver of the payphone, the crackle of your elders echoes in your ears. You’re sure that you’re sending the Garden headquarters into an uproar by this point—you’re sure that everyone’s gotten the word.

The Phantom is quitting her line of work.

And though you suppose it wasn’t necessarily against policy to finally quit being an assassin, you just don’t think anyone would have bet that you’d be the next.

And in the booth next to you was Nanami Kento, on the phone with his own higher-ups.

You’re eyeing the handsome man through the translucent screen of plastic in-between, and he’s catching your eyes and shooting you a reassuring smile. He seemed to be having a much easier time with whoever was on his end, meanwhile you…Scoffing at the next accusation they throw out, “No, I’m not drugged or coerced or going to trade secrets with anyone-”

Another higher-up bellows something.

“Look, I’m going to post you my resignation letter and that is that. I just wanted to tell you all personally- think of it as my last duty to you.”  And with a sigh you’re beginning to push away from the receiver, “Don’t contact me again, kindly. Or you can—send assassins after me for all you care, we both know how that’s going to go down.”

The phone gets sternly put back in its place.

And you know that they won’t try to mess with you.

You know that.

They didn’t call you The Phantom for nothing - your presence still haunted the Garden when you weren’t there. As you’re making your way out of the booth, you’re realizing that your husband had wrapped up his call and was waiting for you outside.

Hands in his coat pockets. Fingers inching automatically towards yours once you’re outside.

He’d been nagging at you on getting a warmer covering layer recently, and Nanami doesn’t hesitate to shrug off his own jacket and insist upon you wearing it. Though he wasn’t a very loud man, his affection was practically palpable.

And you’re almost feeling shy walking down the street in what was obviously his coat, whilst he stuffed your joined hands into the pocket of your coat - one that he was now wearing. 

Eventually, you ask. “I assume your call went well, Kento?”

He sighs something half-fond, “Yeah…” And though it was true that both of you had been wanting out from these careers for some time now, it was still a wistful affair. 

It was just last week that Nanami had filed in his report on the Zenin family; revealing some corrupt ties and nonsensical numbers in their business that’d been blown across every news station, magazine, and forum you could think of in the past few days. Zenin Naobito had been arrested, of course, transferring the title of heir to none other than Fushiguro Megumi, your son’s best friend. And though the two of you weren’t working for your organizations anymore, you’d both promised to keep a firm eye on the boy to make sure that he wasn’t being pressured or made to live older than his age anytime soon.

You’re squeezing Nanami’s hand softly, and he looks at you with a smile. Continuing where he’d left off, “They were hesitant, but I think they understood. I think they saw - even before I did - that this was a long time coming.”

“They let you go that easily?”

“Yeah.” He closes his eyes and exhales deeply, “I’m free.”

And you’re doing the same.

You’re both free.

Once you’re opening your eyes, it’s to look at the other side of Shibuya Crossing - where Itadori and his two familiar best friends were standing and waving at the two of you. Furiously. They laughed and bickered about who was waving the hardest. “So romantic—!” You think you hear Kugisaki squeal even from here.

You chuckle as you wait for the light to turn green.

Looking up at the blue, blue sky. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

A/N. No idea how this got so long erm- also Happy Avurudu to anyone that celebrates!!

Plagiarism not authorized.