It had been only a few moons since her father’s voice had softened, not fully warm, not entirely gentle, but lighter than before.
A small, fragile glimmer had appeared the day Baelor had chosen to listen instead of dismissing her. The way he spoke her name, as if it truly mattered, had lingered in her mind.
He had even smiled at her during her visits to his training yard. He came sometimes. Rarely, but enough for her to notice. She knew he had duties beyond her, responsibilities that would one day make him king. She had not minded. She had not clung.
Saera tucked that moment carefully into her chest, not forgiveness, not quite, but a flicker of hope she could not entirely dismiss.
Tonight the Great Hall was lit in gold.
Her cousin Aelora’s and Aelor’s name day feast was in full swing. Prince Rhaegel’s twins were the stars of the show. The hall sparkled with banners and lanternlight while musicians played and nobles toasted loudly.
Saera attended with her handmaiden.
She wore simple yet elegant pale blue silk. Her hair, silver threaded with brown, was carefully brushed down her back.
Seated a couple seat beside her father after both of her brothers, she felt the warmth of Valarr and Matarys close enough to touch but far enough to remain apart.
Baelor leaned towards her brothers, chuckling softly at Matarys’s words. Valarr confidently spoke about his training and Baelor briefly placed a hand on his shoulder in praise.
Saera watched as no one turned to her or asked her thoughts. She folded her hands neatly in her lap feeling simply unnecessary.
Across the hall, little Aelora sat on her father Rhaegel’s knee, flushed with joy as servants presented her with carved toys and silk ribbons. Meanwhile, Aelor was boasting about a wooden sword he’d received.
The applause and smiles filled the room. Saera blinked slowly, a quiet and dangerous question forming in her mind.
Why have I never had this?
Her name day had passed unnoticed each year, just another day without a feast, candles, music or her father’s smile.
Her throat tightened as she gazed at the flickering candles on the long tables. She mused.
Was I not meant to be celebrated?
The feast was waning. The music softened and laughter drifted towards a drunken warmth. The nobles grew careless.
Saera sat upright with her hands neatly folded in her lap. Her father leaned towards Valarr once more as Matarys recounted a triumph from the training yard. Baelor smiled and spoke to them, perhaps forgetting she was there. Perhaps all these years he’d grown accustomed to her absence making him forget there were three instead of two.
Across the hall, she felt another gaze, not curious or dismissive but measured. She turned her head slightly.
At the far end of the table, half-shadowed by torchlight, sat Brynden Rivers, Bloodraven. Pale as bone, one red eye visible beneath white hair while the other remained hidden. He watched her, not the twins or the king.
He did not smile. He did not move. But he saw. She knew he saw. The way her shoulders had gone rigid when Baelor laughed. The way she had looked at Aelora receiving gifts. The way her fingers tightened when the hall applauded.
Brynden slowly lifted his goblet, not for a toast or public acknowledgement but as a small private gesture. “I see you,” he said. Saera looked away first.
Because being seen hurt more than being ignored. Saera felt it like a bruise. She quietly rose and slipped from the table unnoticed.
Except him.
Aerion Targaryen.
He trailed her into the cooler corridor beyond the hall, intending to mock her. He was getting bored with the feast and Saera was the perfect target for his amusement.
“You walk away like a ghost,” he said casually.
She did not turn. Knowing he’d say nothing good after all the times they’d spoken.
“And you follow like one.”
That made him grin. They entered the outer gallery where torchlight flickered against the stone walls. He studied her openly now.
“You’re angry,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Her face twisted sharply, anger clearly visible.
“I am not angry.”
“You’re worse,” he corrected. “You’re quiet.”
That really struck a chord. She hated he’d seen it, especially Aerion.
“Go back to your feast, cousin.”
He tilted his head.
“They celebrate Aelora and Aelor every year,” he said. “Gifts. Banners. Toasts.”
He edged closer, egging her on as she remained unresponsive. He craved a reaction from her.
“They’ve never done that for you.”
A silence fell, not denial. Aerion’s eyes sharpened.
“You know why?”
Her jaw clenched as she braced herself for her cruel cousin’s insults.
“Because you were born wrong.”
Her head snapped up. His tone was clinical not mocking.
“Too early. Too small. Your mother died. You are not a celebration. You are a reminder of her death.”
Her breath caught as the cruel words were spoken but they were not wrong.
“And what are you?” she asked softly.
His smile was sharp and bright.
“I am inconvenient.”
That surprised her. She knew Prince Maekar loved his sons and perhaps it was because Aerion had more siblings than she did. This meant he had to compete with more than just two.
“My father loves me,” he continued calmly. “But not like he loves the others. I burn too brightly. They don’t know what to do with me.”
She stared at him.
“You’re mean,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You enjoy it.”
“Yes.”
He stepped closer still.
“But I do not lie.”
The torchlight flickered between them.
“You want a name day?” he asked.
She lifted her chin.
“I don’t want anything.”
“Liar.”
She held his gaze, and he studied her intently. Her silver hair was streaked with brown and her mismatched eyes refused to look away.
Then his voice lowered.
“If they will not celebrate you,” he said quietly, “then make them afraid not to.”
It was the first time anyone had suggested she take something rather than suffer its absence.
“You sound mad,” she said.
“I am.” He smiled.
There was a pause followed by a softer tone.
“They don’t see you properly.”
The words were almost gentle. It startled her more than the cruelty had.
“You think they see you?” she asked.
His smile returned, dangerous.
“They will.”
For a brief moment, a connection passed between them, recognition. Two children raised in a house full of dragons, both just outside the fire.
He straightened.
“You should have demanded one,” he said. “If you are not given what you deserve, you take it.”
Saera’s eyes flashed.
“I do not beg for scraps.”
His smile widened.
“Good.” Aerion scoffed.
For a moment they stood there, two silver children observing the world that didn’t quite welcome them.
Later that night, as she prepared for bed, she asked her handmaiden softly,
“Do all children have name days celebrated?”
“Yes, my princess.”
Saera nodded slowly. Something inside her ribs hurt.
“Even unwanted ones?”
The handmaiden froze.
“My princess..”
Saera turned toward the window.
“It is alright,” she said calmly.
Her voice was surprisingly steady, too steady for a child.
“I was only curious.”
As the castle fell silent, she lay awake staring at the ceiling. For the first time, she understood: she had survived but had never been celebrated.
That realisation hurt more than abandonment ever had.
However strange, she had hoped. Her name day was not for another moons but a tiny glimmer of hope flickered within her. Perhaps she was appreciated. She did not even dare to wish for a feast like Aelora and Aelor but simply wished to be celebrated in a way that acknowledged her existence.
Hopefulness is a dangerous thing. One she will learn to know.
The Red Keep, 192 AC — Saera is six
On her name day, the Red Keep remained dark that night.
There were no banners hung on the walls, no musicians summoned and no candles arranged in celebration.
The corridors were eerily quiet, almost too quiet.
Saera had known of course; there would be nothing, no feast, no gifts, no laughter.
Still.
She’d dressed meticulously in silver and crimson silk and her braided hair was adorned with a small ribbon her handmaiden had tied behind her ear.
She’d kept it to herself. If no one else remembered she would. That would suffice.
The castle was rich with the scent of wine and incense. She found her father in his solar, the door ajar. Inside, candles flickered low, casting a warm glow. Baelor sat alone at the table, a goblet in one hand and another empty beside him.
Before him on the table lay a small portrait of Lady Jena. He was not celebrating; he was mourning.
Again.
Standing at the threshold, Saera hesitated before knocking softly. Baelor looked up, eyes red-rimmed and unfocused.
“Saera,” he murmured. “It’s late.”
“Yes, Father.”
Stepping inside, she made him blink as if recalling her presence.
“You should be in bed.”
“It is my name day.” It was the first time she had brought it up.
The words hung heavy between them. Baelor stiffened and the silence grew instantly. His gaze drifted almost involuntarily to the portrait on the table and Saera followed suit. A slow understanding settled in.
“So that is why,” she said quietly.
Baelor swallowed.
“It is a difficult day.”
“For you.”
The wine had softened his restraint.
“It is the day your mother died.”
“And the day I lived.”
Her voice remained steady as he briefly closed his eyes.
“You do not understand.”
“Then help me.”
He truly looked at her then, her silver hair, those strange mismatched eyes, a reminder, a miracle, a wound.
“You survived,” he said hoarsely. “She did not.”
Saera’s throat tightened.
“I did not ask her to die.”
“I know that.”
“Then why do I feel as though I did?”
The question was too difficult for a child to answer so Baelor stood abruptly scraping the chair on the stone floor.
“You were not meant-” he began, then stopped.
Her heart skipped.
“Not meant what?” she asked.
He ran a hand over his face.
“You were not meant to come so soon. The maesters said-“
“That I would die.”
“Yes.”
“But I did not.”
His grief, loosened by wine, shattered his restraint.
“And every time I look at you, I remember what I lost!”
The words struck her like a slap, plunging the room into a profound silence. Baelor froze, realising he had not meant to say that. But it was out now.
Saera’s face remained impassive; it didn’t crumple or twist but simply went blank.
“Oh,” she said softly.
Not crying. Not shouting. Just understanding.
“So that is why.”
Baelor stepped toward her.
“Saera, I did not-”
“You did.”
Her voice was calm. Terribly calm.
“You never celebrate me because you are burying her.”
His hands trembled.
“That is not fair-”
“Neither is being born.”
The candlelight flickered between them, making her appear both small and distant.
“Do you wish,” she asked quietly, “that I had died instead?”
The question broke something in him.
“No!”
“Then why,” she whispered, “have you never once looked glad that I lived?”
Tears burned his eyes as he reached for her. She stepped back just a single step but it felt like a canyon.
“I am not her,” she said. “And I am not her death.”
Baelor’s voice cracked.
“You are my daughter.”
“Then treat me like I was wanted.”
Silence hung heavy in the air. He was at a loss for words, unsure how to respond. She straightened up.
“I will not interrupt your mourning again.”
Her voice was polite, formal and cold.
And she left.
Her chambers were dark when she returned.
Walking the corridors with her spine straight and chin high, she encountered no one who stopped her or wished her well. No Valarr or Matarys were in sight; she’d been told they were occupied with lessons that day.
That was good. She did not want witnesses and closed the door softly behind her.
A single candle flickered near her bedside and that’s when she saw it.
A small wooden box placed carefully atop her pillow.
Not ornate nor princely, just deliberate. She froze and slowly crossed the room. There was no sigil or seal carved into it.
But inside.
A small silver dragon charm, crudely shaped, clearly not crafted by a master smith. One wing slightly uneven.
And beneath it, a folded scrap of parchment.
The writing was crooked impatient and slanted.
You look as though you swallow fire when you are angry.
It suits you.
— A.
She stared at the note for a long time.
Aerion. It had to be him.
Cruel-tongued. Smirking. Always watching her as if she were something to test.
He had mocked her, calling her a mistake and making her feel small. He’d even thrown away her favourite books before.
Despite the absence of a feast, candles and her father, he had remembered.
Her fingers trembled as they gripped the ugly, imperfect charm.
It’s probably stolen from a craftsman’s stall or handmade by a child. But it was chosen specifically for her.
A crack inside her chest sounded and she pressed her lips together tightly.
No. No, she would not…Her breath hitched. Just once. Then again.
She dropped to her knees beside the bed, the room feeling too large and exposed. If anyone heard or saw her she quickly pushed herself beneath the bedframe, almost desperately.
The narrow, dark space was dust-cloaked, clinging to the silk. She curled into herself clutching the little dragon to her chest. Then she broke. Not loudly or dramatically.
She bit her sleeve to stifle a sound and her shoulders shook violently. Tears soaked the silk at her wrist.
It wasn’t just the gift; it was everything.
Her father’s voice.
Every time I look at you, I remember what I lost.
The silence at the feast, the way she’d dressed for no one, and now this, a small crooked dragon that had acknowledged her entire existence.
Her sobs were short and desperate, as if she was desperately trying to swallow them back.
She was terrified someone would hear her. She feared Aerion would appear and mock her or a handmaiden would enter. She also worried her father would come to apologise.
She craved no comfort; if offered she’d completely shatter.
In the darkness beneath the bed, she pressed her forehead against the cold stone.
“I didn’t ask to be born,” she whispered brokenly.
Her fingers tightened around the charm, allowing her for the first time that night to feel like a child. It wasn’t a symbol or a wound. It was simply a little girl yearning for someone to be happy she existed.
Minutes, perhaps even hours, passed before her sobs subsided into trembling breaths. She wiped her face roughly with her sleeve.
A faint imprint of the dragon charm lingered on her palm.
She crawled out slowly composed herself blew out the candle and climbed into bed as if nothing had happened. The next morning she’d be steady once more sharp-tongued controlled and untouchable.
Beneath her pillow, concealed from view, the tiny silver dragon remained.
Somewhere down the corridor Aerion Targaryen lay awake staring at the ceiling.
He told himself he’d left the gift simply to unsettle her, dismissing its significance as a mere charm he’d intend to discard.
She fled the castle that morning.
It’s not far; just to the godswood where fewer courtiers roamed.
Beneath the heart tree, she gazed at the pale carved face in its bark.
“Did you take her?” she asked it.
There was no answer. The leaves shifted overhead.
“You could have taken me instead.”
“That is a dangerous thing to say.”
A calm measured voice came from behind her. Startled, Saera turned.
For the first time since the last feast, she saw him properly. He was pale as bone his hair white as frost and one eye red like a bleeding sunset while the other bore a wine-coloured birthmark across his cheek.
Brynden Rivers did not flinch when children stared. In fact, adults and children tend to look away when he stares. She stood slowly observing every movement of the older man.
“You’re the king’s sorcerer.”
A faint curve touched his mouth.
“Some call me worse.”
She studied him openly.
“You don’t look frightened of me.”
“I am rarely frightened of children.”
“They whisper that I’m cursed.”
“They whisper that about me as well.”
That made her pause.
“You don’t look cursed.”
“Neither do you.”
A comfortable silence hung between them, each assessing the other.
“You were upset at the feast,” he said mildly.
Her chin lifted. “I wasn’t included .”
“And that angered you.”
“I don’t get angry.”
A brow lifted slightly and she hesitated.
“…Often.”
He stepped closer, not threateningly but simply present.
“You survived something you were not meant to,” he said quietly. “People do not know where to place such things.”
“I am not a thing.”
“No,” Brynden agreed. “You are not.”
The wind rustled the leaves above them and a raven landed on a low branch nearby. Saera did not notice but Brynden did.
Interesting.
“You think they abandoned you,” he said.
“They did.”
“Or perhaps they feared losing you.”
“That’s the same thing.”
His red eye sharpened slightly then. Not childish, just accurate.
“You watch,” he observed.
“Yes.”
“And what have you learned?”
She locked eyes with him.
“That no one gives you a place.”
The faintest smile returned.
“No,” Brynden said softly. “They do not.”
Another raven settled above them and another followed. Saera finally noticed.
“They follow you,” she said.
“Sometimes.”
“They follow me too.”
It wasn’t a boast; it was a question.
Brynden tilted his head, studying her face as she gazed at the raven. It was as if he was looking into a mirror.
He had been watching her for a long time. When she was born, and even when she was not yet born. He had seen her.
He recalled the moment he saw her, small, silver-haired and unflinching against the darkening sky.
Moments later, thunder cracked and most children would have cried. However, she did not. Instead, she looked up directly towards the tower and towards him.
It was impossible, the distance too vast. Yet for a fleeting heartbeat he felt seen, not as lord or bastard but simply seen.
The air grew still and the ravens fell silent.
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “They do.”
A long silence stretched on before a quieter one followed.
“Would you like to learn why?”
Her heart did not stutter with fear but rather from a strange possibility. She didn’t respond immediately instead asking:
“Would you leave too?”
Brynden maintained her gaze.
“I do not abandon what interests me.”
It was not comfort or warmth but honesty. For a child who had lived in the shadow of absence, it was enough.
The Red Keep settled back into its usual rhythm after a few days.
Courtiers whispered, knights trained and ravens soared. Saera, however, had returned to a composed demeanour.
She spoke when spoken to, curtsied properly and smiled, a thin, distant smile as though nothing had happened.
Baelor had not slept properly since her name day. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her face whenever he spoke her name.
Every time I look at you, I remember what I lost.
He had not intended it but meaning did not matter. Words, once spoken, did not crawl back into the mouth.
Three days later, he did something he’d never done before: he prepared gifts.
Valarr stood beside him clutching a small velvet-wrapped parcel. Matarys fidgeted uncomfortably.
“What do I say?” Baelor asked quietly to himself.
Valarr hesitated. “You could… apologize.”
Baelor swallowed and knocked on her chamber door.
Inside, Saera sat at her writing desk with the crooked silver dragon resting beside her inkpot. She did not hide it.
“Enter.”
Baelor stepped forward first, followed by her brothers. She stood immediately and curtsied perfectly.
“Your grace. Valarr. Matarys.”
Formal.
Not “Father.”
Not “brother.”
The distance in those titles resonated more powerfully than any accusation. Baelor forced a steady breath.
“We came,” he began carefully, “because your name day passed without… acknowledgment.”
She blinked slowly.
“Yes.”
Valarr stepped forward and offered the velvet bundle.
“This is from us,” he said, awkward but sincere.
She accepted it and unwrapped it.
Inside, a delicate silver bracelet adorned with tiny moonstones gleamed beautifully. It was an expensive and carefully chosen piece.
“It is lovely,” she said politely.
Matarys presented his gift, a small, slightly unevenly carved horse.
“I made it,” he muttered. “Well. Mostly.”
Her fingers traced the carving.
“Thank you.”
There’s no warmth, no excitement just courtesy.
Baelor presented his final gift, a slender book bound in soft leather.
“A history of Old Valyria,” he said. “I thought you might…”
He trailed off and she took it. Their fingers brushed briefly but she didn’t pull away nor linger.
“I am grateful,” she said.
The word sounded rehearsed and Valarr shifted uncomfortably.
“We should have done this sooner,” he admitted.
“Yes,” she agreed calmly.
Baelor’s chest tightened.
“Saera,” he said softly.
She waited, her gaze fixed on him. He struggled.
“I spoke cruelly,” he said at last. “I was grieving.”
Her expression did not change.
“You are always grieving on my name day.”
The truth of it left no room to hide.
“I did not mean to hurt you.”
“But you did.”
The air was thin and Valarr hesitated, unsure whether to intervene. Baelor drew nearer.
“I am trying,” he said quietly.
She tilted her head slightly.
“Trying to what?”
“To be your father.”
A flicker of something crossed her eyes then, not softness, but pain.
“You are my father,” she said. “You need not try.”
The formality of it cut deeper than rejection. This time he reached for her wrist gently. She permitted it but her hand remained limp in his.
“You are not a reminder of loss,” he said.
Her gaze held his steadily.
“I know,” she replied.
That frightened him more than if she’d simply said she believed him. She hadn’t offered forgiveness, understanding or a sense of being wanted. Instead, she’d simply said she knew as if she’d made a private decision.
Valarr cleared his throat.
“We hoped,” he said quietly, “you might dine with us tonight.”
A pause. She glanced at each of them in turn before nodding once.
“I will attend.”
Attend. Not join. Not sit with. Attend. Baelor released her hand slowly.
As they turned to leave he glanced back. She’d already returned to her desk with the crooked silver dragon beside her inkpot.
He noticed it.
“Where did you get that?” he asked.
She did not look up.
“A gift.”
“From whom?”
She met his eyes and for the first time in days a sharp feeling returned.
“Someone who remembered.”
Baelor’s silence was deafening. He quietly left and once the door closed Saera stared at the bracelet on her wrist.
It shimmered beautifully in the light, heavy and precious, yet late.
Instead, she pressed her fingers against the silver dragon charm.
This time, she did not weep.
It had been Aerion’s idea.
Of course it had.
“You sit in towers and shadows,” he had said earlier that evening. “Have you ever seen where dragons used to scream?”
“They are bones now,” Saera replied coolly.
“Bones still remember.”
That was how she found herself cloaked in dark wool, slipping through a servants’ corridor well past midnight.
Pausing at the base of the half-forgotten stairwell her pulse quickened not from fear but anticipation.
Aerion was already there leaning casually against the stone his wide grin illuminated by the pale moonlight.
“I am not,” she said, keeping her tone sharp.
“You are,” he insisted, stepping closer.
Crossing her arms, she instinctively glanced down and froze.
“Wait.” His eyes lingered on the delicate chain around her neck. The silver dragon charm gleamed faintly against her collarbone.
Her cheeks flushed as she pulled the neckline of her gown higher. “It was… convenient,” she said quickly.
“That isn’t an answer,” he said softly.
“It is,” she insisted.
He tilted his head, amused. “You said it was foolish.”
“It is,” she repeated, eyes darting away.
“Then why wear it?” he pressed.
Her jaw tightened. “I did not wish to lose it.”
He studied her quietly. “You cared about it.”
“I cared about silver,” she said sharply, stepping back.
“You hate jewelry,” he said knowingly.
“I do not.”
“You do,” he countered, smirking.
“It was there!” she snapped.
He laughed softly, but it was not cruel. “You could have thrown it away.”
“I am not cruel,” she said, glaring.
He paused and for a moment the teasing vanished. He simply watched her thoughtfully.
“You cried that night,” he murmured.
She stiffened. “No.”
“Yes,” he said, voice soft. “Your eyes were red in the morning.”
“I was tired,” she replied, averting her gaze.
“You kept it,” he observed.
“It means nothing,” she said quickly, but the words rang hollow even to her own ears.
Aerion smirked and walked ahead of her like he owned the dark.
“You are certain no one will notice?” she whispered.
“If they notice, we run.”
“That is not reassurance.”
“It is strategy.” He smirked.
The broken, massive Dragonpit loomed against the night sky, haunted by memory. At this hour the guards were minimal and Aerion knew which postern gate’s lock was stuck.
Of course he did.
Inside, the air was colder and dust and old ash clung to the stone. Moonlight filtered through the shattered dome, casting a silvery glow over everything.
Saera stepped forward slowly.
The massive, ancient skull of a dragon lay half-shadowed against the far wall. It resonated deep within her chest.
Not fear, something deeper. Aerion watched her intently.
“Well?” he asked.
She drew nearer to the skull, her hand resting against its cold bone. A shift in the air followed.
Subtle yet real, a low tremor rippled beneath the stone. Aerion’s breath caught.
“Did you-”
“I did nothing,” she said quietly.
The torches along the wall flickered once, twice and then flared higher. The wind inside the pit seemed to circle her.
Aerion’s expression shifted. It wasn’t mocking or smirking; it was hunger.
“Again,” he whispered.
Closing her eyes, she focussed. Something ancient and coiled stirred within her.
The torches flared brighter, a sudden WHOOSH of flame licking upwards beyond their intended height. Heat surged outwards.
Aerion laughed, not frightened but exhilarated.
“Yes,” he breathed. “There it is.”
Suddenly there was footsteps not far from them. Aerion pulled her with him towards the ledge. Distancing them from the sounds.
Aerion climbed first, hauling himself onto a narrow support beam that hadn’t been walked upon in decades.
“You’ll fall,” she called, half exasperated.
“Then I’ll fall gloriously,” he answered without hesitation.
“You’ll fall stupidly.”
“Come up here and say that,” he taunted.
Her stomach sank.
Unable to let him outshine her and left to be caught, she climbed. Stone crumbled beneath her boots and dust coated her gown as the drop deepened with each step.
As she reached him, the sharp wind tore through the shattered dome. The Red Keep shimmered in the distance, King’s Landing sprawling beneath.
Aerion patted the beam beside him. “Sit,” he said, almost as if inviting her into danger.
She hesitated, refusing to show fear, and lowered herself onto the beam. It shifted slightly under her weight and her stomach lurched.
“Aerion,” she warned.
He laughed. “See? Easy.”
He stepped forward, dust falling from his feet. She immediately rose.
“Get back.”
“Or?” he teased.
“Or I will tell your father.”
He grinned, cocky. “You wouldn’t.”
She despised his rightness. Another step and the beam groaned, her pulse spiking.
“Aerion, stop.”
Her voice carried an unexpected weight, fear, concern and a sharp twinge of caring.
For the first time, Aerion hesitated.
“You care,” he said quietly.
“I care about not watching you splatter,” she shot back eyes rolling back.
A soft quiet chuckle escaped him. Then the beam cracked just enough to dip sharply beneath his weight causing him to slip. For a terrifying moment he lost his balance completely.
Aerion jerked sideways instead of downwards, catching himself on the stone wall. Her chest burned and her pulse hammered. She had felt something indescribable.
Guards burst into the pit below them, their torches flaring.
“What in the Seven-?!” Guards shouted below, torches flaring.
Saera froze.
Aerion hauled himself back onto the beam and scrambled toward her ledge laughing breathlessly.
The Kingsguard arrived moments later their white cloaks flashing in the torchlight.
“Up there!” someone shouted.
Wonderful. Just wonderful. They were escorted down, not gently.
And then the fathers arrived. Prince Maekar and Prince Baelor stormed through the archway.
Baelor’s face first turned white and then red.
“Saera.” Not shouted.
“You idiot, what were you thinking climbing that!” Maekar barked at Aerion.
Aerion just shrugged like the little brat he was.
“And you brought your younger cousin with you?”
“I followed,” Saera said immediately.
“You followed him onto a collapsing structure above a stone floor?” Baelor’s voice was low and deadly.
“I am not made of glass.”
“Bone that breaks,” Baelor snapped.
“You could have died,” Maekar’s voice cut through, cold.
Aerion shrugged. “I didn’t. Dragons ought not to die from such fall”
Maekar struck him across the face. The crack echoed. He did not struck hard just enough force.
“You idiot! You are no dragon!” He hissed.
Saera flinched. Aerion straightened slowly, cheek reddened, eyes still burning with thrill.
Baelor’s fury was quieter, wounded, controlled. “Is this who you defy me for?”
“I was not defying you,” she said, meeting his gaze steadily.
“You were forbidden to wander.”
“I was not wandering.”
“In the Dragonpit. After dark. On a crumbling ledge,” he hissed.
She said nothing.
Maekar stepped closer. “You will train twice as hard for this.”
“Yes, Father,” Aerion said, faintly smiling.
“You risked your life,” Baelor said, voice low.
“I chose to,” she said.
“You are a child.”
“I am not helpless.”
His voice dropped. “I am not angry because you are weak. I am angry because you are reckless.”
The Kingsguard stepped forward. “The structure could have given way entirely, my princes.”
Baelor closed his eyes, then looked at her again. “You will not see him unsupervised. You will not leave your chamber at all!”
“I will not be caged,” she said ever the defiant.
“You will not be buried,” he shot back.
Maekar’s voice cut through. “Aerion. Go.”
Aerion leaned slightly toward her as he passed. “Worth it,” he murmured.
Her heart raced from the sheer thrill of the height, the fall and the edge. She glared at him.
The silver dragon charm she wore caught the torchlight, silently witnessing her choice.
Tags: Teasing, Flirting, Developing Relationships, Injury, Kissing, Cunnilingus,
Synopsis: It had been apparent from the moment you met him that The Ghoul was Cooper Howard, your favorite actor. He had no idea that you knew who he was, so how could you not have some fun with it?
Author’s Note: i’ve watched nothing but bridgerton recently and now i keep finding myself writing the way they speak
also i’ve got no clue how radiation and water interact to just pretend what i wrote is true okay?
also if you got the notif for the first upload of this fic, no you didn't :)
Taglist: @ancientbeing10 @alex-does-art-things
The poster you stood in front of was in remarkable shape, with only hints of discoloration littering the page. The frame that held it had stood the test of time and came out victorious, with only a few scratches across the glass to show for it. A fond smile grew as you read the words emblazoned across it: The Man from Deadhorse.
A man was also pictured riding on the back of his trusted steed, pistol in hand, aiming it toward an unpictured outlaw. A man that you knew to be Cooper Howard, the actor who you’d grown quite fond of during your life in the vault. You’re sure you’ve watched his entire discography or at least all his films that your vault had, which was a significant amount.
So when said actor captured you after being exiled from your vault, albeit a little less human-looking, you couldn’t believe it. It took a second to clock it, but you managed to piece two and two together when you heard him talk and watched how he wielded his gun. Hell, he was still wearing the same clothes from the movie whose poster you stood in front of. It hadn’t been that difficult.
Of course, he had no idea you knew who he was. You didn’t utter a word, not from when he first captured you to when he begrudgingly let you tag alongside him or even when you’d formed a bond. Friends, maybe not, but you trusted each other, and that was enough.
You couldn’t help but admire the man on the poster, if just for a few more moments. Anyone could see that Cooper Howard was handsome, and his charisma added to that. As incredible of an actor as he was, you would admit that you didn’t watch his films just for his skills. He’d been your childhood crush, following you into your teenage years.
And maybe it was still around, lingering at the back of your mind. Perhaps that would explain the butterflies in your stomach whenever you looked at The Ghoul. Even though his face had completely changed, you still believed he was just as handsome as before becoming a ghoul. His charisma and wit had just become sharper, and even though he sneered more than smiled, you still recognized that grin from the movies.
You snuck a glance at your traveling partner, Cooper Howard, The Ghoul. He had yet to see the poster, or maybe he chose to ignore it. Either way, his back was to you, rifling through the desks of the building the two of you had entered. It was becoming evident now that this place was a movie theatre, someplace you thought, until now, they had entirely made up to mess with you in the vault. They knew your love of movies; why not tell you there was a place where you could see them on giant screens?
“You gonna stare at that fuckin’ poster all night, or are ya gonna help me?” So he had chosen to ignore it, then.
You refrained from sighing, not wanting to annoy the man. Instead, you got to work on the other side of the theatre, where a few doors stood. Glancing into the first room, you found it filled with garbage. Literal garbage. Bags were piled from floor to ceiling, and even after all the time that had passed, it still smelled. Holding back a gag, you shut the door as best you could. Gross.
The next door was a little more pleasant. It was a bathroom with three stalls lining the rightmost wall and a few sinks. A first aid kit had been bolted on the wall, and a slight, victorious noise left you when you found two stimpacks, a roll of bandages, and a small canister of water. You quickly deposited those into your bag before continuing to the stalls.
Two were empty, but the third had something in the toilet. When you peered in, you chuckled. A teddy bear sat on the edge, a newspaper in its hands, a pair of broken glasses on its face. No matter how vicious the surface world was, people still managed to find humor in the small things, and you cherished it.
The third and final room was locked, so taking out a bobby pin, you got to work unlocking it. It took you some time, as you weren’t nearly as quick as The Ghoul was, but eventually, the door swung open. Inside was what you presumed to be once an office, a desk with a terminal flush against the wall. A large safe was tucked into the corner, nearly hidden by bookshelves. Grinning at your new prize, you bent down in front of it, pulling the bobby pin and screwdriver back out.
If the door took some time, the safe took even longer. A small pile of broken bobby pins had started to grow at your feet, and your back was beginning to ache from bending over for so long. You could feel that you were close; you just needed to move it a little more to the right…
Snap!
“Motherfucker…” you grumbled under your breath, adding another pin to your collection. The idea of admitting defeat flashed through your mind, but you shook it away. You needed to prove this to yourself.
And to The Ghoul.
You heard the sound of footsteps drawing closer, stopping when they reached the room you were currently in. You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was; you could hear his spurs. “The hell is takin’ you so long?” His gruff voice stopped you as you were about to insert another bobby pin.
“This fuckin’ safe,” you sighed, resuming your attempt at lockpicking. Your back was really hurting now, and so you got down onto your knees, which helped a little. The concrete floor was uncomfortable, but sitting offered some respite, and you bent forward, returning to work. You had expected The Ghoul to have already left, so you were startled when you felt him crouch beside you.
His gaze was locked onto the safe when you glanced at him, and he shifted almost nervously beside you. Weird. “Lemme do it.” His tone held no room for argument, yet you still shook your head at him.
“No, I’ve got this.”
“You’re gonna run outta fuckin’ bobby pins before ya open it,” he jabbed, nudging the pile with his foot. You didn’t bother to hide the glare you sent him.
“Then I’ll just take yours.” You were pleasantly surprised when you turned the lock and were met with resistance an inch before it had turned all the way. You were close.
“Oh, I’d like to see ya try, sweetheart.”
“Maybe I already have.” You had shifted the pin to the right and were met resistance way later, and a victorious smile grew on your face. “C’mom, baby, open up for me,” you whispered, voice dangerously low, and you missed the way the man beside you shifted even more.
He didn’t offer any more arguments, and you let out a small laugh when the safe door finally opened. You’d barely gotten a glimpse of the contents inside when you saw a gloved hand sneak inside. You smacked it away, glaring at him. “Open your own fuckin’ safe,” you chastized.
He matched your expression, human-looking eyes glaring daggers into you, but you didn’t let up. It was a quick standoff, but he eventually backed down, not before muttering something under his breath. You didn’t hear what he said, but you didn’t care.
Opening the door further allowed more light in, allowing you to see your prize. A stack of pre-war bills sat on the bottom, and you tucked them into your bag. There was a silver locket, which you also grabbed, knowing you could get some caps for it. A few unlabeled chem bottles were on the top shelf, all added to your bag.
But you were most excited about the revolver tucked behind all the chems. It was heavy, heavier than the pistol on your hip, and in surprisingly good condition. The barrel's metal was mostly unscratched and shiny in the dim light. The wood grip, a deep brown oak, was cool in your hand, and it contrasted beautifully with the steel of the rest of the gun.
You raised a brow when he held a hand out expectantly, moving the gun a bit closer to your chest. “Are you gonna give it back?”
He let out a deep exhale. “Yes,” he responded before making a ‘give me’ motion with his upturned hand.
After some hesitation, you set it in his palm, observing as he tested it in his hand. His expression was difficult to read as he evaluated it, his eyes carefully roaming the gun. You had to bite back a laugh when he raised the gun to the right of him; he looked like he did on the poster you just saw.
You must’ve done a worse job than you thought, holding back your laugh because he was fixing you with another glare. “Sorry,” you began between chuckles, “it’s just… you look like the guy on the poster.”
The Ghoul was good at hiding his emotions, and his face remained unreadable as he glared at you, but you swore you saw a bit of alarm behind the fire in his eyes. “Do I, now?” He asked, seemingly unbothered.
“It’s not a bad thing,” you teased, an idea forming that made you grin. “I’d take it as a compliment, being compared to as handsome a man as Cooper Howard.”
The heat in his stare dimmed, replaced with a hint of surprise. He blinked at you for a moment, unsure what to make of your words. You continued. “What, you thought I watched his movies just for his acting skills?” You were careful not to use the word you, not wanting to let him in on the secret.
When he continued to just watch you, at a loss for words, you finally stood, your back crying out in relief. You stuck out a hand, gesturing to the gun in his hand, and he slowly gave it back to you. “Thank you,” you smiled sweetly at him, your confidence growing at how you managed to stun the man. “I’ll meet you out there. Help yourself to whatever is left in here.” With that, you tuned and left, your sweet smile turning to one of victory.
Unbeknownst to you, the man you’d left in the room had a slight smile on his face before quickly coming to his senses. A groan left him, and he ran a gloved hand over his face as if he could wipe away the heat he felt in his cheeks.
If he could blush, he was sure he would be bright red right now.
─•~❉᯽❉~•─
“Why the hell were ya kicked outta your vault, anyway?”
Well, that certainly wasn’t the question you expected to hear today. You glanced behind you at The Ghoul, continuing down the long-since abandoned street the two of you were on. Even though it had been a few months, it still hurt, the wound never fully closing. “Why’d you ask?” You responded after some hesitation.
“Do I gotta have a reason?” He shot back, and you sighed.
“I suppose not,” you agreed before taking a few moments to formulate your answer. “They thought I was a threat to their way of life. I was too inquisitive for my own good, didn’t work well with authority, and constantly challenged said authority.”
“You? Disagreeable? Never.”
“Well, fuck you too,” you huffed, turning away from him. Here you were, telling him about possibly the worst thing that happened in your life, and he was insulting you. Asshole. For a moment, you thought he was being genuinely friendly, wanting to learn about you. You were bitterly disappointed to find the opposite.
A tense silence hung in the air as you continued to walk, not bothering to glance at him. He didn’t deserve your attention right now. Your somewhat positive mood was now ruined, both from having to bring up your past and because of him.
“They really kicked ya out for that?” He finally spoke. It wasn’t an apology, but you could tell it was an attempt at relieving the dispute.
“I think they were afraid I would change everything, and you know there’s nothing vault dwellers hate more than change. Even if change would improve their lives, they’d rather stay with what they know, not wanting to risk losing comfort and familiarity. They just couldn’t wrap their heads around the fact that change is a good thing. I don’t think they ever will.” The words had just tumbled from your mouth, anger making you ramble freely. When you finished, you finally glanced behind you, cringing at yourself.
To your surprise and relief, you didn’t find a look of judgment on his face. Instead, he seemed almost pensive, not expecting to hear you voice your opinions like that.
“Do ya miss it?”
“Fuck no. Even with all its dangers and obstacles, life up here is infinitely better than any life I could’ve had in a vault. At least up here, my life is mine. I make my own choices, for better or for worse. I exist for myself, not to fulfill some corporation’s quota or for some experiment. I am myself.” You let out a sigh. “There is one thing I do miss, though.”
He didn’t respond but nodded, gesturing for you to continue. “I miss the movie room,” you chuckled, almost bittersweet. “It’s silly, I know. But I miss lounging on one of the couches and getting lost in the story.”
“Did ya have a favorite?” He asked, and you swore he was reminiscing a bit as well.
“Oh, plenty. The Wizard of Oz, The Man from Calabasas, and The Silence of the Lambs, to name a few.”
“The Man from Calabasas?”
“Have you seen it?” You knew damn well that he had done more than seen the movie. He had been the lead star of it.
“Somethin’ like that,” The Ghoul muttered in response. “You weren’t kiddin’, were you?”
“About liking Cooper Howard’s movies? No, I certainly was not. Hell, I’d go as far as to say he’s my favorite actor.”
Like always, his expression towards your response was unreadable. “Would ya, now?”
“Uh-huh. I had a crush on him growing up. Maybe I still do,” you laughed lightly, shrugging your shoulders. He faltered a bit, his eyes widening a fraction, and you had to return to facing forward, unable to hide the smirk on your face any longer. It was so fun to tease him. Every time you’d seen a poster with him on it for the past weeks, you were sure to point it out, always commenting on him.
“He’s much older than ya, sweetheart,” he finally responded after some time.
“It wasn’t like I was dating the man,” you laughed. “Not that it would’ve deterred me, though. I always liked them older.”
The man behind you cleared his throat, and when you turned, you saw his eyes locked onto you, his jaw clenched, and a quickly growing fire in his eyes. Oh, this was so much fun. “You got something against that? Not that I’d change my mind based on your opinion.”
“Not a problem at all.” His words were clipped, strained. You halted in your tracks, holstering your gun, the revolver you’d just found a week ago. He cocked his head, watching you closely, stopping a good few feet behind you. His shoulders tensed when you approached him, his jaw never unclenching.
“Everything alright?” You asked, innocence dripping from your words. “You seem… tense.”
“I’m fine,” he bit out. Giving him enough time to stop you as he spoke, you raised your hands to his coat, fixing the crooked lapels. Once they were straight, you ran your hands down them, resting them on his chest. You couldn’t feel it through all of this fabric, and it was quiet enough that you couldn’t hear it, but a small groan rumbled his chest.
“If you say so,” you teased, running your hands up one last time before letting him go. You took a few steps back, glancing around at the dilapidated scenery. “We should probably find shelter soon. Only an hour of sunlight left.”
“I… sure.” You’d never heard him sound so uncertain, completely taken aback by what you had done. A part of you worried that you had taken it a step too far, but you knew the man. He would not have let you touch him if he didn’t want it. As you turned back forward, you failed to see how his eyes trailed down your body hungrily, gloved hands lingering where yours had just been.
─•~❉᯽❉~•─
Even though the bed was the comfiest thing you’d laid in in months, sleep would not come. No matter how much you tossed, turned, and readjusted, you just could not sleep. It wasn’t like your mind was preoccupied by anything.
Well, that wasn’t true. You’d found your mind wandering to your traveling companion more and more these past weeks since you’d stopped and fixed his jacket right in the middle of the street. You thought he had been more affected than you, but ever since then, you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how he felt under your hands and what he’d feel like elsewhere.
With a huff and warm cheeks, you sat up, giving up on falling asleep. Slipping on your shoes, you kept your steps light as you crossed the room and made a pointed effort not to glance at the sleeping silhouette of The Ghoul. Grabbing your gun, you stepped outside, the cool night air doing wonders for your flushed skin.
You sat on the edge of the barely standing porch of the house you were sleeping in. You balanced your gun in your lap, and from the pockets of your jeans, you pulled out a beat-up pack of cigarettes and a barely functioning lighter. It took a few moments for the flame to catch, the clicking noise filling the silent night, but you eventually had a lit cigarette between your lips, the smoke swirling comfortingly around your body.
You felt the wood creak before you heard it, and you whirred around, gun pointing at the new figure behind you. The figure let out a familiar chuckle, and you sighed in relief, putting the gun back down. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” you muttered as you turned back.
The Ghoul sat beside you with a sigh, arms extended behind him. “You’re gonna attract unwanted attention with that,” he muttered, ignoring your previous statement.
“Like you?”
He laughed. “You’d be lucky if the worst you got was me.”
“I suppose,” you conceded. “But your company isn’t exactly… unwelcome.”
He merely hummed in response, and you offered him the cigarette. He eyed it briefly, eyes flicking from it to your face, but he eventually grabbed it. Skin grazed yours, and it almost startled you when you realized he wasn’t wearing gloves, and it felt scandalous to see him without them. Still, you kept your composure, observing him silently as he took a drag.
“Can’t sleep?” You heard him ask after some time, and you shook your head. “Me neither.”
“Sorry if my tossing and turning kept you up.”
“Ain’t your fault,” he sighed, passing the cigarette back to you. “Is… are ya alright?”
He’s been surprising you with the questions lately, and you couldn’t help the slight disbelief on your face, nearly choking on the smoke. “Just a lot on my mind” is what you finally went with. It was not entirely a lie, but it withheld specific details.
He thankfully seemed to clock that you didn’t quite want to talk about it, so he left you in silence, taking the cigarette you passed to him. You both whipped your heads to the left when you heard the sound of something groaning, followed by a few more groans from other entities. Whether it was human or not, you couldn’t tell. He quickly smashed the cigarette under his boot, standing up slowly, hand inching towards his gun.
His other hand extended towards you, and you didn’t give yourself time to second-guess before you interlocked your finger with his, letting him pull you up. You had barely gotten to your feet when he was dragging you inside, nearly making you stumble over the planks of wood sticking up.
Still, both of you managed to get inside quickly, the door being kicked soon shut by him, and you locked it. Peering out the blinds, you saw a horde of ferals shuffle their way down the street, some gathering where you were just sitting. You and The Ghoul probably could’ve bested the group, but you never knew. You noticed out of the corner of your eye that said companion wasn’t looking outside like you were but instead trained on you.
When the horde continued further down the street, you let out a breath before switching your attention to the man. “What’s wrong?”
His eyes scanned over your face, something unreadable in them. You gasped lightly when you felt him squeeze your hand, your fingers interlocked with his. So that’s what was making him act so weird.
A small smile graced your face as you looked down at your intertwined hands, neither of you making any move to pull apart yet. His hands were rougher than you were expecting, and even though you could feel the grooves of his marred skin, his fingertips were incredibly calloused as they rubbed into your skin. It was the most lovely thing you’d ever felt.
You’d never seen him regard something so gently when you looked back up at him. It was like you were catching a glimpse of the man he once was before the war. For a moment, you caught a glimpse of the actor, yet this was no scene from a movie. This moment was real, two lost souls finding some semblance of comfort with each other.
But just as soon as the gentle moment had started, it came to a screeching halt, and The Ghoul took a step back, pulling his hand from yours. You tried not to let it sting, but you couldn’t help the slight hurt in your heart as he backed away. “Good night,” he muttered out, his voice cold.
You simply nodded in response, not trusting your voice, and you heard the receding footsteps of The Ghoul as he marched back towards where he was sleeping. You stayed locked by the door for a good moment, unable to move, and embarrassment and sadness locked you there.
You don’t even remember walking back to your bed. All you remember is that you were suddenly looking up at the ceiling, sleep even further than it was before. You swore you could still feel his hand in yours, the heat from his skin, the texture of his skin beneath your fingers. Sighing, you rolled over on your side, back turned away from where The Ghoul was sleeping.
Sleep didn’t come to you that night, and when you finally got up hours later and saw the way The Ghoul sat hunched over the table, you knew he didn’t sleep either.
─•~❉᯽❉~•─
It had been days since that night, and things had been incredibly tense between the two of you since. Hours of travel, once filled with light conversation, were now done in silence. Soft glances were now guarded, lingering touches nonexistent. It was distracting, constantly on your mind, overanalyzing everything you’d done or said to him.
Maybe that distraction was the reason you now sat bleeding out, half lying against an old car, your fingers clutching your stomach uselessly. Blood poured out between your fingers, every breath feeling like you were being stabbed all over again by that Raider. It had been a poorly hidden ambush, yet they still managed to catch you off-guard, your thoughts elsewhere.
It had been fine until you’d gotten cut off from your companion and forced into a small alleyway. You’d managed to take down most of your attackers, but one had gotten lucky with a stab to the stomach. They currently lay dead on the floor as well, shot by your gun, but that had been after they got you.
The sounds of gunfire had ceased about thirty seconds ago, making your ears ring. Or maybe it was the blood loss. You couldn’t tell.
You heard the sound of loud footfalls, and you reached for your gun with a crimson-covered hand, which made it difficult to grasp the weapon. Your arm shook like crazy as you raised your gun, training it on the entrance of the alleyway, waiting as silently as you could. Small gasps of pain kept pouring from your lips, and you blinked back tears.
Relief flooded you when you heard your name being called by The Ghoul, his gruff voice never sounding so lovely. You managed to croak out a response, your arm falling to your lap, unable to hold it up any longer. He called out your name again, even closer this time, but you couldn’t bring yourself to respond, your energy quickly leaving.
When you saw that familiar silhouette at the entrance, you couldn’t help the small smile on your face despite your incredible pain. He was by your side in a second, or maybe you blacked out for a bit. Everything was so blurry now. You cried out in pain when you felt him press down on your stomach, and you tried to squirm away, but he was much stronger than you.
You sagged against the car, unable to fight him any longer. Your eyes felt heavy, but you tried your hardest to keep them open, especially when The Ghoul practically shook you awake. “You better keep those fuckin’ eyes open,” he snapped, and if you were more conscious, you would’ve been able to detect the panic in his voice.
“Are you threatening me?” You wheezed out.
“If that’s what it takes to keep ya awake, then yes.” You felt cold air hit your stomach as he lifted your shirt, examining the wound. You didn’t look at his expression, not wanting to know how bad it was.
“At least take me out to dinner,” you chuckled before a cough rattled your body. Something warm and sticky fell from your lips, making The Ghoul curse, who hurriedly looked for something in his bag. A small first aid kit clattered to the ground, and you cringed when you saw him pull out a needle and thread.
“After this, I’ll take ya out to as many dinners as ya like,” The Ghoul murmured, and because of how hazy your vision was, you missed how his hands shook as he threaded the needle.
“Is that a promise?” It was starting to get hard to get the words out now, as they were beginning to slur.
“You know I don’t make promises I can’t keep, sweetheart.”
“I love it when you call me sweetheart,” you admitted, unable to stop yourself. Your smile turned into a wince when you felt the needle pierce your skin. He muttered an apology, but you just shook your head and leaned forward slightly as he worked quickly to sew your wound close. It was just close enough that you could see him clearly, and you unabashedly let your eyes roam his face.
Blood loss was kicking in now, and the world was spinning. You tried hard to keep your eyes open but found them fluttering close even more frequently, your head drooping to the car. He shook you gently whenever he felt you do it, promising that he was almost done. “We gotta get this close before I can give ya a stimpack.”
“You’re pretty,” you whispered before almost immediately breaking into laughter.
“And you’ve lost a lot of blood,” The Ghoul shook his head, working diligently.
“I mean it,” you practically pouted. “You’re so pretty.”
“I’m sure I’m quite the fuckin’ catch.”
“You’ve always been a catch,” you teased, and you tried to bring up one of your hands to caress his face, but it fell limply to your lap.
For the first time, his eyes shot up to yours, confusion on his face. But they quickly returned to his work, shaking his head again. “Whatdya mean by that, sweetheart?” He asked, trying to keep you talking. Or maybe he was genuinely curious.
“The entire time I’ve known you, I’ve thought you were beautiful,” the tiniest bit of tension left The Ghoul, “but even before then, I’ve always thought you were the most handsome man I’d ever seen-”
“You don’t mean-”
“Guess that’s why I’ve still got a crush on you,” you sighed, continuing despite his objections. But you didn’t get to see his reaction, the weight on your lids growing unbearable, and you let them fall close, unconsciousness finally claiming you. Your name being said like a plea was the last thing you remembered.
─•~❉᯽❉~•─
You weren’t sure how long you were out for. All you know is that the room you woke up in was unfamiliar, and everything in your body hurt. Wincing, you tried to sit up, only to collapse in pain, your stomach in agony. A shadow fell across your face, and through tears, you managed to see the familiar face of The Ghoul above you.
He looked as terrible as you felt, the deep sockets of his eyes somehow even more pronounced. It looked like he hadn’t slept in days, the whites of his eyes bloodshot. His clothes were more rumpled, and he had discarded his hat somewhere in the room. If you weren’t in so much pain, you would’ve asked him why he looked like, well, shit.
His lips moved, but you couldn’t hear the words, your ears ringing too loudly. You fought back when you felt a needle enter your skin, but you relaxed when the pain began to dim like a bright light covered with a blanket; the pain was still there but not nearly as noticeable.
After a few more seconds, your ears finally stopped ringing, the man's gruff voice replacing it. “Just some painkillers,” he explained.
You tried to thank him, but your voice was too dry, and you broke into a coughing fit. With a lot of help from him, you could sit up enough to drink, greedily gulping down the canteen of water that he presented you. Despite your objections, he pulled it away from you when he deemed you had enough.
You were starting to feel more alert now, and your vision was not as fuzzy as it was moments ago. The Ghoul sat in the chair you just noticed beside your bed, a soft sigh leaving him. The room was still unfamiliar, and you realized he had probably just dragged your unconscious body into the closest possible building.
Glancing at him, you watched as he leaned back into his chair, his eyes never leaving your face. His expression was, as always, unreadable, but you couldn’t help but feel like you’d done something wrong. Well, something besides getting stabbed. “How long have I been out for?”
“Almost three days.”
“Thank you.”
“For?”
You gestured to your body. “For saving me.”
In response, he made a vague noise, his arms crossing over his chest. His stare became scrutinizing, and you felt like he was picking you apart. You could feel your heartbeat accelerate, your nerves becoming terrible, yet you forced yourself to hold his gaze.
After what felt like hours of tense silence, he finally spoke. “Whatdya remember?”
“Well, not much, to be honest. I remember getting injured, and then you helped me, and then I passed out.”
“D’ya remember anythin’ you said?”
You furrowed your brows. “No? Did… did I say something bad?” When he didn’t respond, you grew even more worried. “Look, if I said something to offend you-”
“How long have ya known?”
You blinked. “What?”
“How long have ya known who I am?” His voice was surprisingly steady, not leaning towards any particular emotion.
Internally, you were kicking yourself. Of course, you just had to let your secret slip while you were bleeding out. You figured it useless to attempt lying, so you just sighed deeply. “I’ve known since the moment we met,” you confessed.
“So this entire time-”
“Yes.”
The chair creaked, and you jumped when you felt his elbows lean on the edge of your bed. “And ya didn’t fuckin’ think that was important to tell me?”
You leaned as far away from him as you physically could. “I’m sorry.”
He laughed at that, a bitter sound. You felt his fingers creep toward your hand beneath the covers, noticeably bare of gloves. Something dark crossed his features when he made contact, his fingers running along your hand tortuously slowly. You whispered out his name as a question, confused but not against this conversation's direction. “You know my real name, sweetheart. Might as well use it.”
Your throat suddenly became dry, but you didn’t dare reach for the canteen perched in his lap. “Cooper,” a small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, “I thought you’d be… angrier.”
“Oh, I’m fuckin’ pissed.” You saw his eyes flash momentarily, making you want to shrink into a ball and hide. You’d never been on the receiving end of his anger, and you hated it. Or at least that's what you told yourself. “But there’s far more important things on my mind right now.”
“Like what?”
“Like keepin’ ya alive, for example.” His teasing tone turned somber. “You almost bled out.”
“Oh,” was all you could think to say. You hadn’t realized how severe the wound you’d gotten was. Tentatively, you lowered the sheet that was around your body, then raised the still bloody shirt that now had a hole in the front. “My poor shirt…”
He scoffed. “Ya got stabbed in the gut, and you’re worried ‘bout your shirt?”
“Do you know how hard it is to find intact clothing up here?” You shook your head before examining the stitched-up gash on your stomach. Well, the once stitched-up gash. Thanks to the magic of stimpacks, he had been able to take out your sutures, leaving behind a barely healed scar across your stomach. You supposed it was a miracle, too, that it hadn’t caused severe damage to any of your intestines. “Thanks, doc.” You tried to jest.
He laughed, but it sounded forced even to you. His gaze locked on where he rubbed your hand, looking like he wanted to say something. “Was… was there anything else?” You asked carefully.
He exhaled sharply, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t respond. “Did you mean it?”
“Mean what?”
An exasperated chuckle left him. “Everythin’. Every comment, every tease, every single fuckin’ thing you did that’s kept me awake for nights on end. Did you mean it?” To any other person, the way he re-asked the question would’ve sounded angry, pissed off. But you knew better. There was almost a sense of desperation in his words, his gaze boring into you as he waited for a response.
“I am many things,” you began slowly. “A liar is not one of them. I meant it, every single thing.”
He paused. “Were your words only meant for the man I was?”
“Can they not be for the man you are as well?”
Your words seemed to catch him off-guard. “I guess they can,” he sighed, tilting his head down to break eye contact. Without thinking, you freed your hand from the blanket and his touch, and you gently tugged his chin until he was looking at you again. You were both equally surprised by the action, but you didn’t let yourself back down now. Not when you were so close to what you wanted.
You gave him a moment to pull away from your touch if he was so pleased, and when he didn't, a gentle smile grew on your lips as you adjusted your hand so that you now held the side of his face. It was a stretch to do so, but seeing how he practically melted into your touch was worth it. You wondered how long it had been since someone had held him like this.
“I rather like the man you are,” you admitted softly, your thumb running over his scarred cheek. “The man who put up with my constant teasing. The man who’s become the person I trust the most in this fucked up world. The man who just saved my life.” You sat up slowly, much to the complaint of your stomach and The Ghoul, but you ignored both.
With one arm holding you up, you tugged him forward until he was half on the bed, one leg between your own, the other still firm on the floor. His hands braced on either side of you, face inches from yours as he leaned above you. He was close enough that you could feel his chest rise and fall, now slightly quicker than before.
Human eyes flicked down to your lips, an unspoken question to which you already knew the answer. Instead of speaking, you let your actions do the talking, closing the distance until your lips brushed over his. But you didn’t let them connect. You wanted him to do it, to show you that this was what he wanted.
You heard your name said softly, a mix between a plea and a warning. It was the most beautiful thing you’d ever heard.
“Cooper,” you sighed in response, and that seemed to do the trick. He finally closed the space between you two, lips surprisingly gentle against yours as he kissed you. It was everything you wanted, and you sighed happily, fingers trailing patterns across his skin.
After a few moments, he pulled away, much to your audible displeasure, and chuckled. “I’m still fuckin’ angry at ya, sweetheart.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” you laughed lightly, “but be mad at me later.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I want you to kiss me again.”
“So fuckin’ needy,” he teased, a slight grin on his lips, but he brought himself back down to your lips. “I like it.”
He didn’t give you a chance to respond, his lips crashing against yours with noticeably less gentleness. You didn’t resist as the force of it pushed you back gently onto the bed, and your hand fell from his face to the front of his jacket, grabbing a fistful of the material. His lips were almost feverish against yours, a barely contained desperation in the act, and you felt fingers brush against your cheek. They were just as rough as you remembered.
The bed shifted as he finally put his entire body on it, one knee between your legs, the other resting by your hip. One hand still worked to keep himself from resting his whole body weight on you, the other tracing patterns into your skin, just like you had done to him. If he had any reservations left, they no longer existed. The only things on his mind were the way you felt beneath him and the way your lips felt against his.
You gasped when you felt him move down your jaw, down to your neck, kissing and sucking the delicate skin there. No longer able to hold his jacket comfortably, you switched to holding the back of his head, nails scratching lightly against the skin. He practically shuddered, his arm buckling slightly, some of his body weight falling onto your lower body.
A groan of pain tore through you when you felt him press against your stomach. It was almost funny how he seemed to jump off of you, hooded eyes immediately becoming alert. “Fuck, sweetheart, I’m sorry-”
“Get back down here,” you practically growled, reaching up for his shirt again. He stopped you, redirecting your hand to the bed, securing it with a firm hand when you tried to break free.
“You’re injured,” he countered, stopping your continued attempts to break free with a look.
“And?”
“And we just got ya stable. I’d be even more fuckin’ pissed if three days of work was all for nothin’.”
“We’ll just be careful, then,” you protested, desire making you irrational. You’d just gotten a taste, but you needed more of him. Hesitancy flashed across his features, making you nervous. “Unless you don’t want to…”
“Oh, I fuckin’ do,” he chuckled. “But I ain’t doin’ anythin’ to ya until you’re healed.”
“Anything? Not even a kiss?”
He sighed, shaking his head, but his face had a fond expression. “You’re difficult, ya know that?”
“I’ve been told,” you laughed. “So is that a ‘no’, then?”
You had to stop yourself from laughing when he kissed you. When he pulled away, he rested his head against yours. “There. Satisfied?”
Far from it. “For now,” you sighed, lying comfortably on the bed. Now that you didn’t have anything exciting in your near future, exhaustion slowly began to creep back in, making you yawn. He chuckled, moving to get up, but you halted him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Lay with me? Please?”
You could tell that he was ready to argue against it, but he relented. With a smile, you were able to roll over to one of the sides of the bed with limited amounts of pain, giving him enough room to squeeze in behind you. Immediately, you felt one of his arms tuck beneath the pillow, the other resting on your hip, being careful to avoid your injury.
With his front pressed against your back, you let your eyes fall close, much less violently than previously. Your breathing eventually evened out, and you let your body fully relax against him. He must’ve thought you were asleep because you felt him brush away any hair that covered your face, and even though you couldn’t see him, you knew he was observing you.
You manage to be still when his lips grazed the shell of your ear, a featherlight kiss, and his following words were just as light. “I’m glad you’re alright, sweetheart.”
─•~❉᯽❉~•─
You couldn’t believe the sight in front of you.
You’d accidentally stumbled upon it, traveling a little too far off the beaten path, but you were so glad you did. In front of you were scattered pools of water, about six total, ranging from five to twenty feet across. Steam billowed off the top of the pools, the water bubbling by some unseen force, disturbing the clear water's surface. Set into rust-red stone, you couldn’t tell how deep the pools were, but you were eager to find out.
Stepping toward the edge of one of the larger pools, the rational part of your brain finally kicked in, and you took out your Geiger counter. You expected to hear the annoying ticking noise that accompanied said pools of water but were surprised when it remained silent.
After checking it a few more times to be sure, you sat back on your heels, debating. It was then you finally heard the footfalls of your companions, huffing in annoyance because you ran off on him. “The hell ya doin’?” He asked, wary of how close you sat next to the water.
“There’s no radiation!” You called back, glancing behind at him. “At least not enough to be a problem!”
The Ghoul crouched beside you, glancing from you to the pools of water. “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. Look!” You returned the counter to the water’s surface and received the same results.
He hummed curiously. “This must’ve formed after the bombs.”
“What is it?”
“They’re hot springs,” he responded like it was the most obvious answer in the world. “Stick your hand in it.”
Cautiously, you let your fingers dip beneath the water's surface and were startled to find it quite warm. A small laugh left you as you pulled your fingers out, wiping your hands on your pants. “Are they safe?”
“Well, sayin’ as there isn’t any radiation, and no creature can live in waters like this, I’d say so.” He had just gotten the words out before you stood again, toeing off your ragged shoes and socks. “The hell you doin’?” He asked again, bewildered by your actions.
Your bag hit the rocks with a thud right next to your shoes. “I’m getting in,” you stated, leaving no room for argument. “I’m filthy, sweaty, gross, and I desperately need a bath. You see any other options around?”
“Well, no, but-”
“Turn around if you don’t wanna see me get undressed.” Your gunbelt and armor were next to join the ground, close enough to the edge that you could grab it if you’d like.
“And if I wanna see?” he asked when your hands reached the hem of your shirt, still partially stained from the event the week before, a hastily sewed-on patch on the front.
You finally glanced down at him, and he watched you with rapt attention. “Well,” you laughed lightly, “then enjoy the show.” Your shirt was off in one movement, joining the pile on the ground. You didn’t bother to look at the new scar on your stomach, which had become significantly less painful over the past week.
You knew you were toying with something dangerous, a line the two of you had been dancing on over the past week. Things hadn’t gone beyond kissing and lingering touches, and you were ready for more. You wanted more, and if the way he seemed to restrain himself each time he kissed you, you knew he felt the same.
Your jeans were next, leaving you in only your undergarments. He was utterly transfixed, excitement visible on his face as you reached for the clasp of your bra. It had been weird; over the past week, you felt like he was becoming better at not hiding his expressions. Or you were getting better at reading him.
You playfully threw the garment at him when it slid off your shoulders, obstructing his view momentarily. During that, you let your underwear slide down your legs, and you kicked it off your ankles, letting it join the pile. For a moment, you let his eyes hungrily roam your body before submerging yourself beneath the water’s surface. It was just deep enough that you could stand, and your head and shoulders were free, letting you breathe freely.
The sound you made when the hot water met your skin was unintentionally filthy, a mix between a moan and a curse. “Fuck, that feels good,” you laughed airily. The water was nearly unbearably hot, but you quickly grew acclimated.
Leaning back, you let your head submerge beneath the water, wetting your hair. At this angle, you could see him still, stunned, and still crouched by the water. Grinning, you adjusted back upright before reaching him, resting your arms on the rock face, and you rested your chin on them, looking up at him. “Are you getting in as well?”
That question broke him out of the semi-trance he was in, and he shook his head, much to your displeasure. “Someone’s gotta keep watch,” he grumbled.
“You’re no fun.”
“Is that so?”
You nodded. “C’mon, just for a little bit.”
“Sweetheart, you and I both know that if I get in there, it won’t be for ‘a little bit’.”
“And that’s a problem because…?”
He shook his head again but removed his gloves, making your grin wider. Backing away from the edge, you watched his hat come off next, then his gunbelt and coat. When he reached the buttons of his shirt, he paused, glancing into your eager eyes. “Turn around,” he requested, and you responded with a confused glance. “Do ya want me in there or not?”
You were still confused, but not wanting to push his comfort, you complied, distracting yourself from the scenery around you. It was hard to hear over the rolling water, but you listened to the sound of clothing hitting the rocks, making your breath hitch in excitement. Anticipation made your skin crawl, although not unpleasantly, and you waited for the sound of water splashing as he joined you.
But after a moment passed and you were met with just the continued sound of bubbles, you shifted nervously yet didn’t dare look back. Time seemed to crawl on agonizingly slow, your breaths turning shallow. You nearly screamed when you felt an arm wrap around your midsection, still mindful of the injury, but relaxed almost immediately when the familiar timbre of his voice hit your ears. “Not even a peek, I’m impressed.”
“Is it truly that shocking that I can follow directions?” You scoffed, letting him ease you against his now bare chest. The contact was blissful, and you sighed out in content. “Can I turn around now?”
He made a noise of consideration before resting his head on your shoulder. When he spoke next, it was almost straight into your ear. “In a moment. Lemme hold ya for a bit longer.”
When he received no objections from you, he pressed a kiss to your shoulder. His other arm joined with the other, keeping your body wrapped up in his arms. It was a bit of an awkward angle, but you managed to reach around to hold the back of his head gently. You could feel him smile lightly when your nails scratched lightly.
“So, how’d you figure it out?”
It took a few moments of wracking your brain until you finally realized what he was talking about. “We’re having this conversation now?”
“Don’t see any better time. Besides, ya can’t run away from the questions now.” It was true; over the past week, you’d found an excuse not to answer his questions, finding something else to do as an excuse. Now it looked like he had you right where he wanted.
Groaning, you hung your head, much to the amusement of him. “It was your voice, mainly,” you admitted. “When I first heard it, I thought I was just reaching. Then, it just clicked after watching the way you wield your gun, the way you carry yourself, everything. You even look a bit the same,” you chuckled.
“And you thought the best thing to do next was to fuckin’ tease me?”
“You have to admit, it was kinda funny.”
You felt his shoulders shake, a light chuckle leaving him. “I ain’t admitting to nothin’, sweetheart.”
“Are you still upset about it?”
“Not for the reason you’re thinkin’.”
That piqued your curiosity. “Oh?”
“I wished ya told me sooner because I wouldn’t have had to wait this long to do this.” His arms tightened the tiniest amount around you. “D’you know how hard it's been these past weeks, months, haivn’ to bite my tongue every time you make one those comments, those touches.”
“Months?”
“That’s how long it’s been since we met, right?”
Shocked laughter left you, and you tried to turn in his arms. You could only get halfway around before his grip stopped you, but you had turned enough so that you could look at him. You weren’t expecting him to look so confident about his response; the muscles of his brow raised like he was daring you to say something. “You’ve wanted me for-”
“Since the moment ya stumbled into me that night.”
“You tried to kill me.”
He shrugged. “Still knew that I wanted ya.”
“How… romantic,” you scoffed.
“And they say romance is dead.”
“You did promise to take me out to dinner.”
“Out of everythin’ from that conversation, that’s the fuckin’ thing you remember?” You felt his arm go lax for a second, but that was all you needed. Turning, you finally were facing him, your chest pressed into him, making him groan appreciatively. Your arms wrapped around his neck in an embrace, and you felt his hands begin to trail up your back. One settled on your ribs, the other continued up to the base of your neck, brushing your hairline.
Any words you were about to say fell short when you felt him scratch lightly, a choked noise leaving you at the action, your body shivering. Your mind went blank, and he just chuckled knowingly. His fingers ran up even more, your body reacting similarly, and you both knew the conversation was over for now.
You gasped when you felt him grab a fist of your hair and pull back; it was not rough enough to be incredibly painful, but it still stung a bit. But it wasn’t like you could feel the pain anyway, your desire being far more powerful. He leaned down into your space, face hovering above yours as he tilted yours back. “What, cat got your tongue?” He teased you for your sudden silence, which was uncharacteristic.
“Fuck you,” you managed to whisper, making him laugh.
“We’ll get there, sweetheart.”
His lips were on yours before you could respond, your senses now overwhelmed with him. His other hand wasn’t shy, grabbing and kneading at every piece of skin it could find, making you groan against his mouth.
You laughed when you began to feel him back up to the edge of the pool, barely able to keep up with his eager movements. But you were confused when you felt his hands grip your waist and lift you so that you were now sitting on the rock edge. It was a warm day, but even the warm air wasn’t enough to stop you from shivering from the temperature difference. “I thought we were supposed to be getting clean,” you tried to protest.
It didn’t even cross your mind that your entire body was exposed to him now, and if you did remember, you doubted you’d even care. Not with how his eyes roamed your body like he was trying to memorize every inch of you. His hands gripped your thighs, pulling them apart so he could stand between them. He stood level with the base of your throat, wasting no time before he lavished it with kisses and bites.
“We can do it after,” he murmured against your skin. “I need to fuckin’ taste ya, Now.”
Involuntarily, your legs tightened around his body at his words, laughing lightly in shock. You don’t think you’d ever had a partner so eager to go down on you. “Cooper-”
“I fuckin’ love hearin’ you say my name. I bet ya sound even better screamin’ it.” His lips had moved down to your breasts, fingers digging into the plush of your thighs.
You tried not to think too much about the implications of his words. And you tried even harder not to let your body react any further, not wanting to fan the flame of his ego anymore. But you’d be a liar if you said you weren’t enjoying his cockiness. “Is that a promise?” You echoed the question from the previous week.
You felt him smirk. “I wasn’t kiddin’ when I said I don’t make promises I can’t keep.” A soft nip made you jump slightly, and he soothed over the hurt with his tongue. “Lie back, sweetheart.”
Excitement and arousal buzzed in your veins, and you required no further encouragement before you were resting back on your elbows, unable to feel the stone beneath you. He pulled away when you leaned back, something almost like pride in his eyes at how easily you complied.
He adjusted your legs so that they now rested on his shoulders, the heels of your feet resting on his back. It gave him perfect access to your center, and between your thighs, you saw how his eyes turned impossibly dark. They flicked to you one last time, looking for any hesitation, before leaning forward until you felt his breath caress the sensitive area.
But he didn’t make contact where you wanted. Instead, you felt his lips ghost the insides of your thighs, teasing you. Groaning, you tried to close the distance with a roll of your hips, but he shut that down quickly. His hands no longer held your thighs open. Instead, they were splayed across your hips, keeping you pinned down to the rocks as he continued his light touches.
You’d forgotten how strong he was, and you found yourself unable to move your hips any longer, rendered completely still by him. You didn’t have to see him to know he was loving tormenting you, inching closer and closer to where he knew you desperately wanted him. “I thought you said you needed to taste me,” you reminded him, and repeating his filthy words made you warm.
“I know what I said,” he breathed. “Consider this payback for the weeks of fuckin’ torture you’ve put me through.” A frustrated noise left you, and you tried to move away, but to no avail. Teeth dragged against your skin, up towards your center, halting right before reaching it. “You don’t get to run off on me now, sweetheart. You’re gonna take what I give ya.”
“Cooper, please.”
“As amazin’ as you sound beggin’, you ain’t gettin’ what you want that easy.” One of the hands holding you down moved up, calloused fingers grasping at your breast, making you whine. If you thought that because he let up one of his hands, you’d be able to move your hips freely, you thought wrong. All you could do was lay there and comply, much to his evident enjoyment.
You’re not sure how long you sat there, time crawling on tortuously slow, as he continued to tease and rile you up. Occasionally, you felt his lips ghost over where you wanted him, and you’d think he was finally having mercy on you. But when he passed over, too light to provide any relief, you knew he was just working you up more. No matter how much you pleaded or begged, he didn’t relent, a wicked gleam in his eyes.
But he was only human, and he, too, had a limit to his patience. It broke when the hand groping your breasts snuck between your legs, fingers spreading you open. His breath hitched when he saw the evidence of your arousal. He sighed, an air of finality in the sound.
“Oh, fuck this,” you heard him growl before his mouth was finally on you. Startled but oh so relieved, a jumble of words left your mouth, a mix of his name and curses. His tongue swept through you desperately, face burrowed deep between your thighs, a groan tearing from his lips as he finally tasted you.
He was incessant, addicted now that he’d gotten a taste. Your thighs tightened around his head as he ate you out, but he didn’t seem to mind. It almost seemed to urge him on, knowing he was making you feel that good. He still had a hand holding you down, the one between your legs teasing at your entrance, making your eyes flutter close.
When his tongue began to focus on your clit, you could barely keep yourself propped up any longer, and your arms started to shake. Desperate for something to hold on to, you grasped at the hand on your waist. He adjusted so that his forearm now pinned you, leaving his hand free for you to grab, which you did eagerly. It would’ve been funny how the two actions juxtaposed each other if he wasn’t making you see stars.
His name was being said like a mantra, turning more and more breathy as pleasure began to build. It turned louder when you felt one of his fingers ease into you, and you could feel the various groves of his skin, all adding to the stimulation you felt. Slowly, he began to pump it in and out of you, his mouth continuing to toy with your clit. Peeling your eyes open, you dared to glance down at him, gasping lightly when you found him looking at you.
He looked so eager, so hungry, his pupils blown out with lust as he watched you slowly begin to fall apart. You were caught in a trance, unable to look away from him anymore. Not that you’d want to look away from such a glorious sight.
Keeping your gazes locked when you felt a second finger join became a challenge. The tension that he had so beautifully wound up inside you was on the verge of snapping, your breathing growing faster as you neared your release. You didn’t have to say anything to him; it seemed like he knew your body as well as you did. As he moved his fingers, you felt him crook his fingers in a ‘come here’ motion, making you cry out.
Your thighs around his head begin to shake, your heels digging into his back almost painfully. You were so close, your grip turning vice-like on his hand. It was when you felt his lips latch onto your clit and suck when you finally fell apart. You had no idea how loudly you cried out his name, the sound of your ears ringing blocking out any other noise. White-hot pleasure washed over your body, your one arm finally going boneless beneath you, your back hitting the rock.
It took a few moments of deep breaths to get your heart under control, the ringing in your ears becoming background noise. You didn’t have the energy to prop yourself up yet, so you just strained your neck until you could look at him. He was still between your thighs, fingers having been withdrawn, but he continued to lap at your release. You could feel the smirk on his face when you made eye contact.
Overstimulation quickly made itself known, and with a groan, you finally sat yourself up. Easing your legs off of him, he still didn’t let up, and so with a half-hearted shove, you backed him up. He didn’t stay away long, helping your back towards the edge of the rock, lips once again making contact with your throat. His hands caressed your body, but he didn’t do more than touch, giving you a few more moments to recover. “Told ya I’d make you scream,” he muttered, making you scoff.
“I wasn’t that loud.” Was I?
“Scared off a few birds.” He laughed when you slapped his shoulder in mock offense, making him look up. “Ouch,” he deadpanned.
You rolled your eyes, shaky hands grabbing the sides of his face and bringing it close to yours. You snuck a quick kiss to his lips, but even though it was short, you could still taste yourself on it. It made your head spin, and you offered no objects as he tugged you into the water, the temperature shock making you gasp.
You’d barely gotten your footing before he was on you, all lips and teeth against your skin. Hands skated down your slides, beneath your thighs, tugging one of them up until it wrapped around his body. You gasped when you felt his hard length press against you, and you rocked your hips eagerly. It got the response you wanted, a groan of your name leaving his lips.
“C’mon, Cooper,” you gasped, hands grasping his shoulders, bracing yourself. “C’mon baby, let me feel you.”
An almost pained noise left his lips before he thrust into you, the mix of your arousal and the water around you allowing him to enter with ease. He didn’t give you any time to adjust, setting a brutal pace almost immediately, his hips snapping up into you. Your nails dug into his scarred skin, and once the initial shock wore off, moans tumbled from your lips.
Water splashed up because of the movement, hitting the rocks, but neither of you paid any mind. How could you, when he was fucking you like it was the only thing he could do, wanted to do? His hand remained on your thigh, helping keep your leg propped up. His other hand held the side of your face, your mouth hung open and panting, and he pulled you in for a messy kiss.
His tongue swept into your open mouth as if he owned it, a groan leaving you at the filthy act. There was so much happening, and like before, you could do nothing but just let it happen, reciprocating as best you could with soft noises and touches.
A particularly hard thrust left you gasping, breaking away from the kiss, choosing to just rest your head against his. Pleasure blossomed across your body, and you felt that familiar tension return. Sneaking a hand between your legs beneath the water, you began to rub at yourself, making you clench around him.
“Hands up,” you barely managed to hear him hiss through a groan. “Keep those hands on me, sweetheart.”
You complied, returning your touch to his shoulders, but your lost additional pleasure was only momentary. His hand replaced yours, nimble fingers working you as well as you could, maybe even better. His fingers moved in slow, hard circles, a complete contrast to the rapid movement of his hips. The two different sensations drove you wild, your breathing coming out as short, hot pants.
You could feel yourself getting close, and you knew he could feel it. The movement of his hips had turned more desperate about thirty seconds ago, and you knew he was close as well. Running your hands up his neck, you pulled his face against yours when they reached his jaw, on the verge of bruising your lips with how aggressively you smashed them against his. “Cooper, I’m so close,” you whispered between kisses.
“Cum for me, sweetheart, fuckin’ fall apart.” You couldn’t tell if he was asking or pleading, but you would fulfill his request either way.
It took a few more presses of his fingers and snaps of his hips until you came, shouting his name like you’d done before. You could barely see through the haze the satisfactory smirk on his lips, pleasure once again washing over your body. Every muscle in your body tensed, and that smirk immediately fell from his lips, turning into an almost scowl as he staved off his own release. “Where-”
“Inside.” You didn’t have to hear the whole question to know what he was asking.
For the first time, he moaned, too caught up in his own pleasure to care. “Fuck, you gonna let me fill ya?” A small laugh of disbelief left him when you nodded. “Goddamn…” His words trailed off as he chased his release, the continued thrusts of his hips bordering on overstimulation. But you didn’t have to wait long, because with a much quieter groan of your name, his hips stilled, and you felt his release seep into you.
For a moment, the two of you just held each other, catching your breaths. Your body felt like it was on fire, a mix of pleasure and the hot water around you, yet you made no move to leave, not wanting this moment to be over yet.
Slowly, his hand let go of your leg, and even though the water helped ease the irritated muscle, you still let out a noise of discomfort. He eased out of you then as well, leaving you feeling empty. Some part of you feared that he would push you away next, but a relieved smile appeared on your face when he tugged you into his arms, a surprisingly gentle kiss placed on top of your damp head.
“You alright?” You don’t think you’d ever heard him so soft, so genuine, and knowing it was aimed at you nearly brought tears to your eyes.
Too many emotions swirled in your chest, and instead of facing them and the discomfort they could bring, you resorted to humor. “I’m surprised you lasted that long, Cooper Howard. You being an old man, after all.”
You're Still Perfect
(Recom Miles x Gn!Human Reader)
Summary: After getting injured on Pandora your boyfriend, Miles, comes to see the aftermath and makes you feel better about your new scars.
Warnings: Depictions of violence and animal death.
Word Count: 2k
A/n: Haven't written a Miles fic in awhile so here's a one shot of you guys <33
Venturing into Pandora as a human was a danger you could never quite get used to. Because of the recoms na'vi bodies, they were suited for the wild world of Pandora, but you, not quite. Running depleted your energy faster, manoeuvring through the vegetation was hard, and most animals could easily overpower you. Although this place was beautiful to you in every way, it was challenging to navigate safely.
Today, you were tasked with accompanying Miles, your partner, and the other recoms during a Pandora expedition, and things, as they so often do, went south. The recoms accidentally ventured into a wild thanator’s territory, causing the creature to stalk the group until the opportunity to strike came. Since you and the other humans flanked the recoms, that was the perfect opening for it to attack. Swiftly, it attacked the others, killing some of your squad members, brutally injuring others, and lastly heading for you. It lunged at you, carving deep into your chest as you shot wildly at the creature but couldn't seem to land a hit. The recoms were alerted and went to neutralise the threat, but seeing you in its clutches made them halt, awaiting Miles' instructions on how to handle the situation. The thanator lunged at you again, but this time you dodged it, not completely. Its claws landed another cut into your back, less deep than the one on your chest, thanks to you evading its attack at the last minute. Your body hit the ground roughly, putting enough space between you and the creature, but that space didn't last long. The creature ran straight towards you with the intention of killing you off, but before it could land that killing blow, Miles instructed his men to open fire. They shot relentlessly until the creature’s body limply fell to the floor, ceasing its attempt to cause you and the others any more harm.
After one of the recoms confirmed that the creature was dead, Miles instructed his men to count the dead and wounded while he personally went to you. He examined your wounds with an attentive eye, scanning your body for any other wounds before calling an aircraft to collect you and the wounded. He was a man who put his work before everything else, that was, until he started dating you. He was still dedicated to completing his missions, but would put a pin in them to assure your safety first. He reserved affection until you were behind closed doors, but he had his way of showing you more subtle types of affection while out on missions together. He held the side of your neck, his thumb grazing against your jawline while his eyes asked you a question. Are you alright? Through clenched teeth and watery eyes, you said yes, but it wasn't convincing enough to him or you. The pain stung your flesh, making a simple task like breathing set your body on fire, but you didn't want to admit it to him of all people. You told yourself you needed to be strong in front of your peers, especially him, but your facade started slipping due to the Intensity of the pain. While the others gathered the dead and kept watch, Miles remained by your side until the aircraft arrived.
When the time came, you and your other injured squadmates were taken back to base and sent to the infirmary, but Miles and the recoms stayed to finish the task at hand. You weren't unfamiliar with having to part ways with Miles because he still had missions to finish, but it didn’t make it easier to leave him. The sting of your wounds didn't compare to the sting of leaving his side.
Night fell on Pandora, and you were in your room, standing in front of a full-length mirror, topless to look at your new stitches. Your fingers touched around your large chest wound, a grimace expression on your face as you studied the scar. It didn’t sting anymore, but ached, an annoying reminder of what happened today. The longer you stared at it, the more your face contorted with disgust. This thing that stained your skin was now a permanent reminder of how easy you could get hurt out there. How weak you were, you thought to yourself. The thought lingered in your mind like a migraine, making your already low mood worsen the more you stood in front of the mirror. Then there was a knock at the door, cutting through the dreadful silence and making your attention shift to the door.
“Uh, coming!- One sec!”
You shouted to the person at the door, sifting through your clothes and tossing on a loose shirt to avoid irritating your stitches. You quickly walked to the door and opened it, expecting to see one of your coworkers, but saw Miles instead. He wore a black tank top and his camo pants, clearly just returning from his mission.
“ Oh, hey Miles! Wasn’t expecting to see you till late.”
“Finished up quick so we ain't had to stay out late. You gonna let me in or keep me standing here?”
He asked with a sly smirk, tail swaying slowly from side to side as he leaned against the doorway, his eyes never shifting too far from your face. You snickered at him, then stepped back into the room so he could come in. He fully stepped into the room, closing and locking the door behind him before moving closer to you. He stood before you, hands resting on his hips and his head tilting down at you, his sly expression from before turning serious.
“ Let me see the cuts.”
He said, glancing down at your chest, then back at your face. You knew you'd have to show him eventually, but part of you didn't want to. Your own disgust about your wounds convinced you that he'd feel the same. You worried he’d find them just as ugly as you saw them and maybe more. Your hands clutched the hem of your shirt, unwilling to move at first, but the worried look in his eyes was enough to make your hands finally move. You slowly pulled the shirt over your head and set it on the edge of the bed, your upper body now fully exposed to him. Now that he could see your scars, you couldn't look him in his eyes, bracing yourself for his judgement and distaste at your body's new appearance. You didn't know what was worse, the fact that he was looking at you or the fact that he didn't say anything since you took your shirt off. These few seconds of silence dragged on painfully slow, making you shift uncomfortably.
“ Ugly, right? Can't stand looking at em.”
You said with a dry laugh, unable to stand the silence any longer. You quickly turned your back to him and grabbed your shirt, desperately wanting to cover your scars back up, but the sound of him moving stopped you. He took a few steps forward, closing the distance between you both. He kneeled behind you, being closer to your height but still taller than you by a few inches. One of his hands wrapped around your waist while the other gently rubbed near your stitches on your back. A warm shiver ran down your spine from his touch. Even with the unpleasant emotions running through you, your body couldn't deny how nice his hands felt against you. His fingers rubbed softly against your back, then suddenly he leaned down more, and you felt his lips press against your skin near the scar, making your back involuntarily arch, and a breathless gasp escape your lungs.
“ They're not ugly..”
He whispered, his warm breath brushing against your skin as he placed another kiss against your spine, longer but just as soft and sweet as the first. Red stained your cheeks at the sensation, the feeling so nice that the ache of the stitches became an afterthought. Your body relaxed as more kisses found their way on your spine and back, making you drop your shirt, but you didn't care. All you could focus on now was his kisses, his touch, and his affirmation that your scars weren’t ugly. Your worries faded from your mind the moment his lips met your skin; it was like his kisses were a remedy for both your insecurities and your pain. He planted one last kiss on your back, then turned your body around so you could face him. You met each other's gaze, his filled with worry as his eyes trailed from your face to your chest, while yours was filled with relief and curiosity.
“ I should've had you beside me; This wouldn't have happened if I were there.”
He grumbled angrily at himself, taking the blame for why you had these injuries. Your initial response was to say the fault wasn't on him; it was on you for not paying attention to your surroundings better or putting up more of a fight. The last thing you wanted was for him to carry the guilt for your weakness. But before the words could leave your mouth, he kissed your chest, a few inches below the tattered skin. Warmth blossomed in your body, spreading across your being so fast it stunned you. Neither of you exchanged words, but through his kiss, you could feel what he wanted to say. I'm sorry. Each kiss on your chest felt like an apology to you for not being there to protect you better.
Miles' protectiveness grew the moment you both started dating. He prided himself on his ability to protect you, to be your defender, and seeing you get hurt felt worse than being shot through the heart. Knowing his partner was hurt and he stepped in to help too late burned his soul worse than any fire could ever. His hands pulled you closer, holding you so gently while kissing your body so softly that it made the pain of your injuries stay dormant. You watched him in awe. Miles showed his softer side to you when you were both alone, not afraid to show you the love you deserved, but this was different. It wasn’t just love he was showing you through his actions. It was a reassurance that the scars that were unrightfully adorned on your skin weren't ugly. You were nothing less than utter perfection in his eyes, and this didn't change. His kisses were an unspoken vow to you, a promise that he'll better protect you. That as your lover, he wouldn't let anything on this planet bring you harm. Being your protector filled him with great pride, and what happened today would only motivate him to be your perfect knight.
Your eyes grew glossy with tears, feeling overwhelmed by his actions, his devotion to you erased every insecurity you ever had in the blink of an eye.
“ Oh baby…”
You murmur softly, hands reaching down to hold his face and make his eyes meet yours. His golden eyes softened at you, pupils dilating and tail whipping quickly. He didn't have to say how much he loved you; it was etched into his face and voice. You smiled warmly at him, letting your thumbs brush against his cheeks tenderly as you gazed lovingly at him.
“ These cuts won't change how I feel ‘bout you, sweetheart.”
“ You sure..?”
You asked softly, taking his words to heart, but couldn't help but ask to be sure. He scoffed at your words, looking offended that you'd think something like this could change how his soul yearned for you. He rose from his knee and picked you up, your legs wrapping around his waist and hands wrapping around his neck for extra support. His hands rested beneath your behind to hold you up, then pressed his forehead against yours. He smirked at you, his soft chuckle filling your ears before he gave you an answer to your question.
“Damn straight I'm sure.”
He said firmly but lovingly. His words made a wide smile find its way on your lips, putting any worries that would dare come up to rest. You had a few insecurities, but rarely did they ever convince you that Miles thought the same about whatever you were insecure about. Today was one of the few times that happened, but as quickly as your mind convinced you he’d think these new scars of yours were ugly, he just as fast assured you that wasn’t the case. Instead of verbalizing your thanks, you pulled him into a passionate kiss, your lips sweetly pressing against his. He matched your passion almost immediately, smirking into the kiss with a soft chuckle. The kiss lasted till the air in your lungs ran out, savoring the warmth of his lips like you’ve been without it for so long. You pulled away reluctantly, Miles playfully nipping the skin of your lip before you got too far. You both exchanged smiles, then decided to end the night cuddling, Miles filling you in on what happened after you left, and you quietly listened until tiredness consumed you. After the day you both had, there was no better way to end it than being wrapped around each other, tuning the world out to fully immerse yourselves in the feeling of warmth, love, and comfort.
When a new international threat pops up on the radar of the New Avengerz, they are forced to go undercover and need the help of an ex-Avenger. With one phone call from Bucky Barnes, you are reluctantly pulled back into the world of heroics. It is only one mission, but can your own reservations about the new team be pushed aside long enough to get them out alive? Or will it be too much for you when you're simply trying to move on from the past? Will you crack under the pressure or will something else?
Warnings: slow burn, one sided affections (you had a crush on Steve), rivals to lovers, explicit language
AO3 link if you want to read it there. Note: AO3 will always get updated first
Pairing: The Void x Witch!Reader (Main for this one, now...calm down), Earth-828 Johnny Storm x Witch!Earth-616 Reader (Sub, sorry)
Synopsis: Dealing with grief and lost lead you to a life you never knew could continue.
Genre & warnings: Angst and angst, mentions of blood, Marvel level violence, follows the timeline of after DS:MoM and Thunderbolts. SPOILERS FOR THUNDERBOLTS + POST CREDIT(its been months, do I still need to put warning?). And like Marvel, we never get full explanation of what happened. <3
Word count: 8.5k | masterlist
a/n: this is a rework of a previous Void x witch!reader, but I liked it a lot so I'm using it okay? Okay. Enjoy my lovelies & THANK YOU FOR 222 followers as I type this <3
Prologue
It’s been a year since—
Since what?
You stand in the Sanctum’s library, fingers paused against the spine of a book you don’t remember reading. The title is in a language you shouldn’t understand, but the words come too easily. Like you’ve said them before.
The silence is heavier here lately. Wong is rarely around. Sorcerer Supreme business, you assume, and Stephen… Stephen is long gone. Kamar-Taj reclaimed him after the mess he made of the multiverse.
He left quietly. No ceremony. No goodbyes.
Only a glance.
And a promise you made, though you can’t quite remember what it was.
You live alone now in a house full of echoes. Watered plants, swept floors, sigils checked and wards redrawn. You eat your meals in the same quiet kitchen where he once conjured coffee just the way you liked it. You sleep in a room that still smells faintly of smoke and cedar. You dream of things that feel real. Too real. But they slip away by morning, leaving nothing but your heart racing and a sense of wrongness in your skin.
There are gaps you’ve learned not to chase.
Strange never told you why.
Wong never asks.
And you’ve stopped asking yourself.
Until today.
A knock at the door. Sharp. Purposeful.
You pause halfway down the staircase, fingers curled slightly like a ward’s trigger. You don’t recognize the signature behind the door, but there’s no malice, only intent. Precise. Cold.
You open it.
She stands with a tilted head and a knowing smile. Black coat, gloves, the faintest glint of violet in her eyeshadow, and something darker behind her gaze.
“Long time,” she says, eyes scanning you like she’s trying to decide which version of you she’s looking at. “I hear you’re between supervisors.”
You don't answer. Not yet.
She steps inside without permission, like she already knows you’ll let her. Like she’s been here before.
“Wong’s busy,” Valentina says, running a hand over the edge of a relic without really seeing it. “Stephen’s… elsewhere. And you—” she glances back at you, half-amused, “—seem like someone who's been left behind.”
You don’t deny it.
“One job,” she says, her voice calm. “Maybe two. Off the books. Help clean up some of the chaos others won’t touch. I think you’ll find it satisfying.”
Her offer is simple. Dangerous.
Familiar in a way that leaves something cold at the base of your skull.
You tilt your head. “And what do I get?”
She smiles like she’s already won. “A purpose. Autonomy. A way out.”
You hold her gaze for a moment too long.
A way out.
You glance at the Sanctum behind you. The staircase still dim in early evening light, the scent of old paper and sigils lingering in the air. You think about the months you’ve spent here. Waiting. Obeying. Trying to forget what you didn’t even know you’d lost.
“What kind of mess?” you ask.
Valentina shrugs. “The kind that leaves bodies. The kind no Avenger wants their hands on. The kind you’re good at.”
You flinch at that — just a fraction. She notices. Doesn’t comment.
You tell yourself it’s just a job. A temporary thing. Something to remind your hands how to move, your body how to act. But there’s a part of you, quiet and deeper, that already knows this is a beginning, not a detour.
Because these walls were never meant to hold you.
And no matter how many times you rewrote your story inside them, eventually, you were always going to leave.
You nod.
Still, your feet hesitate on the first step up the stairs. The Sanctum is still behind you, still watching.
Still silent.
You go upstairs anyway.
Grab only what you need. Your coat, your rings, a blade you don’t remember forging but that fits perfectly in your hand. As if it waited for you.
You don’t leave a note.
You don’t seal the wards.
You don’t look back.
Just a soft click of the door closing behind you.
And with it, the Sanctum Sanctorum exhales — as if it knows, this isn’t the first time you’ve walked away.
But it might be the last.
Upstairs, on the edge of your dresser, you’d left a strange little toy.
You found it while packing — tucked into the bottom of a drawer you never remember using. A tiny figure in white and blue, plastic and cheap, probably from a cereal box. When you pressed the button, it lit up and shouted in a bright, tinny voice.
"Flame on!"
You stared at it for a long time. Something tugged at your chest. A feeling you didn’t have a name for.
Recognition without memory. Like a dream that slips away the moment you open your eyes.
You left it there.
You don’t know why.
It didn’t matter now.
All you knew was this: something inside you didn’t feel whole.
Like pages torn from a book you’d never finished reading.
And even now, even as you step back into the world — you don’t remember ever crossing the threshold.
But something in you still yearns for an empty space.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
The first time you felt it, it wasn’t a whisper — it was a lurch.
It happened in the middle of bullets flying, fists clashing, metal groaning under brute force. A shockwave cracked through the vault, rattling your bones. You felt it not in your skin, but in your mind — a tug, like fingers brushing the edge of your consciousness. So soft it could’ve been imagined. But you still turned your head, searching the space behind you.
Nothing.
Then a bullet skimmed past your shoulder, ripping into the wall behind you. Walker’s bullet. You shook it off. You had to.
The vault’s runes rendered your magic inert. The crude glyphs carved with intent to suppress, not protect. You had felt wards like that before. Stephen had made you memorize their structure once, in Kamar-Taj, warning you they were not for learning — only for understanding what to avoid.
You never stopped your studying and reading on understanding your magic even after a year of doing commissions for Val.
But now here you were, surrounded by them.
Your magic buzzed faintly beneath your skin, clawing for release. But the pain that bloomed every time you reached inward made you flinch. Like something inside you recoiled from the wards with a hiss. You could still fight — not with spells, but with instincts. You remembered the basic forms, the way Wong taught you to read body language, anticipate attacks and your previous past that you had cleaned yourself from.
John Walker had been the mission. Valentina's mission. You hadn’t trusted her fully — Strange had warned you about people who smiled too widely when offering freedom. But you said yes anyway.
And in the end, the plan fell apart. You weren't surprised.
And then he showed up.
Not with power. Not with purpose. Just a man in a hospital wear, barefoot and breathless. Wild-eyed and unsure.
The pull came again.
Stronger now. More specific.
You locked eyes. A flash of recognition — not of the man, but of the thing inside him. It pressed up against your thoughts, insistent but vague. Like a dream you forget just before waking.
His name was Bob. No surname mentioned. No memory beyond vague pieces of being a volunteer for a medical project in Malaysia, he said.
You'd seen enough of the world behind Sanctum walls to know that wasn’t the whole truth.
You longed to reach into his mind, peel back the veil and see what writhed behind the amnesia. But the runes burned against your senses. Every time you so much as focused your will, your veins sang with warning. Like holding onto something too hot.
Still, you felt it.
Whatever Bob was, whatever he had inside him — it wasn’t dormant.
Because now, above a decaying Manhattan skyline, Bob wasn’t stumbling anymore like in the vault.
He was floating.
A man unmade. Or maybe remade into something else.
People vanished mid-step. No cries. No struggle. Just… gone. Shadows burned into sidewalks. Skyscrapers flickered at the edges. He was unmaking the city in slow motion — like light being swallowed by static.
And you remembered.
Back in the vault.
He had reached for your hand, pulled you through the narrowing wall. Skin met skin. The moment contact sparked, something slammed against your mind — a weight, an ancient force pressing down. You staggered. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
You didn’t process it then. You didn’t have the time.
Then came the explosion.
Your head hit stone. Darkness folded around you. His hand still wrapped around yours like a fuse refusing to burn out.
And the pressure grew worse.
When you came to, everything ached. Your temples throbbed, like your magic was screaming behind a locked door. And Bob… Bob stood nearby, strangely still, watching you.
You kept your distance after that.
But you still felt it. The way the air around him warped. The subtle shiver in shadowed corners. Like something watching you from inside him, and smiling.
And then there was the way he looked at you.
It wasn’t malicious. Wasn’t leering. Just… long.
Too long.
You wanted to meet his eyes. Challenge it. But part of you hesitated. Because something in him was pulling. And part of you didn’t want to pull back.
That part scared you.
You don’t think he even realized he was doing it. Because the pull wasn’t coming from Bob. It came from what had settled in him. The thing that hadn’t quite hatched.
Walker knew it too.
You found him standing at the edge of the vault hole, staring down like something was still in there.
His voice shook.
“When I was in the vault,” he said, “I… I saw something. I went somewhere. I can’t explain it, but…”
He didn’t finish.
Because you already knew.
Here you are now.
Black tendrils of smoke flowed from your fingertips as you moved between the crumbling street and fleeing civilians, shielding them with the last of your will. You cast illusions, redirected sightlines, placed cloaking wards on alleys — anything to keep the Void from seeing them.
But it saw everything.
The shadow crept toward you, blanketing every surface, swallowing every light. The Void was spreading — not in haste, but with intent. Like a predator circling something it had already caught.
And dread followed your steps.
You watched your new teammates, those you'd fought beside, trusted, learned to hope in — slip into the dark, one by one.
Was this even the plan?
Did any of you ever have a real plan?
Your breathing was ragged, each inhale scraping your tightening ribs like a blade. You had overdrawn your reservoirs of power — the kind you were trained to regulate, not expend. Your veins slowly turning dark against your skin. Strange taught restraint. But restraint wasn't going to save anyone now.
Your legs ached, your hands trembled, and your wards were faltering.
But you kept going. Because there were still people. And that meant you had to try.
“Give up.”
The voice crawled into your skull like a spider nearing its trapped prey on the web.
“Give yourself to me.”
It caressed your mind with smoke and honey. Tempting. Reassuring.
“Surrender.”
“No.” You pressed your hand against a panicked woman’s temple, breathing uneven. Your eyes flickered with silver-blue light, and her mind calmed just enough for clarity. “Run. Now.” Your voice held the weight of command.
She ran.
And then — she didn’t.
She was gone.
Not just lost. Erased.
You turned, and another was missing. Then another. You reached in, stabilized minds, sent them through escape sigils, protective thresholds — and still, they vanished. One by one. Pulled into a void you could not see, only feel.
You were losing them. Faster now.
“You can’t save them,” the voice whispered again, coiled in your thoughts.
You stood there, staring at a scorched silhouette of the woman burned into the pavement.
“How long do you think you can keep them from me?” it asked. “Give up.”
You stumbled a step, teeth gritted, your wards cracking with the strain. You didn’t want to believe him. But you’d seen the truth, in real time — every person you fought to protect disappeared the moment your attention moved on.
“No—” you rasped. But your voice cracked. You surged forward, reaching for a couple in the distance, but they were gone before your second step.
Gone.
You staggered backward, arms slack at your sides. Your barrier broke like glass. You could feel it. His presence tapping your mind like water over stone, every drop widening the fracture.
You were alone.
Dust swirled around you like ash. There was no sound. No life.
Only him.
“I felt you… down there. When I was first released.”
His voice arrived before his form. Then the darkness thickened, and he descended. Not with grandeur, but with gravity. Like the world reshaped itself around him.
You looked up. And there he was. Cloaked in shadow, his form too fluid for a body, too solid for smoke. Lights bent around him. Space bent.
And his voice—
It scraped against your mind like velvet knives.
You tensed.
“So much grief. So loud.” He stepped closer, until the two pale points of his eyes caught yours. White. Empty. Piercing.
“You burn like a flare in the dark,” he said, tone almost reverent. “And I am nothing but a moth to flame.”
He reached for you. Slowly. Fingers of dusk trailing from his outstretched hand. The air chilled.
But before he could touch you, your voice cut through.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
Your hands balled at your sides. A pulse of heat flared in your palms.
He paused.
Then retracted his arm, expression unreadable. Shadows around him shifted like thoughts. He almost tilted his head.
“No,” he agreed softly. “But I want to.”
He leaned forward slightly. “Your mind… it doesn’t bend like the others. You keep it locked. Tight. Why?”
You said nothing.
He smiled — or something like it rippled across his form. “Do you even know what you are?”
The words slithered past your ears and burrowed inward, curling into your deepest thoughts.
“That power inside you… it calls for me,” he said. “Don’t you feel it too?.”
Your body screamed in protest. Or was it in desire? Your magic, raw and furious, writhed inside you. You could feel it spiraling like a vortex in your veins, stirred by his nearness.
You did feel it.
But it was out of sync. Off-beat. Like something dancing to the wrong rhythm.
He was the disturbance.
"You can’t fight forever," he whispered, his voice now beside your ear.
Every breath you took hurt.
"Let me in, and I’ll show you what you really are."
Cold seeped into your bones. You staggered. Heart thudding.
“I’m nothing like you.”
“No,” he answered without pause. “But you could be.”
He took Bob’s shape again. The human you thought you’d saved. The face, the frame — familiar. But now warped by the echo of something far older. Flickering like bad signal, unstable.
You weren’t sure whether to recoil or reach out.
Still, your feet stayed where they were.
“You’re tired,” he said. His presence pressed against your barriers — not slamming into them, but whispering through the cracks. “You want answers. Let me in… I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
His arms rose, hovering near you. Not touching. Not yet.
Your fists trembled, black and white magic swirling like smoke and light. The pressure nearly split your ribs apart.
Be in control.
You looked up, slow and deliberate.
“This is manipulation. I know who I am.”
His voice dropped to a near-silent breath.
“This is honesty. And I don’t think you really do.”
The world stilled.
You could still turn away.
But you didn’t.
Your powers surged toward him, responding — or obeying. You took one step forward.
And the Void opened its arms.
The void welcomed you with a cold nothingness. Weightless, endless. A slow, spiraling descent into black. Your body wasn’t falling, no not really, but your mind was. Clinging to the edges of itself, holding on tightly, terrified of shattering.
It felt like one of those dreams — the kind where you fall off a building. Heart lurching. Breath stolen.
But this time, you didn’t wake up.
You kept falling.
Over and over, you braced for impact. Waited to hit the ground. Waited to open your eyes and find yourself in bed, safe and alone. Maybe none of it had happened. Maybe you never accepted that final mission from Val. Never boarded that plane. Never got trapped in the vault. Never met Bob. Never met the others. Never met the Void.
A quiet laugh caught in your throat. There was no waking up. There was no ground. Just this. The weightless, freezing dark.
Your eyes slipped closed, ready or pretending to be ready for the end.
Then you heard them. Whispered voices. Not outside you, but inside. Sliding beneath your skin. Curling around your ribs. Ancient and patient and inevitable.
“May I enter?”
It wasn’t a question. It only sounded like one. It wanted permission, but didn’t need it. The presence loomed, pressing at the gates of your mind, waiting for the word to step through.
You hesitated. Your thoughts pulled tight like fraying rope, on the edge of unraveling.
But you had no choice.
Your voice barely broke the silence.
“…Yes.”
The void shifted.
Not warmer. Not brighter. But aware. The darkness folded in on itself. No sound, no wind, just the unbearable gravity of something other arriving.
Suddenly, the void fractured.
You landed hard on polished hardwood. Cold seeped into your limbs from the floor, and you gasped as breath returned to your lungs in a rush.
It was the Red Room’s training hall.
You knew it before you saw it—before your eyes even caught up with your brain. The distant echo of metronomic ballet taps, the too-familiar scent of sweat and disinfectant. A memory too deep to forget. You pushed yourself upright, heart already pounding as your gaze snapped to the center of the room.
Young girls moved in choreographed silence across the floor, limbs trembling in precision. Shadows clung to them like parasites—living smoke slithering around their ankles, their wrists, the base of their necks.
And standing near the front, her posture straight and severe—
There you were.
Smaller. Thinner. Face a blank mask, eyes sharp like cut glass. Next to her. The Mistress. Cold and commanding. She didn’t need to shout. Her presence alone demanded perfection.
One girl faltered. She was new. You remembered that. Her arms shook as she stumbled out of rhythm. A small, strangled cry slipped from her lips, and that alone was enough to bring silence crashing over the room.
The Mistress turned her head.
Your younger self stepped forward. No hesitation. You watched, frozen by the doorway, as your hand reached out and with invisible force, the shadows tightened.
A flicker of telepathy. One you hadn’t yet mastered, but already powerful enough.
The girl’s fear vanished. Her eyes dulled. She moved back into formation, her limbs suddenly mechanical. Empty. Compliant.
It had been your task. The Mistress had trained you for this since the day your parents let you go to them. But back then they didn't understand the extent of your powers. Of what was contained inside of your bloodstream.
Your breath caught. A weight pressed behind you again, that suffocating presence like someone breathing down your neck, but you refused to turn.
And before you could, the room rippled.
The training hall distorted at the edges. Floorboards curling, dancers fading into smoke and your body lurched forward into darkness again, propelled through time and memory.
You hit the ground harder this time.
The sterile white of the next room blinded you. It reeked of antiseptic and blood.
Rows of beds lined the chamber, each occupied by young Widows. Needles pierced their arms, thin wires connected to machines that hissed and beeped. You knew this place. You’d spent months here.
Your eyes locked on your younger self again, standing stiff near the far end, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable.
Monitoring. Observing.
A girl screamed, ragged and raw. You turned toward the sound just as she thrashed beneath leather straps. A needle plunged into her arm. Her back arched. Blood burst from her lips as her eyes rolled back.
And still, your younger self didn’t move.
You reached out—impulse, instinct, guilt, all tangled into one—but your hand passed through air. You couldn’t change it.
You remembered now.
The collar around your neck. The blinking red light. One wrong move and your body could be dust.
You had been so young.
You clenched your jaw as the girl’s cries warped into static. She gurgled something unintelligible. Or maybe you just didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to admit she might have been calling your name.
Then—
Silence.
You turned your head, slow and reluctant.
There was blood everywhere. On the bed. On the ceiling. On the pristine white coats of the scientists.
And still, your younger self stood motionless. Eyes locked on the wall ahead.
Dissociating. Just to survive.
The fluorescent light above you flickered and with a soft click, a door appeared. Not a steel one this time, but something darker. Heavier. It creaked open on its own as the scene around you rewind again.
You didn’t want to go through it.
But something pulled at you again—not a command, not instinct. Something older. A guilt that never left.
You stepped inside.
And the air changed.
Gone was the cold brutality of the Red Room. No white coats or flickering lights. This corridor was different. This was yours.
The walls pulsed with red. Not metaphorically—literally. They were wet. They breathed. You walked forward, boots echoing against slick tile that grew darker with every step.
Then the faces appeared.
Beneath your feet, through the floor, blurry and flickering like poor reception on a screen. Eyes wide. Mouths frozen mid-plea. People you had killed. People whose names you didn’t remember. Couldn’t.
Then—
The alleyway.
It slammed into you like a wave.
Rain soaked the air, cold and heavy. You stood under a flickering streetlamp, blood trailing down your wrists. Your blade was still wet.
Three bodies. One gasping. One twitching. One already gone.
Your hands didn’t shake.
You breathed out like you’d just been released. Like it was a relief.
It had been your first time working for Val. Not under control. Not coerced.
You’d said yes.
You’d promised Stephen once—no killing. Not unless there was no other way. You’d told him you could hold the line. That you wouldn’t become what they made you.
But that night…
You didn’t just kill them.
You enjoyed it.
Efficient. Precise. Like a switch had flipped. And it terrified you of how easy it was.
Across the alley, your past self looked back at you. No remorse. No hesitation. Just the flat calm of someone built for violence.
“How long can you pretend you’re better now?”
His voice slithered around you, echoing off the blood-slick walls of the corridor. You froze.
“Even when no one was holding your leash… you kept going.”
Your throat closed.
“Your mind is strong,” he whispered, closer now. “But your hands? Always eager.”
You looked down.
Blood. Coating you. Soaking up to your elbows, warm, thick, and familiar. You hadn’t noticed it return.
“You liked the way they begged.”
“No,” you breathed, the denial weak in your throat, already too late.
“You liked the silence after.”
The final blow wasn’t physical—but it cracked something in you.
A fault line that had been holding for too long.
You broke.
And you screamed—but it wasn’t vocal. It couldn’t be. There was no breath left for it. What erupted from you was power. A surge of unfiltered, untamed chaos magic, a fraction of the ones of Wanda Maximoff, ripped through the ground beneath you. The floor shattered like glass underfoot, memories exploding into the air in jagged, flickering shards. The mist of blood spiraled around you, orbiting like a storm, suspended by grief, rage, and raw instinct.
You reached for him.
For the Void.
For his throat. For his voice. For anything that would make this end.
But he was already gone.
He never stayed long after the damage was done.
And in his absence, there was only the echo.
The memory.
The scene didn’t fade. It calcified.
Rain still fell.
Faces still watched.
You stood alone in the wreckage of your own mind, chest heaving, heart punching against your ribs. Somewhere behind you, thunder cracked.
But the real sound was softer.
A slither.
A whisper beneath the static hum in your mindscape.
Because when you broke—when your defenses fractured and your shields collapsed under the weight of old wounds—the Void didn’t hesitate.
He slid into the breach like smoke under a door, insidious and patient. Into the quietest corners. Into the cracks you didn’t know were there. Into the dying flickers of memory that spells had been trying to erase. The things you weren’t meant to hold onto.
Your last tether to who you had been before the separation. Before the erasure. Before the silence.
The Void found it.
That flickering piece of you—fading, dissolving under the spell’s slow banishing. Like an unraveling tapestry, each moment came loose, thread by thread.
And he stole it.
Wrapped his hands around it like a prize. Claimed it like leverage. Something to hold until later.
You didn’t feel it go. Not then.
The storm you had unleashed blinded you to the theft.
But in the wreckage, something felt hollower.
And when you reached for your rage again just to keep standing, you noticed:
It took a little longer to remember who you were angry for.
He was still there.
Watching. Feeding. Enjoying every crack in your armor.
Enough.
Your fists clenched.
You weren’t a puppet anymore.
Not here.
Not ever again.
You close your eyes.
You shut the noise off. Shut him off. That voice that slithered under your skin and peeled open your wounds with surgical precision. Letting the Void see what he wanted. The blood-drenched history, the warped compliance, the echoes of screams. But not everything.
Not the part you swore would never see daylight.
You bury it. Deeper than deep. You layer it behind blank walls, fractured mirrors, a silence so heavy not even the Void dares follow.
And then, you focus.
Draw a breath that doesn’t belong to you. Inhale past the pain. Reach beyond the wreckage. Past your own splintered psyche.
Until you feel it.
A thread. Quiet. Off-beat. Gentle in a way this place hasn’t allowed since the beginning.
Not yours.
Bob’s.
Fractured but present. A heartbeat trying not to be heard. Faint, flickering. But not gone.
You anchor to it.
And follow.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
The world around you shifts without ceremony.
You blink, and the corridor is gone. The slick marble. The shadows. The blood on your boots.
Now, it’s frost.
Your breath fogs in front of you, air sharp with cold. A street stretches out ahead, quiet and unreal. Wrong in the way that dreams are wrong. No traffic. No noise. Only a single streetlight buzzing overhead, flickering like a dying thought.
In the shop window beside you, a tall mirror looms.
Its surface is smeared with condensation, but even through the blur you see them. Dim outlines reflected in the glass. The team.
You don’t think.
You raise your hand, and without summoning rage or command, just intention and the mirror shudders.
Then fractures like water.
You step through.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
You land on wood.
The creak beneath your boots is immediate. Personal.
Dust spirals in the low attic air, thick and slow-moving like smoke from a long-dead fire. Cobwebs twitch in the corners. Light filters through the slats, silver and sickly, as though moonlight’s been stretched too thin.
Toys are scattered across the floor. Plastic soldiers missing limbs, puzzle pieces warped with age. An old record player churns in the corner, skipping endlessly on a broken loop. A single rocking horse sways gently though nothing touches it.
Everything smells like forgotten time. Mold and childhood.
You take one step forward—
And chaos unfolds around you.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
The center of the attic thrashes with activity.
Chairs lift themselves and hurl toward walls with howling velocity. Books launch open, pages flipping and screaming as if the words are alive. Curtains snap like whips. Shadows crawl along the walls, wrong-shaped and hungry.
You see them.
Your team.
Yelena rolls as a drawer explodes beside her, wood splinters grazing her cheek.
Ava phased just in time to avoid a chair that smashes where she stood.
Walker has both arms up, shield-less, deflecting a shattered dresser raining down from above. Behind him, Alexei is swinging a jagged table leg like a club, smashing at an armchair with teeth.
You lift your hand.
Not out of panic.
But purpose.
The moment stills.
Mid-violence.
A clock mid-fall floats in the air. The rocking horse pauses. Pages freeze, mid-scream. Even the shadows recoil, as if tasting something unfamiliar.
Your power threads through the room like smoke, soft and invisible but undeniable.
You bring peace.
If only for a moment.
They turn to you.
Not with surprise, but something quieter.
Relief.
“Lena,” Alexei exhales his daughter’s name like a lifeline. He’s covered in dust, pillow stuffing stuck to his hair. He looks like hell. Still smiles.
“You came for us,” Yelena murmurs. Her voice is hoarse. The curtain that had wrapped itself around her throat now drapes down her shoulders like a shroud. She’s still breathless, but her eyes are on you, steady and searching.
“Glad you finally decided to join the party,” John says, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek, trying to sound flippant. The corner of his mouth twitches into something like a grin. It doesn’t hold.
The tension softens. Slightly.
Ava lowers her stance. Her camouflage flickers off, revealing her pale, scratched-up face. Even she looks like she’s been through a blender.
“I thought we lost you,” she says, her voice oddly small.
You blink. The words strike somewhere deep, though you don’t let them show.
Yelena steps toward you. Hesitates. Then steps closer again.
“What did you see?” she addressed everyone, but her eyes were trained on you. “Are you okay?”
You smirk.
That same old mask.
“Oh, I’m fine. Had a great past, so I’m totally fine,” Bucky cuts in before you can answer, tone dry as ash.
You follow his lead.
“Yeah,” you add, brushing invisible dust from your sleeve. “Just a lovely walk down memory lane.”
It lands like a joke—but tastes like bile.
Yelena gives you a small smile. It's sad. Too knowing. She doesn't push. Just watches you chew your lip again, caught in that nervous habit you thought you'd buried.
A beat passes.
Then two.
“Yeah,” John mutters, surveying the room again. The hovering chaos. The shadows frozen mid-reach. The cold.
“This place is messed up.”
And for once, you agree with him.
"We're here together. That's what matters," Alexei said, nodding at you, his voice low and tired.
"Thank you, guys. Really."
Bob fidgeted with the sleeves of his blue sweater, eyes flicking around the group. When they landed on you, he couldn’t hold your gaze. Your stare was heavy, brimming with sorrow and it made him feel the weight of everything he’d dragged you through. Dragged all of them through.
"Of course," Ava replied curtly, still wary of another chair flying in her direction.
"Here we are: Shane’s Elite Electronic Thunderbolts."
Alexei waved his arm in disapproval. “It’s not Shane.”
"Okay, okay." Walker stepped in, sensing a banter brewing. "Just—how do we get out of here?"
Everyone turned to Bob. He was the one who brought them here. Technically.
"I mean… as far as I know, it’s just endless rooms," he said, sounding unsure—like a kid caught doing something wrong. Was this his fault?
"Wait," Yelena cut in, "you said this was the nicest room you found. The others were worse, right?"
"Yeah..."
"Okay, well—show us the worst."
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
Outside, New York City was rapidly being swallowed by the Void.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
The team moved down the hallway of Bob’s house when a voice barked out.
"Where do you think you’re going, Roberts?"
His father.
A tall figure stepped into view, angry and looming.
Walker didn’t hesitate. He rushed him and slammed his taco-shaped shield into the man's face. The older man crumpled to the floor.
"Well, he seems nice," Ava muttered, stepping over the unconscious body in search of an exit.
"The strangest mission I’ve ever been part of," Alexei muttered as objects began to move on their own. A picture frame shattered on the floor beside him.
"This way!"
"Go, go, go!" Walker called, ushering the team through a closet door.
You stumbled through, falling hard onto a pile of clothes. As you pushed up on your elbows—
Thwack.
A wooden sign smacked you in the face. You yelped, collapsing back in pain as a sharp laugh echoed above you.
"Oh no," Bob said, horrified, staring at the thing that hit you.
A chicken. Holding a sign.
“You okay?”
Bucky was at your side in seconds, hands hovering over your shoulders to steady you.
"Not really," you muttered, rubbing your face. "Is that… a chicken?"
The chicken attacked again. Feathers flew. Grunts and thuds filled the room as the team tried to subdue the mutant poultry.
"Bob, if you hit me with that sign one more time—"
Alexei grabbed Bob by the collar, but before he could finish, the chicken struck him squarely in the head again.
"I was on meth!" Bob shouted, fists clenched at his chest, watching the Red Guardian get bested by a drugged-up version of himself.
The chicken charged again—but before it could strike, Bucky decked it with his vibranium arm.
It dropped with a final cluck.
While the others regrouped, you and Alexei scanned the room, searching for another exit. A doorway—the basement—stood ajar.
"This way!" you called.
"Come on, come on—go!" Alexei brought up the rear, ushering everyone through.
You landed hard again. This time, on cold linoleum. Pill bottles rattled across the floor.
The room was silent, save for the collective breath of the team.
And there he was.
Slouched in a medical chair under harsh white light. The Void. Two faint silhouettes burned like shadows on the wall behind him.
You held back behind the others, hoping to stay out of his view. But you felt it—you knew he saw you.
“I’ve been here before,” Yelena whispered.
"This is where it started."
His voice came out thin as you looked at Bob. Even without seeing his face, you felt the weight collapse onto him. He recognized the room too.
"I was roaming Southeast Asia," Bob said quietly. "Thought I’d figure something out—or at least find more drugs."
The door hissed shut behind you, making you flinch. The group stepped forward, following Bob’s voice.
"Then this guy shows up. Talking about some medical study. A trial drug that could make me stronger."
You stayed frozen, your body locked in place. Your veins glowed faintly beneath your skin. The familiar mental tug-of-war returned. The Void pulling at you.
"Felt like a miracle," Bob continued.
He stopped walking.
You considered turning back. Your heart pounded. The air was thick. John caught your eye. He didn’t speak, but his face asked the question.
Are you okay?
You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t risk interrupting. You just clenched your fists.
"I finally thought I’d be something. More than just...me," Bob said, voice shaking. "That I was...something."
The Void’s voice cut through the silence.
Low. Deep. Almost calm.
"And look what you unleashed."
He stood. Slowly. Stepping around the chair, his black form fully visible now.
The team shifted uneasily.
"The most shameful thing of all," the Void said, now facing you, head tilted, "was thinking you could ever be more than—"
The silence that followed stretched thin, like a wire waiting to snap.
Finally, the Void replied. One word. Final.
"No."
The moment the Void looked up, he instantly caught your eyes.
It was as if every atom of your being was being swallowed by something ancient—vast, unknowable, and older than time itself.
You were taken. Pulled backward.
One moment, the lab was erupting in chaos. Void roaring through cracked reality, John shouting your name, and the next, the world splintered like glass. A rush of wind. A scream from somewhere far away. Then silence.
And now, you're alone.
Stone walls stretch around you, but there are no doors. No windows. Just a hollow, echoing space lit by candlelight that doesn’t flicker. The floor beneath your boots hums faintly, like the Sanctum itself remembers this place. Deep in its bones. Deep in yours.
Your breath fogs in the cold.
You know this room. You swore never to return.
But ahead—there you are.
A version of yourself, suspended in memory. Back hunched, fingers trembling just inches above an ancient spellbook held open by invisible magic. The air thrums with power. Familiar. Dangerous. A golden light pulses from the pages like a heartbeat, illuminating the room in waves.
She doesn’t see you—
But she’s speaking.
“I said I wouldn’t cross another line,” she says, her voice raw with grief and lost. “I said I would move on.”
Her hands curl into trembling fists. Her shoulders quake. But still, she doesn’t cry.
“It’s been a year,” she breathes. But you still feel like a corpse walking. A carrion.
You take a step closer. The light swells.
The spell has already begun.
It rises, slow and solemn, drawing golden strands from somewhere deep within her—within you. Smoke-like tendrils of memory unfurl into the air, suspended above the book like constellations stitched across a void. You watch, helpless, as your own pain comes alive in front of you. Not as a ghost, but as a confession you’d long buried.
The first shows a narrow alley bathed in twilight. The air smells of rain on warm stone. A tall figure leans in—blond hair tousled, blue eyes catching the last of the light, a smirk playing on his lips. He speaks low, his voice a secret pressed between the bricks.
“Meet me here tomorrow,” he says. “Midnight. No one will find us.”
You remember the slip of paper in your hand. The way your pulse stuttered. The way his eyes never left yours.
Johnny. The name screamed in your mind. You nearly doubled over at the weight of it.
The vanishes in flame, curling inward like burned parchment, the edges turning to ash before you can even blink.
You were erasing your own memory.
Then comes another.
A rooftop. City lights far below. Ice cream melting between laughter. He wiped a drip from your thumb, his fingers lingering too long. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything, but you remember the way your skin remembered him.
Gone. Swallowed by the fire before you can hold it.
You watched in horror as your past self, bloodshot eyes blurred by tears as she let her grief be taken by the spell. Her chest felt lighter, relieved of the burden of memories while yours grows heavy with the weight of remembrance.
“No…” It came out helpless.
The third is quieter. Music spilling from a distant window. Bare feet on warm stone. String lights above. You dancing slowly, your hand in his, his voice humming something half-remembered.
Your body remembered peace that night. Your heart remembered danger.
The memory burns slower. Like even the spell doesn’t want to let go.
But it does.
And then the final one appears, flickering brighter than the rest.
A kiss. Simple. Soft. Not a declaration, but a moment. One you both leaned into without hesitation. His breath on yours, the heat of his hand at your jaw. That single moment where everything stopped—grief, duty, time—and you were consumed in each other.
You almost say his name aloud.
But it, too, is taken.
You watch her—yourself—collapse to her knees. Head bowed. Eyes closed. Her hands fall to her sides, empty.
“If I forget him, I won’t go back,” she says, voice hoarse. “If I forget… I won’t break my promise.”
You close your eyes, your chest aching like something has been torn loose. Because now, finally, you understand what you did.
And why.
The ancient walls of the Sanctorium groaned as the book closed and the tendrils of magic seeped into you and into the wall. Settling and weaving itself into your mind, sewing close to what you had chosen to close.
And then the room rewinds.
A sound ripples through the chamber. Low. Slick. Too smooth to be human.
You turn as the shadows shift. The walls bleed into something darker, the air thickening. And then, from the far edge of the room, he emerges.
The Void doesn’t walk. He drips into existence. Formless one moment, humanoid the next.
“All that pain,” he purrs, voice curling around your spine. “And for what?”
You don’t move. You don’t speak.
He circles you, slow and confident.
“A broken promise of obligation to duty to a man who never truly understood what you lost.”
The shadows pulse with him, bending the light.
“Stephen let you tear your soul apart,” he says. “Let you erase love in service of an idea. Of a timeline.”
You say nothing.
“But I,” he continues, stepping closer, “I can give it back. Johnny. The rooftop. The dance. The kiss.”
His voice is silk now. Sweet. Dangerous.
“You could wake up tomorrow, and he’ll be there. Waiting for you. Arms open. No rules. No Strange. No guilt. No consequences of Timeline unraveling.”
He tilts his head.
“Just say yes.”
You can feel it. The pull. The hunger. That deep, aching desire to go back. To undo.
But then… you remember a voice. Not his.
Stephen. Just before you found the book. His hand had hovered over the shelf but never touched it.
“The cost of remembrance,” he said softly, “is a fracture too deep to mend.”
You remember how he looked at you that night. Like he already knew what you were going to do.
You lift your gaze now.
“I am fractured,” you whisper.
The Void stills.
You take a breath.
“And I chose it.”
Light builds behind your sternum. A flicker. Then a flame.
“I chose to protect the timeline. I chose my promise. I chose to let him go.”
The Void begins to hiss, form twisting, unraveling.
“Your judgement is clouded and swayed.”
“No.” Your voice grows stronger. “I’m grieving. And I still chose right.”
He lunges, jagged and sharp, but your hands are already rising, the air around you roaring to life.
The chamber shakes as light explodes from your body, tearing through the illusion, ripping into the dark. You scream—not from fear, but from resolve. From release. The Void cracks apart in a blast of energy, splintering into fragments of smoke and shadow, howling as he disappears.
You fall.
And the world falls with you.
The floor vanishes beneath your feet—no sound, no wind, just a sudden collapse into nothing. The chamber dissolves into fragments of smoke and gold. The spell. The memory. The Void. All breaking apart in a storm of light.
Then—impact.
You hit solid ground. Hard. The breath leaves your body in a gasp that never makes it to sound. Your limbs are limp. Vision, black.
You don't feel the others landing nearby.
But they are.
A dozen meters away, they’re spat out of the void one by one like ragdolls—scraped, bloodied, their bodies colliding with the ruined remains of a Manhattan intersection. The asphalt is split down the middle like a scar. Rubble clings to twisted metal and shattered windows. Overhead, the sky churns a pale gray, empty now of shadow.
The darkness has lifted. But New York is still broken.
Ava is the first to move. She pushes herself up from the debris, coughing hard. Then Bucky, one hand pressed to his temple, dragging John to his feet.
Lying motionless in the cracked street. Dust settling across your coat. A faint stream of energy still flickering at your fingertips, dying embers from a fight no one else could see.
Bucky sees you first.
“There!” he shouts, already running.
The rest follow. Yelena sprinting hard, Alexei stumbling close behind, John, Bob and Ava a beat behind them, covered in ash and exhaustion.
“Hey—” Bucky drops to his knees beside you. “Hey, look at me.”
Your body doesn’t respond at first. Your eyes are shut, lashes powdered with dust. A trickle of blood darkens your temple.
They call your name. Once. Twice. Again.
And then—
Your fingers twitch.
A broken breath escapes your lungs.
You stir, blinking against the sharp white haze overhead. The city is blurred behind their faces, voices muffled and overlapping as your hearing returns in fragments.
“Come on, come on, stay with us—”
“You’re okay. You’re back—”
“Talk to us—please—”
You gasp. A sudden inhale like drowning in reverse. And you sit up too quickly.
The world spins.
Pain lashes through your skull, fast and electric, and then… memory follows.
All of it.
Johnny’s voice. Earth-828. The rooftop. The kiss. The spell. The choice. The Void’s temptation. Your promise to your duty. Your own trembling voice saying: I chose this.
Your hands grip the pavement, your nails scraping the cracked lines in the asphalt.
You’re still on your knees.
Eyes wide. Chest heaving.
Because you remember everything.
And you’re still here.
It’s not peace that greets you. It’s pain. Sharp and sudden and immense. But beneath it, something deeper and anchored. Solid.
You chose to forget. You chose to honor the timeline.
You tore away the one thing that ever made you feel whole after half of the universe vanished.
And now, it’s all come back. Every moment. Every word. Every touch.
And you’re still breathing.
You raise your head slowly, meeting Bucky’s eyes.
Yelena is at your side. Ava touches your arm.
Alexei’s hand rests carefully on your shoulder, grounding you back into your body.
You feel the weight of what you did.
And what you endured.
And still, you’re here.
Not whole. But not lost.
You sit back slowly, letting the silence hold you for just a second longer.
The city is still broken. But the sky is clearing.
You exhale, not because the pain is gone, but because you know now. You can bear it.
You flew too close to the sun, burned for longing, fell for duty.
And still, what remains of you endures.
You. Still breathing.
Still becoming.
I, carrion.And I carry on.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
Epilogue
14 months later
The metal doors hissed open and in walked what the world now called the Thunderbolts. Or, as Valentina liked to say, Earth’s “new heroes.” You weren’t sure when that title stopped sounding absurd. You just knew it was yours now. Like it or not.
You never thought it would go this far.
“But we are the Avengers,” Yelena declared, arms swinging confidently as they spilled into the common room. A tangle of boots and sarcasm and mismatched weapons. “The government said so.”
You were already there. Sitting at the far edge of the lounge, legs tucked beneath you in a too-big armchair. Bob sat nearby but not close but always within your sightline, always quiet. Watching. Or pretending not to. Ever since they put you on rotation with him, babysitting duty really, it had been like this. Watching the man. Watching the thing inside the man. Making sure it stayed where it belonged.
You didn’t mind. It gave you space.
Space to think.
To grieve, quietly, over memories that had come back too fast, too full. The ache was there, but dulled now. Like a scar healing in the dark. You could sit with it.
“How does Sam Wilson not understand that?” Yelena asked, annoyed in the way only Yelena could be.
“He has the shield,” Bucky replied dryly, sinking into the couch beside her.
John raised his half-dented one as if on cue. “I have a shield too.”
“It’s not a shield,” Bucky muttered.
“Yeah, it is,” John pushed back.
“It’s a shitty shield.”
“It’s a great shield, Bucky.”
Bucky rolled his eyes and dropped into his seat like gravity had finally won. You felt a strange kind of sympathy for him, having to exist in the same building as John Walker.
“If Sam puts together a team and his team is called the Avengers,” Yelena asked, waving her arms, “then who are the real Avengers?”
“That’s what the Internet’s asking,” Bucky said with a sigh. “Judging by the memes, it’s not us.”
“Didn’t you say you’d talk to him?” Yelena said.
“I did talk to him,” Bucky replied.
“And?”
“It went… poorly.”
The silence that followed said more than words. You looked up briefly, even you couldn’t believe that. That wasn’t the Sam Wilson you remembered.
And then, you drifted again.
Voices blurred into background static. Your focus slipped like water through fingers. There was a pull, gentle but insistent, somewhere behind your ribs. A tug in your veins. Your powers were tied to the multiverse, after all. You were made of it. And lately, something had been… off. Warped. Slanted, like gravity shifting sideways. You told yourself it wasn’t your concern anymore. Not your weight to carry. That was for Strange and Clea now.
Still, the pull didn’t stop.
They kept talking. Somewhere between Yelena launching into a rant about space crises and Walker arguing that the building was too big to be out of space, you tuned most of it out. Bucky looked like he wanted to evaporate when Alexei strutted in with a ridiculous neon suit and a new plan to rename the team Avengerz with a Z, apparently for copyright reasons.
It was chaos in small doses. Familiar. Loud. Alive. But all of it floated around you like white noise, your mind caught in that faint pull again, like your blood was threaded to something unraveling just outside your perception.
But then the computer voice pulled you back.
Flat. Mechanical.
A.I. from the command station.
“Satellite image populating.”
“Extradimensional ship entering atmosphere.”
The air sucked out of your lungs.
Yelena turned sharply to look at you. Bucky too.
You hadn’t meant to react. But you did. A sharp gasp, like ice down your spine.
“…It’s a…” John stammered. “It’s a cool ship.”
A blue circular logo with a ‘4’ in it came into view as it turned.
Behind you, the air shimmered. A low hum crackled through the room. The scent of ozone, faint but sharp.
All of you turned just as the ring of sparks began to carve a circle into the air behind you.
A portal bloomed open.
a/n: So... how are we feeling, divas? Also, Hozier reference? Aye? Lets discuss pt 3
Pairing: Earth-828 Johnny Storm x Witch!Earth-616 Reader
Synopsis: It was supposed to be an escape, a world secret to only you, but someone made you want to stay.
Genre & warnings: SPOILER FREE!! Fluff to angst(what more do I write?), nothing else other than, get your tissues ready I guess? I'm sorry.
Word count: 4.6k | masterlist
a/n: There are SPOILERS for the end credit scenes of Thunderbolts* and possibly F4:FS in the comments so don't open comments okay!!
You were never supposed to stay. Not in Earth-828. Not with him.
But it started with a flicker of curiosity.
The multiverse was a door you had no business knocking on, but ever since the battle with Thanos and the rise and fall of Wanda Maximoff, you'd learned that sometimes, doors knock back.
Under the watchful eye of Doctor Strange, you were training — closely monitored, conditionally trusted. You had power not unlike America Chavez: rare, unpredictable, and intimately tied to the fabric of the multiverse. He didn’t say it outright, but you knew he feared it. So you studied, meditated, restrained.
But restlessness bloomed in your bones.
One quiet evening, Strange gone to Kamar-Taj for a summit, you were left alone in the Sanctum Sanctorum’s vast, humming library. You had promised to only review sanctioned texts — tomes already vetted, cleared, catalogued. Instead, you reached for the ones above, the ones behind silent sigils and whispered warnings.
You found the book buried in the lower archives of the Sanctum — a dusty thing about frequency planes and interdimensional pressure points. You didn’t even cast anything major. Just a ripple. A whisper of your power. And the portal bloomed before you like a tear in space, glowing soft around the edges.
Earth-828. But you didn’t know that at the time. All you knew that, it was somewhere new.
You stepped through.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
The first few times were quick. You slipped through the cracks with spells of cloaking and silence, walking among the chrome-lined streets and glowing glass towers. There was something poetic about it — the way neon met vintage, the way people dressed like retro comics but lived in buildings that pulsed with energy. It felt like a postcard, like a dream painted in old film colors.
You stayed invisible — literally. Your aura cloaked you naturally when you traveled between dimensions, a safety mechanism born of your power. You wandered quietly, just observing. A few minutes. Then you’d return.
But the rip hadn’t gone unnoticed.
His sensors picked up on your interdimensional signature, but Reed couldn’t track it to a fixed location. Your presence was too light, your signature too fleeting. But still, they knew someone or something, was coming through. There was a shimmer in the air every time you crossed over, like static, like a breath held too long. Reed couldn’t see you, but he felt your presence. And after the fifth crossing, he sent Johnny Storm to find you.
Reed Richards never cared much for names. Not the kind that came from different Earths or slipped between dimensions. So when his instruments began detecting flickers of destabilizing energy — spikes in multiversal frequency along the edge of Manhattan’s skyline. He didn’t ask who. He only asked how soon it could be shut down.
He had always theorized the multiverse. He had written about it in dusty old journals and modeled it in quantum projections no one else dared attempt. But theories were safer than proof. The truth was… Reed was afraid. Afraid that if even one hole opened, others would follow. And this Earth, this version, was stable. He would not risk it.
So when you showed up, a flicker in a courtyard, a blip on his carefully tuned sensors, Reed’s first instinct wasn’t wonder. It was containment.
He didn’t know your name. Didn’t know you came from a place of battle and blood and loss, a girl shaped by war and trying to find joy again. All he knew was that your presence sent his equilibrium readings spiraling.
He called it an anomaly. A threat. An intrusion.
But later, Johnny called it you.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
It was raining the night you met him.
The sky of Earth-828 didn’t fall with gray, but amber and pink — like an old oil painting melting. You wore the hood of your cloak up, casting a quiet veil spell around you, walking along the edge of a rooftop garden three blocks from the Baxter Building. That’s when the sky flared.
He came streaking through the sky in a blaze of gold and fire, trailing heat and a whoop of glee. Your breath caught.
He landed with a thud beside you, flame licking off his body like a living sun, eyes locked on you beneath the soft veil of your invisibility.
“I know you’re there,” he said, voice casual, but sharp with curiosity. “Your magic’s cool and all, but it doesn’t bend light like you think.”
You froze.
He took a step forward, flame receding slightly, revealing his boyish grin and sun-kissed hair still ruffled from the wind.
“You’re the anomaly,” he said. “Been chasing your signature for days.”
You let the veil drop.
He blinked. “Whoa.”
“Sorry,” you murmured, already raising your hand to summon a portal back. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No, wait.” His eyes scanned you — not in suspicion, but fascination.
“Where are you from?”
You didn’t answer.
“You gonna run?”
“No.”
“Good,” he said, folding his arms. “I hate when the pretty ones vanish on me.”
You rolled your eyes, but didn’t walk away. He captivated you. This was worth exploring more.
That was the first time.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
Johnny didn’t go back to the Building right away that day.
He flew for a while — long loops above the skyline, fire trailing behind him like a comet tail. He needed to burn the adrenaline out of his system. Because he’d found you. You weren’t a rift or a monster. You were just a girl.
And that meant Reed didn’t need to know.
A girl wasn't a threat.
When he finally touched down at the Baxter Building, Reed was waiting in the lab, hunched over a floating matrix of dimensional readings.
“Well?” Reed asked without looking up. “Did you find the source?”
Johnny hesitated. “Nothing. Just a weird heat signature — old flare activity from the skyline. Your sensors probably ghosted.”
Reed frowned. “Unlikely.”
Johnny shrugged. “Or maybe you’re finally slipping. Want me to call Sue for a second opinion?”
Reed gave him a look, but didn’t argue. “I’ll recalibrate the harmonic receivers. Maybe I missed a background echo.”
Johnny exhaled as casually as he could. “You do that.”
He left the lab and ducked into his room, heart hammering. He’d just lied to the smartest man on Earth. But he didn’t feel guilty. Not really.
Because you weren’t a threat.
You were... real. And kind. And a little sad in a way that made him want to set things on fire until you smiled again.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
The days after bled into each other like the warm tones of Earth-828’s sky. You kept returning — not just for the city now, but for him. He met you at rooftops, fire escapes, quiet corners of the park where kids weren’t flying drones but kites. He brought you coffee once, said he figured out your favorite blend. He guessed right.
Johnny talked a lot. But with you, he listened more. He told you about flying, about Reed’s endless tests, about feeling like everyone thought he was just the showoff. And you told him about your Earth, about Strange (but not everything), about feeling like a passenger in your own life sometimes.
“You’re not just a passenger,” he said once, eyes soft. “You’re the one driving the damn ship.”
You laughed. “Is that a space metaphor?”
“Obviously,” he smirked. “I’m a rocket man, remember?”
You learned to stop being afraid of how quickly you started to care.
He touched your wrist when he laughed. His thumb would brush yours when he handed you things. Once, he tried to mimic your cloaking ability by hiding behind a lamppost and pretending no one could see him.
You laughed so hard your sides ached.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
The night nearing the fall, he took you to the observatory above the Baxter Building. The cautiousness of being detected was forgotten. Reed didn’t find you this long now so you let your guard down. You stood beneath the stars, his jacket draped over your shoulders. He didn’t need it. You did.
“I know Reed wouldn’t be okay with this,” he said quietly. “But I don’t care.”
“I know Strange would be furious,” you replied. “But I can’t stop coming here.”
He looked at you then, something sharp and raw behind his eyes.
“Then don’t,” he said.
And he kissed you.
It was soft. Careful. Like he didn’t want to scare you. But the second you leaned in, his hand rose to your cheek, thumb tracing your jaw, and it deepened into something real — something warm. You felt fire beneath his skin, but he held it back.
You kissed him like you were writing your name on this version of Earth.
But the stars do not wait for mortals. No matter how beautiful they were twinkling light years away, they still carry the cruel fate of destruction.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
Back home, Reed’s algorithms kept humming. He adjusted his models, tweaked his code, even brought in Valeria to double-check a few strands of multiversal math. Johnny listened from the hallway. He always knew when Reed was getting close — the more agitated he got, the closer he was to truth.
So Johnny started sneaking glances at the terminal, memorizing numbers, checking the threshold charts for multiversal interference. Every time the graphs started to spike, Johnny would time his next visit with you just a little sooner. Just a little longer.
Every trip was a gamble.
But worth it.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
The courtyard was quiet at night, the kind of quiet that wrapped itself around you and muffled your thoughts into stillness. It's some sort of a routine now that you meet him at night. You walked slowly, hands tucked into your sleeves as the Baxter Building loomed above, windows dimmed except for one or two lab lights still glowing far up in the structure. You didn’t need to check to know one of them was Johnny’s.
You’d been careful. Always arriving when the world slowed down — past midnight, when Earth-828 seemed to sleep differently than your own. The air here always smelled faintly of something older. Analog. Less touched by the neon-hum of your Earth-616. The cars were heavier, the buildings boxier, but the sky… the sky was the same.
He was waiting for you beneath the skeletal shadow of a rust-covered sculpture in the courtyard. The moon cast soft light along the square tiles, bathing his blonde hair in silver, firelight dancing in the planes of his face as he fiddled with something in his hands.
“You’re not invisible this time,” Johnny teased.
You gave him a tired smile. “Felt safe.”
He stepped closer, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “So, I’ve been working on something.”
From behind his back, he pulled out a small clunky device, silver and glass, glowing with soft green light. You raised a brow.
“What is that?”
“Dimensional field dampener. Sort of. It masks the frequency spikes you make when you open a portal. Doesn’t stop you, but makes it harder for guys like Reed to notice.”
You blinked, stunned. “You made me a magic cloak?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah. Kinda nerdy.”
You took it gently, thumbing the smooth edge. “I love nerdy.”
And you meant it.
He just watched you, quiet for a beat, eyes catching yours like a pull. “I don’t want to stop seeing you.”
“I don’t want to stop either.”
There was a moment of pause as agreement was made between the space of your bodies. Checking whether the universe would reject your appeal or not.
“Can I kiss you?” You blurted out suddenly.
There was a breath of silence. Then a laugh, short and disbelieving, before he stepped forward and brought his hand to your jaw, cradling it like it was something delicate. As if you were a hologram in front of him. If he stepped in the wrong way your projection would disappear.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
His lips met yours like gravity — not rushed, not greedy, just inevitable. The warmth of him poured into you, like he carried the sun in his chest and was willing to let it spill, just this once. You melted into him, anchoring yourself in his jacket, the heat of his touch grounding you.
And the world narrowed. There was only this kiss. This moment. This boy from another Earth who had flames at his fingertips and the stars in his eyes.
When he pulled back, he didn’t let go of you. His forehead rested against yours, breath mingling in the sliver of space between you.
“You’re incredible,” he murmured, so quiet it barely made it through the cool air. “You know that, right?”
You opened your eyes slowly, meeting his. “I’m starting to believe it.”
You both stood there for a moment, suspended in that quiet warmth, in the feel of belonging that didn’t make sense but it did in your own little secret bubble.
Above you, the moon bared witness to your actions. No matter how damning to the timeline it was.
And somewhere far above the atmosphere, beyond even Johnny’s reach, Reed’s sensors began to flare with renewed urgency. A spike in dimensional energy. A rupture, faint but growing. Something strange in the air.
But down here in the courtyard, it was just you and him.
You dropped your head onto his shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. “Tell me about space,” you whispered. “What’s it really like?” You’ve been to space before. It was just a curiosity to hear him say it. Maybe his space was different from yours?
He hummed, his arm circling your back. “Lonely. Beautiful. Cold. There’s this… silence that’s different. It’s not empty, just vast. Like everything is still listening. And there’s this feeling, when you look at Earth from that far away… like you understand how small everything really is. And how lucky we are.”
You closed your eyes. “I’d like to see yours one day.”
He smiled into your hair. “I’d take you there. If I could.”
Neither of you spoke for a while after that. You just sat, side by side on the edge of the stone planter, legs bumping, hands brushing, wrapped in the glow of something soft and unspeakable.
But above, invisible and unnoticed, the air was rippling. Like the fabric of this world was breathing wrong.
Like something, or someone, was looking for you.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
Meanwhile, in Earth-616…
The Sanctum Sanctorum had grown… quieter.
Not in sound, but in magic. A kind of lull — an odd hush that settled in the corners of spellwork and seeped beneath the wards. At first, Strange didn’t notice. Your aura, cloaked in careful, deliberate shielding, wove itself neatly between the cracks of his attention. You were clever. And more importantly, cautious.
Too cautious.
You still trained every morning. You still studied, asked questions, meditated with a kind of intensity that masked the restlessness under your skin. You never raised suspicion. You never stepped wrong.
But the magic, your magic, left traces, even when cloaked. The moment you stepped out of this Earth’s frequency, you created a tension. A distortion. A soft pull, like someone plucking a single string out of tune in the Loom of time.
He ignored it the first few times.
Strange had grown used to the occasional ripple. The multiverse never sat still, not anymore. And you… you were still grieving. Still healing. He chalked it up to emotional fluctuation. Restlessness. You were young, and the cost of power was always weighty.
But then, around the second week, the distortion sharpened.
Not loud. Not chaotic. Just present, like a tick in the corner of his eye. You'd disappear for an hour. Two. Sometimes three. And when he searched, there was nothing. Not even a blink of magic left behind.
At first, he doubted himself.
He checked the wards. The shields. Even the Sanctum’s heart, where the echoes of other realms occasionally whispered. But there was nothing. You had hidden your trail with frightening precision.
Until you didn’t.
The moment came quietly.
Strange sat in his study, the Book of Vishanti open in front of him. The pages began to flutter — not from wind, but from a pulse. One that didn’t belong to this world. He reached toward the page meant to monitor multiversal tension and watched as a single glyph, a line of balance, quivered. Just once. Like a skipped heartbeat.
Then another ripple followed.
Not subtle this time. Not quiet. It roared.
A tether. Thin but intimate — stretched across the void.
You. He knew it instantly.
And whoever stood at the other end... wasn’t of this Earth.
He closed his eyes, reached inward, and followed the magic like smoke in reverse. When he found the thread you left behind, embedded deep in the weave of your own power, he saw it.
A courtyard, bathed in low moonlight. A strange skyline — not 616.
And you.
Smiling like he hadn’t seen in months. Laughing in a way that felt unfamiliar. Happy.
And beside you stood a young man with fire woven into his very being. His fingers brushed your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.
That was all it took.
Strange inhaled sharply, the spell snapping in his palm.
You had fallen in love.
Across dimensions. Behind his back. Using a power you didn’t fully understand.
He stood. Anger wasn’t the first thing he felt.
Fear was.
Fear that you would lose yourself, not just to emotion, but to the unraveling consequences of what this meant. Fear that he'd seen this before. That he’d already failed once.
He remembered Wanda. Her desperation. Her pain. Her delusions of control.
He wouldn’t lose another.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
The glow from Johnny’s makeshift field dampener flickered quietly between you both. It cast faint rings of light in the courtyard — like a ward against time itself. It was working. It was shrouding your presence in an invisible dome of frequency altering waves.
You stayed there for a while that night. Long enough that your breath slowed in rhythm with his. Long enough that you forgot how wrong this all was.
“I don’t want to go back tonight,” you murmured.
Johnny looked over, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “Then don’t.”
You smiled faintly, leaning your head back against his shoulder. “You don’t understand. He’s going to find me. Eventually. I don’t know how I’ve gotten this far without being caught.”
He stilled for a second, then squeezed your hand. “You’re good at hiding.”
You didn’t dare answer.
Your pulse ticked uneasily. You didn’t want to say it aloud, but you felt it. A tension. An invisible tug on the air, like something far away was waking up.
Your eyes lifted to the dark sky — and for the first time, it didn’t feel like peace. It felt like a countdown.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
A floor above, in the Baxter Building’s observatory, Reed Richards stood stiffly behind a console, his fingers flying over glowing panels.
The readings didn’t lie. The interdimensional signature had spiked again — stronger than before. Centered just beneath them.
“No more guesses,” Reed said sharply into the comms. “I want a location. Johnny’s there again, isn’t he?”
Ben’s voice crackled through. “Yeah. Courtyard.”
Reed’s mouth tightened. He knew.
ִ⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
Back in the courtyard, you felt it a heartbeat before you saw it — like the crack of static inside your chest.
A snap — the ripple of fabric tearing.
The air split above the grass behind you, light spiraling outward in a vertical slash. A portal. Familiar. Too familiar.
You were on your feet instantly. “No—”
Out stepped Stephen Strange, cloak billowing, eyes dark with fury.
His voice was quiet, but it carried like a thunderclap.
“I told you not to touch the multiverse.”
Johnny stepped in front of you instinctively, protectively. “Who the hell are you?”
“Johnny—” you warned.
Strange didn’t answer Johnny. His gaze pinned you. “You crossed worlds. You lied. You hid from me.” His voice threatened to lose control in anger. Rising in volume as he closes to you.
Your chest burned. “You locked me in that old building alone. You kept me from even understanding what I could do—”
“For good reason,” Strange snapped, stepping forward. “Do you know how thin the line is between you and what Wanda did? Do you remember what she became?”
“I’m not Wanda!”
“But you could be.”
That silenced you. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.
And you hated that your heart twisted because part of you believed him.
Johnny looked between you both, confused and angry. “She didn’t hurt anyone. She was just—exploring—”
Strange shot him a look. “You think this is about hurting people? It’s about unraveling them.”
You flinched. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“I know.” His voice softened, just for a moment. “But you have it. And you’re not ready.”
“That was all you ever say to me.”
A glow gathered at his fingertips.
“Don’t,” you whispered.
“I have to.”
“Johnny—” you turned to him, panicked, reaching for his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
He held your hand tighter. “I know.”
But the moment broke. A crack of gold light spiraled outward. Strange lifted his hand, and the cuffs snapped into place around your wrists.
You gasped as the energy flickered through you, your power dimming in an instant. The bond to the multiverse—cut. Just like that.
“Stephen!” you shouted. “Please!”
“You’re grounded,” Strange said simply. “You don’t touch this universe again.”
You twisted, eyes locked with Johnny’s, even as the world behind you spun and the air split into a recall portal.
He stepped forward. “Wait!”
But it was too late.
The last thing you saw was his hand reaching for you.
And then the world went white.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
Back in Earth-616, the Sanctum Sanctorum felt like a cage.
The ancient walls creaked under silence. The usual hum of arcane wards now pulsed louder in your ears, like they knew what you’d done. A thousand hidden sigils glowed faintly in the corners, reacting to your presence, or maybe warning the house to keep you still.
The magical cuffs around your wrists were cold. Not just in temperature, but in what they meant. Powerless. Bound. Caught.
You’d paced the room for hours, feet scuffing against the floor, your mind spiraling. Johnny’s name still echoed in your chest like a song you weren’t ready to forget.
When the Sanctum doors finally opened, you didn’t turn. You knew the sound of Strange’s footsteps.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there behind you, cloak rustling faintly with his breath.
You could feel the disappointment bleeding off him like a curse.
“I believed in you,” he said at last.
His voice was quiet. Not scolding. But it hit harder than a scream.
You didn’t turn around.
“I believed you wanted to learn. To understand your gift. I didn’t think you’d betray that trust.”
You bit your lip, jaw tight. “You mean you didn’t think I’d outgrow your leash.”
Silence.
Then a sigh. Exhausted. Hurt.
“You lied to me.”
Your voice came out hollow. “You lied first.”
That stung. You finally turned around, meeting his eyes. There was a flicker of guilt there, buried beneath the control.
He looked older tonight. Worn.
“I kept things from you,” he admitted. “Because I’ve seen what happens when people like us… chase after what we want instead of what’s safe.”
You stepped forward, slow and deliberate, your cuffed hands hang heavy in front of you, “This isn’t about safety. This is about fear.”
Strange’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think I do,” you said, eyes locked on his. “You’re scared I’ll become another Wanda. Another fracture in your perfect little order. And you didn’t trust me enough to believe I wouldn’t.”
His silence said enough.
You swallowed back the lump in your throat. “You never believed in me, Stephen. Just in your ability to control me.”
Something flickered in his gaze, regret, maybe.
Or shame.
“This isn’t about punishment,” he said quietly.
“Then what is it?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the floor like the words were stuck in his chest.
“It’s about not watching another gifted, powerful person lose themselves to want.”
You blinked. Hard. “Is that what you think I did?”
He looked up. “Didn’t you?”
Your shoulders sagged. You felt the ache spread in your chest like frost.
“I didn’t go there to tear space apart,” you said. “I went because… I met someone who made me feel like I wasn’t dangerous. Like I was real.”
Strange said nothing.
“I wasn’t destroying the universe,” you whispered. “I was falling in love.”
You saw it. The way his expression cracked for half a second. A flash of emotion. Not anger. But something sadder.
“I miss him,” you added, voice thin. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
You turned your face to the side, jaw clenched, trying not to cry.
Strange shifted his weight. When he finally spoke again, it was quiet. So quiet it barely reached you.
“Love doesn’t justify breaking the universe.”
You laughed. Bitter and empty. “Is that what this is to you? A breach protocol?”
“I saw what happened when Wanda reached across dimensions for love,” he said firmly. “She burned everything.”
You spun around. “I’m not her.”
“I know,” he said. “But you’re closer to that line than you realize.”
You held up your bound wrists. “So this is it? You’re locking me down? Is that how you love your students now?”
“I’m protecting you.”
“No,” you said, stepping toward him, voice rising. “You’re afraid of me.”
He didn’t deny it.
He just said, again, quieter this time, more final.
“You’re grounded.”
The words cut through the room like a curse. Simple. Final. Inevitable.
You stared at him, breathing hard.
“You don’t get to make that choice for me.”
“I just did.”
You turned away, chest shaking with silent sobs. You wanted to scream, but there was no point. Your power was gone. Your freedom gone. Your heart was somewhere in a different universe.
And all Strange could offer was a cell with velvet curtains.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
He left after that.
Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t raise his voice. Just walked away like it hurt him to stay.
The Sanctum was quiet again.
Too quiet.
And you stood alone in the middle of a glowing sigil meant to keep you safe.
It felt a lot more like a prison.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
Meanwhile, back in Earth-828, the Baxter Building was anything but calm.
Johnny stormed into the lab, fury written across his face. “You knew.”
Reed looked up slowly. “I suspected.”
“You let her get ripped out of here like she was some mistake—”
“She was a mistake,” Reed said coldly. “Her being here was a violation of everything we’ve worked to stabilize. She risked the entire equilibrium of our universe.”
“She’s not some monster.”
“She’s a threat.”
“She’s more than her power!” Johnny shouted. “And she trusted me.”
Reed didn’t blink. “Then she made two mistakes.”
Johnny’s jaw clenched.
“You should be grateful she was taken,” Reed added. “It could’ve been far worse.”
But Johnny didn’t feel grateful. He felt hollow.
⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝
And so time passed. Not weeks. Just days.
But it was enough.
You didn’t go back.
He didn’t reach out. Not that he could.
And neither of you said goodbye.
But maybe this is how it had to end.
A moment out of time.
A version of love that only existed between worlds.
Somewhere, the stars still shone the same in both skies.
And somewhere, the stars remembered.
a/n: Hi there! Part 2 is in the works upon an anon request! How would you like me to continue this? Because I can always make it more..... depressing or something else you guys want it to be!
summary: you come into their lives a month after the trip to space that changed them forever. you’re an assistant to the newly formed fantastic four — helping out in their personal lives, with the future foundation, and at reedtech. though you never expected that your new job would come with the perks it does — falling in love with reed richards and sue storm, and having them fall right back.
tw: angst, fluff, spoilers for fantastic four: first steps, pregnancy/conceiving, more to come!
(left & right images are mine! middle image belongs to owner!)
You're ignoring Walker. John craves your attention. He gets it the only way he knows how, by picking a loosing battle in front of the entire team. But after a mission gone horribly wrong, he realizes his feelings towards you aren't as nuanced as he's been telling himself to believe.
[Reader is a mutant with the power to manipulate blood, and has a serum-induced healing factor similar to Wolverine's. Former Widow and Avenger, current Thunderbolt New Avenger.]
john walker x fem!reader
words: 6k
cw: canon typical violence, swearing, graphic descriptions of blood and injuries, temporary character death, panic attacks/PTSD, implied suicidal ideation, enemies to reluctant allies to enemies to ???, the idiots are falling in love, john calls the reader ‘Red’ (because of the blood shtick, he’s very creative) (18+ MDNI)
a/n: sorry for using fall out boy lyrics for fic titles it will happen again. i hope I have everything in this properly tagged, but if Ive missed something feel free to let me know! the next part will likely be the last.
dead on arrival - fall out boy
For the next week, you stalk about The Watchtower like nothing ever happened between you and Walker. Like you didn’t goad him into a real fight. Like he hadn’t pressed you into the floor and kissed you senseless with his hand gripping your throat.
As if you haven’t been letting your fingers slip under your waistband every night since to the way his touch set off a hunger in you. You might have been the one who cut it off, but you couldn’t stop thinking about that day in the gym. It’s a complete disappointment that your neck goes through all the stages of bruising to healed in just a matter of hours, the mottled blues and yellows disappearing before your eyes in the mirror.
You’ve never played dirty like that in a fight before. You liked it, a lot, but you like beating Walker a lot more. The betrayed look he gives you every time you’re in the same room only fuels the fantasies running through your mind, the unbidden attraction for him taking up most of your time. But you’d die before admitting to such a thing, and since death is off the table for you, you keep your mouth shut. You stop antagonizing him. No longer watch his every move so you can correct his stance or the way he balances his weight. It’s strange, but still obvious enough that the rest of the team notices immediately. Even Alexei seems far too pleased when he points out the peace between you, like it’s some sort of victory.
And John seethes. The way you’d walked away from him, completely unbothered, when just moments before you were cementing yourself into every last contour of his being. And he could have forgiven that alone, but it was the way you’d been ignoring him ever since that’s been keeping him up at night. He gets his fill however he can, trying to push your buttons, watching you during meetings, sitting next to you at dinner, as if anything he could do might make a difference. Anything to get you to look at him again, even if its with your usual disdain.
At night, in bed alone, he can’t stop his mind from wandering to places he knows he shouldn’t be going. The moans that you’d let slip, how your body melted against his. The way you see through him so effortlessly. He’s never been so infatuated with anyone like this before. He feels out of control and embarrassed, even if he’s the only one who knows.
You can feel his eyes locked on you during meetings, mission briefings, training, and team bonding, his gaze rivaling even Bucky’s stare. He watches your every move like he’s a predator stalking its prey— but you both know that reality is the other way around, that you have all the power. Every so often, you’ll acknowledge Walker with an unimpressed glare, just to see the desperation in his stance. Always so obvious, your mutation picks up on the way his pulse jumps once he finally has your attention, even if just for a moment.
But John always needed more.
All the New Avengers are packed together in the briefing room, going over the details of a mission they were all shipping out on today. It was an all-hands-on-deck type of situation— Valentina had insisted because of good publicity— but also because it was Hydra. John has been antsy throughout the entire meeting so far, all his effort put into hiding the way he can’t keep his attention off of you. He’s missed most of the details Bucky and Yelena have discussed, only providing half-hearted murmurs of agreement here and there. And then, Bucky announces you’ll be the one to run point.
He has no idea why it’s the thing to finally set him off. Maybe because it’s more of you paving the way for him to follow, maybe it was just another hit to his already fragile ego. But it snaps him back into focus, placing his hands on the tabletop with just a little too much enthusiasm. Sometimes, he still forgets his strength. Across the table, there’s a restrained excitement on your face. It’s not uncommon for you to lead the action during missions— after Bucky, you do have the most combat experience— but getting the first crack at the enemy is always a thrill. Especially when that target is a rumored bunker of Hydra holdouts.
But John mistakes your excitement for haughtiness, your confidence making his blood boil. He can’t help it. He wants to put you in your place, to show you that he’s just as strong, important, and heroic. That he’s worth your time. And so, when the chance presents itself, he takes it. The words are out of his mouth before he can even consider shutting up.
“You sure you’ll be able to control yourself, Red?”
His comment was bold enough for everyone in the room to freeze, landing like a slap to the face. There’s a moment of tense silence, Yelena and Ava share worried glances, Alexei’s brow furrowing in confusion. Bucky’s jaw is clenched, already knowing exactly what Walker is insinuating. And you turn to face him, eyes narrowing as you stare daggers at him, any hint of your previous excitement long gone.
“Excuse me?” you ask, tone sharp and dangerous.
John keeps his gaze steady on you in return, even though his stomach feels like it’s tied in knots over the cold way you regard him. "You heard me." He’s doing this on purpose; they both know it. He knows he’s pushing your buttons, pushing your limits, and he’s enjoying every second of it, even though he knows he should stop. "You sure you’re gonna be able to control yourself this time? Or are you gonna go off the rails and make a mess of the place?" he clarifies, leaning back in his chair with a forced air of nonchalance.
You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your anger climbing. You don’t want to derail the meeting by getting into it with him in front of everyone— mostly because you fear you won’t be able to hide your reactions if things get as tense as they did last time.
“I really have no qualms about slaughtering nazis,” you reply, voice steady. “But maybe you should be worried about your own lack of restraint.”
He chuckles lowly, and though his bravado is faltering, he just pushes harder. "Just seems like you have a knack for flipping out in situations involving Hydra.” John shrugs, face turned into a grimace. “Just want to be sure that the rest of us will stay safe.” From you.
It’s left unsaid, and he knows he’s crossed every last line as soon as he feels a thrum he can’t explain rush through his body, his blood going static for a split second, until the sensation fades, leaving him numb in comparison. His initial reaction is that of betrayal, that you’d just used your powers on him— something that you are vehemently against outside of the context of wound clotting— but he can’t, not when he’s well aware of how much he’s fucking up and continuing to do so. It’s a silent threat, a reminder of what you could do if you wanted to like he’s implying.
“Guys—“ Yelena tries to interrupt but is quickly silenced by a gesture from Bucky. He knows trying to defend you will only make things worse, and the last thing they need before a mission is anyone else getting involved in this spat.
Your hands are clenched into tight fists, knuckles white, fighting with all you might to keep yourself from lunging across the table and taking a chunk out of his face. He’s damn lucky you only prodded at his blood instead of pulling it from his body quart by quart.
Instead, you swallow thickly, voice tight with rage, but a saccharine smile on your lips. "Watch your mouth, John." You’re using his first name again, something you’ve only done when you were underneath him on the training mat. His breath catches in his throat at the sound of his name on your lips, making his mind go to places he doesn’t want it to be going. But he’s stubborn and foolishly determined to get a rise out of you. Any kind of reaction, even just a single inkling of weakness, anything that could knock you off that pedestal he’s unintentionally put you on.
“Or what, Red?" John uses the nickname like a weapon.
A dangerous glint shines in your eyes that doesn’t match your grin as you rise from your seat, leaning across the table, your shoulders squared like a viper preparing to strike.
“Alright, fine. You wanna talk about it? Then let’s fucking talk about it,” you spit, your focus honed on him. As a group, you’ve done a lot of work since the day you all experienced The Void, letting go and accepting the things you all saw that day, understanding the guilt. It came easier to some than others, but you’d always known why that memory was chosen for you, you’ve just never had the guts to admit it. "The shame room you saw, Walker, wasn’t conjured because I feel guilt because of the massacre," you start, your voice low and measured as you bite the confession out. "I feel guilty because I enjoyed it."
The rest of the team know enough about your background to piece together just what you’re referring to, but they had no clue he’d ended up in your room by some cruel twist of fate. To you, it felt like an admittance of weakness that you leaned on him in that moment. And to him, the way you’ve held him at arms length ever since was digging a hole deeper and deeper in his soul.
Your words were the truth. Same as you’d called him out in the gym. They were set apart from the others, even if they were all trying to be better, you still craved the bloodshed, and so did he. At the end of the day, you were the most alike out of any of the team. Bucky hates the fight, even if it’s the only thing he knows. Yelena and Ava regret the pain that they’ve caused in their pursuits of cures and perceived justice. All of them have made active efforts to mend the peace that they’d shattered. Bucky crossing off the final name in his book, Yelena joining The Barton’s and Kate Bishop for family gatherings, Ava keeping in touch with the Pym-Van Dyne-Lang clan.
But you and Walker prefer to dig the knife in deeper, all under the guise of trying. You lied about your past to play superhero with the first iteration of The Avengers. You were never trying to own up to your mistakes like Natasha; you wanted to make them disappear. You should have died that day on Vormir, not her and not Clint, but you weren’t even capable of offering them that. and when The Avengers went away, you went right back to your old ways by running to Valentina for work. You actively refused to grow even if you did your best to change.
John took the serum, knowing it was more likely to go wrong than right just to feel deserving of the shoes the government groomed him to fill. Told himself over and over again while thrashing on the floor in some hotel bathroom in Europe that he can’t remember, the substance burning through him, the pain so excruciating he’d almost hoped it would kill him. He never truly regretted playing judge, jury, and executioner in Latvia to avenge Lemar, lying to his family about the person responsible, all to deflect from his own inadequacy.
He knows you’re telling the truth, just by the look in your eyes. And the worst part is, he understands it. You understand each other. What it’s like to enjoy the violence, to thrive on it. It isn’t a side of himself he’s proud of lately. But hearing you say it out loud, hearing you admit that same feeling. It stirred something him. Things he's been trying to ignore since The Void. And the last thing he expected you to do was to admit to it in front of the entire team. After all this time, you’ve finally rendered him speechless. No followup insults, no quips ready to fire. Just his jaw hanging open and the team’s suffocating silence.
And it makes his feelings for you even more difficult to rationalize as only lust.
His eyes flicker across the room, taking in the equally stunned looks from the rest of the team. The tension in the room is thick, and he can feel Bucky’s livid gaze boring into the side of his head. John’s fingers drum against the table, his mind racing as he tries to think of a way to dig himself out of the mess he’s made this time.
You turn to look at him, the look in your eye almost feral in the way you’re homed in on him. He’s about to open his mouth, to say something, anything to salvage the situation, but you beat him to it. "Are you done? Have you gotten your fill of trying to rile me up?”
"Yeah," he mutters. "I think I’ve had enough."
The rest of the briefing goes by without further incident, though the tension that settled over the room doesn’t dissipate and follows them onto the quinjet. But now, it’s John who’s avoiding your eye. The flight isn’t long, the advanced tech in the ship cutting hours off the trip to Bucharest. You’re endlessly grateful for modernism and all the disposable income Valentina has, because it’s less than half of the standard time that you have to be trapped in this hunk of metal with him.
————-
The mission itself is a blur, but John finds himself at your six more than a few times. He’s distracted, not just by the stunt he’d pulled earlier, but by the way you move in your tactical suit, just as ruthless as you were with him in the gym. He had an awful feeling in his gut, and it isn’t just his guilty conscience. He watches your every move, his instinct to protect welling up in the back of his mind, even if you might be the last person in the world who needs any.
And ultimately, it’s his distraction that gets you hurt.
You’re fighting your way through a labyrinth of corridors, taking down Hydra loyalists left and right. You’ve been fighting with your usual grace and precision, taking down opponents with ease. The rest of the team had split off into pairs— Bucky with Ava, and Yelena with Alexei— leaving you with Walker, who’s been… off. There’s not a trace of his usual intensity, his attacks sloppier than you’ve ever seen from him.
You’re picking up as much of his slack as you can without going overboard, his implication from earlier still echoing in your thoughts. You loathe the idea that you’d hurt any of the team— even him— accidentally or not. The control you have over your mutation is precise, but you’ve already taken a few deliberate hits; one gunshot to the shoulder, another through your thigh, and a knife to the ribs. It’s the price you willingly pay for access to your greatest weapon in a pinch, but it’s leaving you drained, your senses struggling to keep up as you push the limits of your healing factor and your pain tolerance.
It happens far too quickly. You spot a soldier coming up on Walker from behind while he’s taking far too long to deal with another, and you jump in without hesitation. He may be acting like a complete moron, but if he gets killed here, then you won’t be able to give him shit for it later. And you really should have seen it coming, but neither of you notice until a man with a stature twice the size of yours who’s obviously enhanced is already slamming you from the side. John turns just in time to see you fly across the room from the force, where your back collides with the wall, head bashing against the reinforced concrete with a sickening crack.
Your body is limp before it even hits the floor.
You don’t move, and suddenly he’s back in Latvia, the sound Lemar’s skull made when it collided with the stone pillar ringing in his ears, and his vision becomes more and more hazy with every second you don’t move, heartbeat climbing dangerously as he realizes he can’t hear yours.
You’re supposed to move, it’s what you do, getting back up after you’ve been knocked down. He’d seen you take a bad hit before, on many occasions. But your breath isn’t supposed to cease; your pulse isn’t meant to flatline. The blood isn’t so jarring with the way you always seem to be covered in someones, but it’s not supposed to flow from your body without your metaphysical command, pooling under your head and soaking into your hair. You were always saying you couldn’t die, with countless corroborations from others who’d seen you rise from the most lethal hits. But you’d never mentioned if you could come back once you had already died.
John had let his fear and boundless rage control him once before, and he’s about to let it consume him again. You were right, you were always right.
It’s like muscle memory takes over as he conflates Lemar’s final moments with the sight of you motionless on the floor. John moves without ever deciding to, acting on pure instinct. His need for vengeance is intrinsic, ramming his shield into the agent you’d been handling and knocking him out on contact. His stare is a million miles away as he goes for the one who did this next, tackling and inning him against the wall so hard it starts to splinter. The soldier struggles against John’s hold, but even his sheer bulk is no match for the prime serum in his veins. The crack of bone and splitting of flesh under his fists feels far away, his eyes locked on your prone body, still unmoving, still slack. His heartbeat pounding in his ears only serves to remind him of the lack of yours, his chest unbearably tight as the rage starts to suffocate him, and the soldier goes limp under his hands.
The second he lets the unconscious body thump to the ground he’s screaming into his comms, your name coming out as a frantic cry as he begs whoever on the team is listening to get over here now.
It’s Bucky who responds, far too calmly for John’s liking.
“Copy that, backup on the way.”
John doesn’t respond. He can’t, not as his shield clatters to the ground and he’s scrambling over to you. Every last synapse in his body feels caustic, your absence of life sending a violent wave of nausea through him. You’re supposed to be back by now. He’s seen you walk away from a shot through the heart, bomb blasts that carried so much shrapnel he couldn’t tell where the debris ended and you began, falls from eight stories high. He grabs onto your chin, forcing your drooping head from side to side as if it might bring you back.
You’re supposed to get up. He needs you to get up because if you don’t and everything is left like this, then he’s damned, and maybe he should just follow your lead and—
“Walker. Hey, Walker.” John registers the words, but it feels like he’s underwater. “Snap out of it.” He thinks he’s shaking as the voice slowly pierces through the fog over him. It takes him a few more seconds to realize it’s Bucky, vibranium hand on his shoulder, jostling him, trying to get his attention. It’s like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over him, trying to clear the panic from his mind as he mumbles about how you’re not moving.
“No pulse,” he rasps. “Why isn’t there a pulse?”
At first, Bucky only seems mildly concerned, but not scared, not like John. Then, he crouches down next to you, ignoring your blood smeared across the floor, flesh fingers pressing under your jaw to verify what John is implying. Out of everyone, Bucky has fought alongside you the longest. He’s seen the way your healing factor worked, seen you take a knife to the chest without so much as flinching, only to be screaming obscenities onto a pillow as your skin stitched itself back together— but always alive.
Then his face drops. He’d never seen you come back from death before.
The flight back to The Watchtower feels like an eternity. It’s bad enough when the team has to get you— or your body, they still aren’t sure— back to the quinjet. There are still Hydra stragglers, so while John lifts you into his arms, the rest of them flank him, weapons at the ready. You’re lighter than he’d expected, getting colder by the minute. He tries not to think about just how much of your blood is left seeping into the cracks on the concrete floor of the bunker, or how much is weaving itself into the seams of his suit, like even now, somehow, you’re still here, forcing yourself into the threads of his existence.
The New Avengers get back onto the jet with no further issues, the bunker left in shambles. Bucky and Ava jump into action as soon as John manages to get you lying on a bench, and he’s starting to believe that it’s less you and more corpse. The two work fast to get a transfusion set up, even if no one knows if it’ll make a difference. To his knowledge, Bucky is certain this is the longest you’ve ever been down, but they have to try.
The jet is eerily silent, the gravity of the situation settling over everyone. They’ve all been injured before, but they’d always gotten up eventually. The Thunderbolts haven’t lost one of their own, and none of them ever really imagined that it could be you. The only sounds in the hull are the low flatline of the monitor you’re hooked up to, the subtle sniffle Ava is trying to hide, and the occasional murmur from Alexei that you’ll be fine— you have to be.
Meanwhile, John’s boots are hollowing out a path into the floor, pacing up and down the aisle, checking your vitals constantly, like somehow, they’re going to change, that the next time he looks the flat line on the screen will have suddenly spiked and everything will be fine. But three hours into the flight and there’s still not a single sign of life. John keeps telling himself he’s only so wound up about it because of what he’s gone through before, that it has nothing to do with it being you lying there lifeless. Your taunt from last week echoes in his head, ‘—You can’t actually kill me. But you can find out how it feels to.’ In the end, you got what you wanted, because now he knows, and he hates the feeling. He stopped believing in a God a long time ago, but right now, he’s begging him for anything.
The quinjet is about thirty minutes out from the tower when it happens. a single beep from the machine monitoring your vitals, so out of left field that everyone thinks they’ve imagined it. Bucky hands the controls to Yelena and jumps out of the pilot’s seat, hot on John’s heels as they rush over. There’s still only a flat line on the monitor, your blood oxygen still zero. They watch with bated breath, John’s chest tight, and it’s been so long that he’s about to take another lap around the jet when it happens again.
Beep.
The line on the monitor jumps, the point spiking to the top of the graph before flattening again.
John waits until it finally happens again, quicker this time, to release the tension he’s been holding since the moment you went down.
Then once more. Two beats back-to-back, slow, but steadily climbing as your chest expands just a fraction. It’s a cruel sort of torture, having to wait and watch as your vital signs sluggishly come back to life. John is still on high alert, taking minor comfort in your heartbeat but watching, waiting for a twitch of fingers, a flutter of lashes. You’re paler than normal, the warmth from your skin is still absent, lips still tinged with the faintest hint of blue. There's still blood soaking your tactical suit, dried and matted into your hair. The rise and fall of your chest is so shallow, your body likely in an excruciating amount of pain, your healing factor working overtime between the physical trauma and the exhaustion. But it feels like the entire team takes a collective exhale, Bucky being the first to break the silence, his gaze flickering over to Walker.
“Thank God,” he sighs, the relief in his voice palpable. “She should pull through. It’ll just take some time.”
———-
Back at The Watchtower, John deliberately makes himself scarce as soon as the jet touches down. He can’t keep waiting, watching, pacing the halls of the medbay while the rest of the team looks at him strangely. This morning seems so far away, the way he’d picked another fight with you just to be sick with anxiety over you now. Bucky is the only one who might understand why, he was there in Latvia, but the rest of them act like he’s the one who got his head bashed in.
He disappears to the training room to pass the time, putting all this violent energy clamoring to get out to good use. He’s at the punching bag for so long he loses track of the time, the day, destroying several in the process. He stays until his knuckles are raw, until his muscles ache, and it helps, kind of. It takes his mind off of you— the sound of your skull cracking, the blood he scrubbed from his hands, how insubstantial your body felt in his arms— at least for a little while. But ultimately, he can’t get the sensations out of his head. It was too close, too close— the unbridled anger and helplessness that’s been hanging over him since Lemar’s death rearing its ugly head. He's still shaking when he drags himself back to his room after a scalding shower, the clock on his nightstand telling him he’d locked himself away for almost eight hours.
Fuck. He’s down bad, isn’t he?
John stumbles to his bed, collapsing onto it face first, sinking into the too soft and overpriced bedding that Valentina chose for the suites. And despite his utter exhaustion, he just keeps tossing and turning, replaying the mission in his head over and over and over and—
And then, there’s a quiet knock on his door.
He groans and rolls over, intending to ignore whoever it was. Probably Bucky, here to tear into him about all the shit he’d pulled today— yesterday at this point— or maybe Bob, who’s the only person who would go out of his way to see if he’s okay, but John doesn’t feel like he deserves his concern right now.
But the knock comes again, louder this time, and then your voice calls from the other side. “I know you’re awake, I can hear your blood pressure rising through the damn roof.”
He’s on his feet in an instant.
You stand—if you can even really call it that— in the hallway, all of your weight resting against the doorframe for support. Your eyes glassy, face still a little pale, but tinged with a subtle flush now that your blood has replenished itself. You felt like you’d been hit by a truck— or like you suffered a severe compound skull fracture, shattered spinal cord, severe exsanguination, and then came back from the dead— But you’re standing. Standing and alive.
John is silent for a long moment, his wide eyes skimming over you, like he’s surprised to see you in the flesh. You’re in your pajamas, an oversized shirt with the logo for Child’s Play on the front, Chucky’s mutilated face a little too ironic given the state of your own head, and flannel shorts just barely peeking out from the hem. You’re all cleaned up from the blood and gore of the mission, but you still look rough, and you feel even worse. Depending on how he looked at it, it was either a miracle you were alive, or you were some sort of freak of nature. Definitely both.
“I’m not a ghost, Walker,” you rasp, voice still rough from disuse.
“Red, what the hell are you doing here?” he probes, the words coming out strangled. His first instinct is to reach for you, to make sure you’re really here and not just in his head, but he remembers himself, remembers what the two of you are and keeps his hands to himself.
You smile, the gesture looking more like a grimace than anything else. “Thought you’d be awake. Figured I’d come check on you.” You try to stand up a bit straighter, but the pain flares up in your ribcage, and even though you try to play it off, John can see it clearly in your eyes. “Buck said you were having a rough time. It didn’t take me long to realize why.” You were there on the day that Lemar died in Latvia. You didn’t really know the man, disliked him on the principle of being involved in desecration of Steve’s memory. But you’d still tried to get his heart beating again, to no avail, as John ran off for his revenge. You’ve always wondered if the real reason he always hated you wasn’t because of the fight that ensued, but your failure that day.
John releases a long sigh, the guilt from Latvia and the mission today mixing and settling heavily on his chest. “Yea, well— I guess you would,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. He tries to change the subject as quickly as he can. “You shouldn’t be up, you know. You look like hell.”
You let out a dry laugh. “Wow, John, you’re a real flatterer, huh?” You sway on your feet, your mirth taking more energy than it should, your equilibrium still off. “But I’m alive. I wanted you to see that.”
John looks you over once more, your tired eyes, the mottled bruising around your collarbone, the visible effort it’s taking you to get just a shallow breath in. Just over twelve hours ago, you were dead, the memory of your corpse haunting him for just as long.
The relief hits him hard, almost taking his breath away.
He knows you’re stubborn, a fighter down to the bone. But seeing you like this, standing there in front of him despite the excruciating pain just to ease his? It made him ache in a way he couldn’t quite describe.
You feel pathetically weak. He’s never seen you so strong.
He huffed a wry laugh as you start to sway again, finally letting himself reach out to stabilize you, calloused fingertips settling against your freshly healed skin. "You look like you’re about to drop. Let me get you to bed, please." For a moment, you consider saying no, brushing him off. You told yourself the last thing you wanted was gentleness from him, but a part of you was starting to doubt that notion. But your body decides for you as the room starts to spin, and he’s quick to react, holding you with one arm firmly around your waist. "Hey— hey, I gotcha," he mutters softly, careful not to put any pressure on her healing body.
Silently, you allow him to shuffle you down the hall to your room, leaning into him instinctively, too exhausted to fight it.
John nudges your door open and helps you hobble to bed, holding an arm out for you to lower yourself onto the mattress. You try to bite back a wince as you settle among the pile of pillows Bucky and Ava arranged for you, still unable to comfortably rest your head back. He catches it anyway, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, pulling the covers over you. His fingers tremble as they brush against your skin, the realization that you’re alive finally fully settling over him.
Despite your exhaustion, you still notice the misty look in his eyes as he watches your every move carefully. You reach up, gently wrapping a hand around his wrist, holding onto him with more strength than you realized you had right now. His breath catches in his throat— he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve your mercy. But for all the serum running through his veins, he’s not strong into pull away.
“I was distracted…” he trails off, voice tight.
“Yeah,” you acknowledge gently. “Yeah, you were.” It isn’t with judgement, just a simple observation. It surprises both of them. You know you could throw his comments from the briefing in his face. You could say ‘I told you so’. You could tell him off and never speak to him again outside of what was strictly necessary. But you can see it for what it is— an apology without words. He might be too prideful to give a simple ‘sorry’, but he felt it, and would for a long time, that this incident is already burrowing deep down into his chest and solidifying itself as one of his most dreaded fears.
"You...died,” he bites out, an anguished whisper. “I saw you go down. You stopped breathing. There was so much blood.”
You frown, your expression turning sorrowful at the mention of your death.
"Yeah," you agree softly. "I did." You know the look in his eyes, know it all too well. The sort of far away feeling you get when you replay your mistakes over and over again in your head. "But I’m here, John," you reassure him. "I’m alive. I’m right here. Can’t get rid of me that easily." As if to prove your point, you take his hand in yours, forcing him to rest his palm over your beating heart, your fingers interlaced.
The steady thrum of your pulse beats against his palm, the rhythmic thump a tangible reminder that you’re still here. John’s wide-eyed stare is locked on your intertwined hands, too afraid to look into your eyes and to see what he would find there.
"I don’t want to get rid of you,” he admits, his voice small and full of guilt. "I just...” he trails off, trying to find the words to express the things he’s feeling, the rage, fear, and shame that’s gnawing at him from the inside out. "You scare me.”
You blink at him, dumbfounded. You expected him to scoff at the notion, to try to deflect. Not for him to offer you a piece of himself that, admittedly, before the events of the last twelve hours, you would have used against him.
"I scare you?"
"You scare the hell out of me," John follows with a sharp sigh, his frown deepening as he looks at you like you have all the answers to the muddled mess of his mind. "I saw you go down and it was...” Like Latvia all over again. “I saw red. That Hydra soldier, I— why aren’t you pissed at me?”
Your expression turns serious, considering his question carefully before answering. “Because I understand.” Your voice a whisper, but your gaze held his, unflinching. It’s simple, but carries the weight of everything between you that neither is ready to confront just yet. You take a labored breath, chest rising and falling beneath his palm.
John doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t want to be so transparent, so easily understood by you out of everyone. So, he stays quiet, keeping a vigil at your bedside, thumb running over your shirt in comforting circles. After a few minutes, your eyes start to droop, the exhaustion catching up quickly. His heartbeat evens out to match the steady rhythm under his palm.
He stays at your side until he’s certain you’re finally asleep, and then a few hours longer. Watching your bruises fade, your breathing strengthen, just to silence his demons.
Summary : You're casually sleeping with Bucky and John. Not at the same time—until you are.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) x John Walker
Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers!!!!!! Tower fic! Implied threesome (MMF), Bi! reader, Bi! Bucky, Bi! John, Tech specialist! reader, it’s mentioned that you’re Ava’s ex, internalised homophobia, sexual identity exploration, past trauma (religious and societal repression), cursing, polyamory themes. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)
Word count : 9.3k
Requested by : Anon (Based on this request)
Note : As always, sex in my writing isn’t too detailed and not the centerpiece, but rather a storytelling tool. This fic is less about the threesome and more about the reader helping Bucky and John come to terms with their sexuality. I’m tagging the general Bucky taglist, but please ignore this if it’s not your thing. Enjoy!
They didn’t need another super soldier.
They had too many of those. What they desperately needed was someone who could reprogram a Stark-level firewall with one hand while defusing a biometric kill-switch with the other, or someone whose thoughts could move faster than a repurposed HYDRA drone and who could keep their head cool enough during a mission gone wrong so they could reroute a way out.
When Ava muttered, “I have someone,” the rest of the New Avengers raised their eyebrows.
Then, Ava said your name.
Yelena twirled a knife between her fingers. “You sure that’s a good idea? You told me she nearly blew up your apartment that one time.”
Ava rolled her eyes and looked down at her boots. “We’ve grown since then.”
You had grown. A lot.
The breakup hadn’t been graceful. There were tears, there was even a screaming match in a Denny’s parking lot that still lived rent-free in both your heads. You had called her “a quantum-emotional black hole,” and she had told you to go “code a conscience.”
Yes, it had hurt, but that was years ago. Now, you both have healed. Mostly.
When the team asked who the hell you were, Ava crossed her arms and said, “She’s… my ex.”
—
The first day Ava brought you into the team, you walked into the tower with a casual confidence that came from having seen some serious shit and come out the other end smarter.
“Hi,” you said, with a crooked smile. “I’m the tech gremlin Ava warned you about.”
Alexei boomed, “Welcome, gremlin!” and clapped you on the back so hard you nearly stumbled. Yelena snorted and shook your hand. Bob waved from behind a magazine.
That was when you felt two eyes watching you.
Bucky turned toward you, his eyes scanning you from head to toe. His face was unreadable, but his teeth clenched slightly as he studied in the way you moved, the way you owned the space around you without trying. His voice, when he spoke, was almost thoughtful.
“Good to have you here,” he said, like he meant it. Like he wasn’t just saying hello, but figuring out how to categorise you in his mind. You caught the flicker of curiosity in his eyes— the kind felt like… interest.
John didn’t even pretend not to stare. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest, and gave you a once-over that could only be described as bold. He ran a hand through his hair, almost reflexively, like he’d suddenly become aware of what he looked like.
“Well,” he said, dragging the word out just enough to make it suggestive. “Ava wasn’t kidding.”
You tilted your head. “What?”
He smirked unapologetically. “Trouble.”
—
It didn’t take long for the team to realise you weren’t just a tech genius, you were now fully committed to being their tech genius. You made the tower feel less like a military base and more like a home with a working AI that cracked corny jokes that you programmed, a custom coffee bar that responded to voice commands, and a training sim you programmed to replicate everything from underground bunkers to Waffle House at 2 a.m.
As expected, Ava adjusted to you faster than anyone. Maybe it was the years of history. After the first week, she stopped introducing you as her ex and just started calling you her friend.
You soon realised you still fight like you did before — a reason why this relationship would never work— but now, the two of you high-fived when you cooled off.
Growth, right?
Besides, you might not love her like that anymore, but you still liked each other as people.
Yelena warmed up to you in her own way. The first time she watched you dismantle a Chitauri drone with a spork and some chewing gum, she nudged your shoulder and declared, “I like you.” After that, you two started tag-teaming pranks. You were the brains, she was the brawn. Bob started avoiding both of you in the mornings.
Speaking of Bob— he liked you from the second you complimented the topping on his sandwich. It didn’t take long to figure out that the key to staying on Bob’s good side was noticing the small things—especially the ones he’d clearly put effort into. Whether it was a meticulously layered lunch or a new patch sewn onto his jacket, a little encouragement went a long way. Bob cared, and he noticed when you cared back.
Alexei decided you were family the moment you added a cooling system into his old Red Guardian suit. He cried a little, and you pretended not to notice. He started calling you "little hacker bear," which you endured with a sigh and a hidden smile.
But it was Bucky and John who were... complicated.
They were never outright fighting, not over you, but there was some kind of tension there.
Bucky would suddenly appear next to you during team meetings, John would offer to “help” on any mission you signed onto. It was like they were both orbiting you but never said anything since… they didn't even know you liked men.
Until…
It was sometime after midnight— Ava, Yelena, and you all gathered in the kitchen, raiding the snack stash and talking nonsense. Between spoonfuls of Nutella and sips of juice, the conversation had shifted to hookups and exes.
“I don’t really have a type,” you said, tapping the spoon against your lip. “But Ava’s still the most chaotic person I’ve ever dated.”
Ava rolled her eyes, orange juice in hand. “You’re just mad I called you a 'human rootkit' that one time.”
“One time?” you repeated incredulously. “You said it on my birthday.”
Yelena chuckled and bit into her cookie. “Wait, wait, I need a ranking. Who’s number one on your disaster list?”
“Oh, easy,” you said. “I once hooked up with a guy who tried to implant a chip in my spine during sex.”
Yelena choked on a chocolate chip and burst into laughter. “What?! Who does that?”
“That’s not a hookup,” Ava rolled her eyes, “that’s an assassination attempt.”
“Yeah, well,” you shrugged, “Sue me. He had a great jawline.”
Yelena wiped a tear from her eye. “I still don’t get how you both do the dating thing. Romance seems like... too much paperwork.”
You chuckled. “That’s because you’re not built for emotional bureaucracy, Lena.”
Then came the sound—clunk—something hitting the floor behind you.
You glanced over your shoulder.
Bucky was standing in the kitchen doorway like someone had blue-screened his brain, his eyes just a little too wide. Next to him, John blinked, mouth half-open like he’d just discovered a cheat code.
Ava frowned. “You okay?”
Still, nothing. It was almost as if the two of them turned into statues.
Yelena tilted your head. “Let them be.”
You all turned back to your snack, brushing it off like it was nothing.
But Bucky’s mind was racing. She dates guys? She dates—oh. Okay. Okay, noted. Calm down.
John, meanwhile, was already recalibrating his entire mindset. Bi. She’s bi. That’s... that’s a green light, right? That counts. I'm still in this.
You smiled just a little wider as you took another bite of Nutella. Oh, You thought to yourself, they didn't know.
—
It was a lazy afternoon when Ava found you leaning against the railing of the upper balcony overlooking the tower’s gym. Your elbows rested on the metal bar, your eyes locked on the sparring mat below like a cat watching her prey.
Bucky and John were sparring.
Both of them were in sleeveless shirts, their muscles slick with sweat, fabric clinging to their bodies. Every movement was fast and brutal, calculated but controlled punches delivered by two men who knew how to hit where it hurt. The sound of fists meeting flesh echoed through the rafters rhythmically like the world’s most aggressive metronome.
You bit your lip as Bucky landed a clean hit to John’s ribs. John growled, retaliating with a shove that sent Bucky back, just enough to bait him. Then they were grappling— Bucky flipping John onto his back with a twist, only for John to wrap his legs around Bucky’s waist and counter. Your brain short-circuited for a moment.
A small, involuntary sigh escaped your lips.
Behind you, Ava flickered into solid matter and groaned. “No. No, no, no. Don’t even think about it.”
You feigned innocence, even though you were unable to keep your eyes off them. “Think about what?”
“Them!”
You arched an eyebrow. “Jealous?”
“Oh please,” she rolled her eyes, almost fondly. “I’m over you. You leave your wet towels on the bed and talk through movies.”
“But you loved it,” you teased.
“I was deluded.”
“Then why do you care who I ogle?”
Ava gestured aggressively toward the mat, where Bucky now had John pinned, forearm pressed to his chest. “Because I’m trying to save you from yourself. That—” she waved again, exasperated, “is more testosterone for any one girl to handle.”
You hummed, eyes drifting back down. Bucky smirked—he was enjoying this match. John wasn’t exactly fighting him off.
“…Still,” you whispered, mouth dry, “I could die happy.”
Ava gave you a look of utter betrayal. “I am begging you— please get a vibrator and some standards.”
You shrugged, smug.
“Fine,” she sighed, “Just don’t come crying to me when one of them broods in your bed for six hours and the other tries to impress you by bench-pressing a motorcycle.”
You rested your head on your hands and kept admiring the view. “Sounds kind of hot.”
She gave you a deadpan stare, but there was affection tucked under the exasperation. “So was Pompeii.”
You both fell into a companionable silence, leaning side by side on the railing. Below, John reversed the pin and shoved Bucky to the mat, bodies tangled, both panting like they needed to tear each other apart or make out about it.
Maybe Ava was right. Maybe this was a terrible idea.
But terrible ideas never looked this good.
—
The first time Bucky did anything about his little crush on you, it was in the kitchen.
After weeks of glances and flirtation, you and Bucky finally broke.
He was cooking that night.
That alone had caught you off guard. The vision of a man built like a brick house and shaped by decades violence, calmly slicing onions like he was born with a chef’s knife in one hand and a combat knife in the other was… something. He had his sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, brow furrowed in focus. His movements were measured, even now.
His human forearm flexed as he chopped.
You leaned against the counter, letting your eyes roam freely. “Didn’t peg you for the domestic type, chef.”
Without looking up, he replied, “Didn’t peg you for someone who talks this much, at first.”
Your eyebrow arched. “That supposed to be an insult?”
He finally glanced your way. “It’s just… true.”
With Bucky, everything felt like it could tilt into something else if you pushed too hard — or not hard enough. You’d been dancing around this for weeks.
Tonight, you reached.
You brushed past him, on purpose, to grab a spice jar. His arm shot out, catching your wrist mid-motion. Not hard, not rough, just… firm.
“You’re in my space,” he warned, almost amused.
You looked up at him through your lashes. “You gonna make me move?”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “You like playing with fire?”
“Wouldn’t you like to find out?” You taunted, stepping closer.
That was all it took.
He moved forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like a nuclear detonation. His hands were on your waist, dragging you against him, mouth hungry like he’d wanted this forever and finally stopped trying to resist.
But even then—he pulled back, just enough to breathe.
“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to yours. “I need to hear it.”
You reached up, tugged the tie from his hair, and let his hair fall.
“I want this,” you confirmed. “I want you, Bucky.”
The look in his eyes was electric, like your words lit a fuse.
You barely heard the clatter of the spice jar hitting the floor.
“Upstairs. Now,” he growled against your lips, breath ragged.
You grinned, dizzy from his mouth. “Bossy.”
He grabbed your chin, fingers pressing just enough to make you gasp. “No. Just in control.”
You didn’t walk to your room. You stumbled and tripped. Bucky shoved you inside like he couldn’t wait another second—like he’d combust if he didn’t have you now.
He didn’t undress you. He destroyed your clothes, like fabric was just an obstacle between his hands and your skin. His mouth followed, trailing heat and teeth and filthy sounds.
His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wide.
“You wanna act smart,” he murmured, dragging his mouth along your collarbone, “but this—” his fingers slid between your legs, satisfied with the sleek heat, “—this doesn’t lie.”
You gasped, loudly.
He chuckled darkly before pulling back. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
And then, he wrecked you.
He fucked like he fought. He pinned your wrists above your head and made you beg without ever asking for it. Every breath he dragged from your lungs belonged to him. The bruises he left weren’t careless, they were crafted.
Perhaps, after so many years without control, he craved it in other ways.
You weren’t complaining.
And when you came, you saw white.
You didn’t even know your own name for a moment. Just the sound of his voice growling filth in your ear and the press of his body, too hot, too good, too much.
Then, when your body was trembling from aftershocks and your back had slid down the wall—he crouched in front of you, sweaty hair falling into his face, pupils blown wide. He kissed your thigh, then your knee.
“Not done,” he said roughly. “Not even close.”
Much, much later, you lay tangled in his sheets, his hand splayed over your hip, thumb idly stroking a bruise he’d left with his teeth.
You turned your head lazily. “Just so you know… I’m seeing other people.”
He didn’t look at you, but blinked up at the ceiling like he was processing it.
“That okay?” you asked.
“I told myself I didn’t want anything serious,” he said carefully.
“And now?”
His eyes finally met yours. “It’s still okay.”
You smiled, smug. But his grip on your hip tightened, just a little. Just enough to remind you who put those bruises there.
“Just make sure they don’t leave marks I can see,” he warned. “Because I will cover them up.” His mouth brushed your shoulder. “With mine.”
—
You and John started in your workspace.
It wasn’t planned. It sure as hell wasn’t smart.
John Walker didn’t do subtle, and he didn’t really do hard boundaries, either. He just strolled in one afternoon—boots echoing against concrete, hands in his pockets, that shit-eating grin already stretching across his face.
“Whatcha workin’ on, genius?” he asked, giving a peek to his southern charm.
You didn’t look up, though you smiled. You just kept working, fingers moving with precision over the exposed wiring of a decapitated drone.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” you teased.
He moved closer and leaned in. Your teeth clenched when his breath skimmed your neck.
“Not when I’ve got the best view in the building,” he said, like it was obvious.
You finally glanced over. “You flirt like a linebacker with a head injury,” you pointed out playfully.
He laughed. “It’s working, is it?”
John kept showing up after that. You kept pretending he was a nuisance. He asked stupid questions just to make you roll your eyes. Sometimes you caught him watching your hands while you worked— like he was wondering if they could dismantle him as easily as they dismantled a machine.
By the fourth visit, you flirted back. You didn’t expect him to love it. But he did, as if you’d flipped a switch in him he didn’t know he had.
By the next visit, you had him against the wall,your fingers twisted in his collar, mouths crashing like you were trying to win a war through friction. He gasped into it, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to touch until you grabbed his wrist and put it on your waist.
See, John didn’t take control like Bucky did.
John gave it up.
Maybe, after years of being on top of the chain of field command, he now just wanted to follow orders.
“You want this?” you asked, lips brushing his jaw.
“Yes,” he groaned. “Fuck, yes. Just—tell me what to do.”
So you did.
You pushed him down to his knees on the cold concrete floor. He didn’t hesitate. Looked up at you with flushed cheeks, eyes wide, tongue wetting his lower lip, palms pressed to your thighs.
You used him, and he liked it.
He made sounds like prayer— muffled, desperate, needy. And when you came with your hand in his hair and his name tangled in your throat, he looked prouder than he did when he got a medal of honour.
Later when your bodies were tangled in sweat-stuck sheets, he sat on the edge of your bed, bare-chested, his hands twitching like they didn’t know how to relax around you.
“I’m not lookin’ for anything serious,” he said suddenly, voice quieter. His back was to you. “Got a kid. A real messy life. Divorce. Not yet, at least.”
You reached for the sheet, tugging it over your chest. “Same, I…,” you hesitated, but then realised you needed to be honest. “I’m seeing other people, too,” you added carefully.
He froze as you watched the breath catch in his throat before he forced himself to nod.
“Cool,” he said, but his voice cracked. He reached down and started picking at a loose thread on your blanket like it might hold him together. You tilted your head.
“You sure?” you asked, not unkindly.
He turned back to you then. All that Walker bravado was stripped away. He was just a man now— a little bruised, a little confused, but also… satisfied.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice rougher and forcing a smile. “Long as I still get to see you.”
—
This was fine. It had to be fine.
You’d been honest with them—at least technically. You told them you weren’t exclusive, told them you were seeing other people.
What you didn’t tell them—what you hadn’t figured out how to say—was that the other person was each other.
You didn’t plan for things to get this tangled. At first, it really was casual — nothing more than mutual attraction carefully packaged in boundaries you thought would keep everyone safe.
But those lines blurred fast.
Because it didn’t feel casual when Bucky touched you. Not when he held your face like it was made of gold, or kissed you like he was trying to edit your past and write himself into every footnote. His control made you drown in your own body, in the best possible way.
And it didn’t feel casual when John looked at you like you were a miracle. Like every time you gave him an order was a gift and he didn’t know what he did to deserve it. He pleased you with a grin and a groan— and then he’d hold you afterward, tighter than you’d ever asked him to.
They were both rough— just in different ways.
Bucky fucked you like he had to, like he was afraid it was the last time, like he needed to memorise you. Like if he touched you hard enough, long enough, the world would stop trying to take things from him.
John fucked you like he wanted to, like every touch was a prize, like he couldn't believe you kept letting him back in. Like he was proud to be wanted, even if only for the night.
You weren’t supposed to catch feelings. Not for either of them.
Definitely not for both.
But then you started smiling when you heard their footsteps. You reached for both of them in your sleep sometimes, not knowing who you were dreaming about.
Every other night, almost like clockwork, one of them would find their way to your door.
You actually had to make a chart. A chart, because you were starting to forget who liked which pillow, who left bruises and who left bite marks. You were scheduling orgasms like mission briefings, trying not to moan the other’s name by mistake— because you could not choose. You held affection for them equally, and it hurt too much to let either of them go. It got to the point where you were on your knees for John in the sauna, still tasting Bucky’s name in your mouth. Or bent over Bucky’s bathtub, still sore from the night before, as he grunted your name against your throat.
And it wasn’t just about the sex anymore.
Bucky started learning your habits like clockwork. He remembered which tea helped when your anxiety hit at 2 a.m. He kept your favourite blanket folded on the couch and would wrap you in it without a word when you looked too far away in your thoughts. On missions, he always messaged when he could, just a single “Still breathing” or a blurry photo of him with his thumbs up. And when he knew he’d be gone too long, he pre-ordered your favourite takeaway to arrive during dinner time.
John, in his own chaotic way, made a ritual of “jogging” every morning, conveniently ending his route at your favorite coffee shop. The baristas all knew your order by now, and somehow, he always remembered to ask if you needed anything added— extra syrup on bad days, oat milk when your stomach was off. The cup would be in your hands before you were even fully awake, a lopsided smile on his face like he hadn’t just run three miles to bring it to you.
Afterward, when your bodies were tangled and the room smelled like sweat, they both let you talk about anything and everything. Bucky would lie behind you, chin resting on your shoulder, his fingers tracing shapes into your skin, humming low while you vented about broken code. The next night, John would lie there shirtless, grinning like your voice was the soundtrack to his day, chiming in with half-jokes even when he had no idea what you were talking about.
They didn’t interrupt. They didn’t try to fix you. But Bucky always made sure your favorite hoodie was warm before you put it on. John picked up extra snacks at the store he thought you’d like and left them on your desk without a word.
With them, you didn’t have to perform. You could just be.
Neither of them never really asked who else you slept with, not in any way that mattered.
Maybe, they just didn’t want to know.
Then… you started watching them.
Not in a weird way.
But you had to. Because somewhere between the fourth orgasm of the week and realising you were genuinely worried about hurting their feelings, you started noticing… things.
You’d catch it in the small stuff first — how Bucky would shift his stance slightly when someone mentioned John’s name. He wasn’t annoyed, it was just… tense.
Or how John would crack a playful joke at Bucky's expense with just a little too much nervous laughter. Like he was trying to prove it didn’t get under his skin.
You told yourself it was nothing. Just two men with history, different temperaments, too much testosterone and too many kills between them.
But then came the moments that weren’t so easy to brush off.
Like during training, John tossed Bucky a practice knife with that cocky little grin he got when he was showing off. Bucky catching it mid-air without even glancing up, tossing it back with an underhand spin John blinked, just once—but his ears went a little pink.
Or in the gym, they loved sparring with each other, circling like wolves. You were pretty sure it wasn’t just competitive. Bucky would push a little too hard, like he was daring John to pin him. And John did— just a second too long, straddling Bucky’s hips before standing up too fast, like he suddenly remembered where he was.
In the field, too. One time, a mission went sideways, and Bucky took a hit meant for John— just a graze, but it was messy. And John, who rarely ever panicked, looked like the ground had dropped out from under him. He didn’t even realise he’d said Bucky’s name three times until Yelena touched his shoulder in an attempt to calm him down.
Then, Bob would complain after walking out of the locker room, telling you John and Bucky had stood side by side as they changed shirts. Apparently, according to Bob, neither looked, but their necks were tense like they were fighting not to.
The week after that, after a tough fight, John was bleeding from a cut along his ribs. You were too tired to play nurse, so Bucky offered. You watched him clean the wound with a gentleness that was only usually reserved for you. John didn’t flinch, he didn’t even look away. When Bucky finally stepped back, he said, “Should’ve been more careful.”
John, who usually scowled when Ava patched him up, answered quietly. “I know.”
Bucky didn’t answer.
One night, they both even showed up at your office for a little visit—separately, but close enough that the timing got awkward. You made up some excuse about being busy dismantling Yelena’s widow bites to send them both away.
As they stood at the door, Bucky glanced at John. “New haircut?”
John blinked. “Yeah. You noticed?”
Bucky shrugged. “Suits you.”
John’s ears turned red. “Thanks.”
They didn’t make eye contact again before leaving.
That was the first time you really saw it. The… shape of it. It became too persistent to ignore.
Because the more you studied them, the more you started to understand.
Bucky had grown up in a time when you didn’t talk about attraction unless it was for a woman in a red dress. And John… John had that Southern-boy thing. That “yes sir, no sir, God bless America” kind of upbringing that didn’t leave a lot of room for nuance.
Neither of them had been homophobic, but there was shame woven into their bones. Silent, inherited shame, that you once felt yourself, woven so deeply they didn’t even recognise it. They didn’t know what to do with the tension, the quick glances, the way their bodies leaned toward each other before jerking back.
So they wrote it off, buried it.
But you saw it. Because you were sleeping with both of them. Because you knew how they kissed. How they touched. How they looked at each other the same way they looked at you.
And sometimes… you caught yourself wondering, What if they kissed each other?
Would Bucky be gentle at first, like he didn’t trust it to be real? Would John go still before melting into it like he always did so desperately?
Would it change everything?
—
The week later, you watched above as the gear room buzzed with noise— velcro was ripping, gear shifting, metal clinking, and the buzz of fluorescent lights filled the room.
Bucky and John were prepping side by side.
They moved like practicing dance— a precise, practiced choreography of compression shirts, tactical pants, holsters, buckles, and chest plates snapping into place.
Bucky leaned forward to check his knives, his shoulder brushing John’s.
John didn’t flinch or step away. Instead, he smirked the kind of smile that was either a challenge or a dare.
“You’re slow today, Grandpa,” he said, trying to sound casual, like he wasn’t paying too much attention. Like he hadn’t noticed the contact, but his eyes slid sideways, catching the line of Bucky’s jaw.
Bucky didn’t glance up. “You’re being too skittish. Rookie nerves?”
John chuckled. “Just don’t wanna carry your corpse out of another blown-up warehouse.”
That made Bucky pause. He turned, eyes sharp but not hostile. “You couldn’t lift me if you tried.”
John stepped in, barely an inch closer. “You want me to try?”
For a second, neither moved.
They stood there— inches apart, shoulders squared, as if they were two lions deciding whether to bite or bare their throats.
From the upper level of the gear bay, Ava walked in and settled beside you.
“Jesus,” Ava whistled low at the sight of the two supersoldiers. “Either they’re about to punch each other, or they’re about to make out on the bench.”
You didn’t look away. “Honestly?” You sighed, “Either would make it so much easier on me.”
Ava turned her head cautiously. “What… did you do?”
You sighed again. “Them.”
She choked on her spit. “What?”
“Not at the same time,” you added quickly, raising both hands in surrender. “It just… happened.”
“Oh my god,” she breathed, laughing somewhere between horrified and impressed. “You actually did it. You overachiever.”
You shrugged helplessly, eyes drifting back to the scene below.
John was brushing imaginary lint off Bucky’s chest now. Bucky swatted at his hand—but not really. Then adjusted a strap on John’s vest, muttering something that made John roll his eyes. But he didn’t move away, not even when Bucky tugged the strap tighter than necessary.
You tilted your head, frowning. “You ever think…”
Ava cut in. “That they might be bi? Uh, yeah. Look at them. They’re two seconds away from full Top Gun volleyball.”
You heard a voice behind you.
“Oh, those two?”
You turned to find Yelena approaching—completely unfazed, chewing a bubblegum.
She shrugged. “Bob and I have a bet going on who’s gonna come out first. He thinks Walker. I say Barnes.”
You chuckled.
Below, John reached over Bucky’s shoulder for a carabiner and absolutely did not need to drag the back of his hand across Bucky’s chest to do it.
You crossed your arms tighter, heart thudding in your chest as you watched them move around each.
Maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the only one tangled up between the lines.
—
The mission had been a goddamn mess— a high-risk information extraction in tight hallways with zero visibility and bodies coming from every direction. When they were done, getting out felt more like an escape than a strategy. Bucky’s shoulder was wrecked, John’s knuckles were split, raw, and bloodied.
The flight back was quiet.
No banter or bickering— just the hum of adrenaline simmering beneath the surface. Now, back in the Tower, they sat in the locker room, stripping out of kevlar, breathing hard.
John was the first to speak up.
“Christ,” he said. “I need to blow off some steam.”
Across from him, Bucky sat hunched forward on the bench, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed. His breathing had steadied, but his heart was ticking like a clock.
“Yeah,” Bucky said, “Me too.”
John leaned back, swiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “What’s your method? Gym? Whiskey?”
Bucky’s head tilted slightly, and like a match had just been struck from behind his eyes. “I’ve got someone.”
John narrowed his eyes. “Someone?”
“Yeah.” Bucky didn’t volunteer any names or details, but his tone changed. It wasn’t cocky— but it was almost a private kind of smug satisfaction.
John’s brow furrowed. “In the Tower?”
Bucky gave a small nod. “Mhm.”
John’s posture shifted. He sat up straighter, body suddenly more alert than it had been during the mission. “Wait. Who?”
John ran through the options quickly, mentally eliminating names like a checklist. Not Ava—definitely a lesbian. Yelena’s ace. Mel was too young for either of them, and no one liked Val. Bucky was straight, right? Which left…
“No,” John said aloud, mostly to himself. “No fucking way.”
Bucky didn’t say a word and started wrapping his shoulder with compression tape.
John’s stomach dropped. His throat tightened. “…You’re not talking about—”
Bucky’s eyes lifted to meet his. “Why?” He arched a brow. “You got a guess?”
A part of John didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to know. But his brain was already lining up all the pieces.
The look you gave Bucky after missions. The scratches he didn’t remember leaving that definitely weren’t left by human hands. The way Bucky looked at you sometimes—like he was starving and angry about it. In hindsight, it was obvious.
“I…” John cleared his throat, suddenly unsure of how his voice worked. “Yeah. I do.”
And then, he said your name.
Bucky didn’t deny it.
John stared at him—and for the first time, he saw the cuts, the bruises, the fact that he looked like he was safeguarding his own heart.
“I…” John hesitated, “I am, too,” he finally choked out, barely audible.
There it was.
It all… clicked.
All of it. The missing hours. The bruises in the same spots. The way your voice always changed when you talked about “seeing someone else.”
“Oh fuck,” Bucky sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re the other guy.”
John sighed, “You’re the other guy.”
They stared at each other. Both had trained for war, both had been through too much, but this kind of realisation was... different.
Not because you lied; you hadn’t. You’d been honest from the beginning. You just never told them it was each other.
And now, they were too deep to pretend it didn’t matter.
—
Your room was dim, bathed in the amber glow of the bedside salt lamp. Outside the Tower, the city glittered like spilled stars against the velvet in your room. You were in satin— shorts riding high, camisole slipping from one shoulder.
You hadn’t dressed for anyone but yourself, yet somehow, you found yourself excited when someone knocked on your door.
Barefoot, you walked to the door of your quarters and opened it.
There they stood, both John and Bucky.
John’s eyes burned — wounded and questioning, but desperate not to show either. Bucky, flexed his metal wrist like he couldn’t decide whether to knock again or slam it into the wall.
“Well,” you breathed out, leaning against the doorframe, “either someone died… or you two finally figured it out.”
John brushed past you and entered without a word, while Bucky lingered a second longer, his eyes dragging over the line of your throat, the slope of your bare shoulder. before stepping in and closing the door.
“Make yourselves at home,” you said dryly, but your heartbeat was thundering beneath your skin.
You sank into the couch, letting your legs drape sideways. They didn’t sit.
They circled — not around you — but around each other.
“You should’ve told us,” John said. “Told me.”
“Told you what?” You tilted your head. “That I wasn’t exclusive? I did.”
“No,” Bucky interjected. “That we were both seeing you.”
“And if I had, what?” you arched a brow, “You would’ve compared notes? Flipped a coin?”
John’s lips tightened. “You could’ve said something.”
“You’re just mad you didn’t figure it out on your own,” Bucky grumbled under his breath.
“I should’ve,” John snapped back. “You acted like you owned her.”
“And you weren’t?” Bucky scoffed. “Always marking your territory—”
“Don’t tell me how I—”
You cut in, too tired for this frankly pointless argument. “Is this really about me?” Your voice was more silent now. “Because it feels like you’re trying to fight each other through me.”
John stopped moving. Bucky’s shoulders dropped.
You leaned back, the satin pulling tighter over your thigh, and both their eyes flicked there instinctively, before snapping up with visible guilt. You sighed, resting your arms on the couch behind you.
“If it helps…” you said, treading carefully, “I think you might be into each other, too.”
The look they had behind their eyes was like dropping a match into oil.
“What the hell are you talking about?” John barked.
“No,” Bucky said at the same time. Not angry—terrified.
You tilted your head. “You fight like people who want to fuck or cry, maybe both. You get jealous like people who haven’t admitted how badly they want the other.”
They didn’t speak.
“I’ve had both of you,” you continued, voice intimate now. “I know how you touch. How you look when you want someone. How you breathe when you're holding yourself back. And I see it when you look at each other.”
Bucky looked away first. John opened his mouth before closing it again.
You leaned forward, now pulling the trigger with a statement. “You’re angry because you’re not sure which one of us you’re more jealous of.”
Just like that, they panicked and started talking over each other again, as if they just went into survival mode. “I’m not into guys—” “He’s not my type, at all—” “This is ridiculous—” “She’s deflecting—” “I’m straight—” “So am I!—”
You shifted, letting the silence take its course. The camisole slipped gently off one shoulder, and it pulled their eyes whether they wanted it to or not.
“Boys,” you sighed, barely above a whisper.
They froze. Their breathing slowed—almost in sync.
“I get it,” you continued. “It's confusing. But for fuck’s sake– stop lying to yourselves.”
Just like that, you felt the air shift, like a fragile click in the clockwork.
Bucky looked at John. And John… blinked like a door opened inside him that he hadn’t even known was locked.
You watched it wash over them: realisation.
Bucky’s lips parted. John took half a step back like it physically knocked the wind from him.
John finally whispered it. “Oh, fuck.”
Bucky shook his head slowly, lips pressed together. “No,” he whispered, eyes wide. “No, no, no—”
But his voice had no conviction.
You relaxed and patted the couch cushions next to you — two ends, just far enough apart to be safe.
“Sit,” you said gently, like coaxing frightened animals.
Neither moved at first, but they did, eventually. Acquiescence didn’t come easily — not with their pride, their confusion, their egos — but it came.
John dropped down, spine rigid but legs spread wide like he was still braced for a fight. His knuckles were white where they gripped his knees. Bucky sat slower, as if the cushions were barbed wire. His arms stayed crossed, metal fingers tapping restlessly against his bicep. You were still in the middle, legs folded one over the other, satin now higher on your thighs.
“I know what it’s like,” you said, laying your heart bare, “That click in your head… when you realise. And you don’t know if it’s freedom or a fucking death sentence.”
John’s eyes dropped to the floor, then flicked to Bucky, then away again, teeth grinding like he was trying to swallow glass. Bucky didn’t move, he didn’t even blink— he just stared straight ahead, breathing through his nose like his chest might cave in.
“It’s not a weakness,” you reassured quietly. “It’s not shameful to want something you were always told you shouldn’t.”
The plates of Bucky’s fingers twitched. John’s shoulders hunched.
“And you know what?” you kept going, carefully. “It makes sense that you’re confused. John, you told me about church. About football locker rooms. About your dad.” You turned to Bucky slowly, putting a hand on both their thighs. “And you came from a world where even touching another man too long meant getting locked in a psych ward. Of course you’re scared.”
Bucky’s voice was quiet, but hoarse. “I thought… I didn’t…” He managed to choke out, “I didn’t know.”
“I… I still don’t know,” John admitted, looking down.
“It’s not greedy to want both,” you said. “Or all. Or neither. Or something in between. You don’t have to call it anything. You don’t have to label it today, or tomorrow. But you shouldn't have to lie to yourselves just because the world made it hard to tell the truth.”
Their faces had changed, not dramatically. But the tension was different now. They were less… rigid.
You looked at both of them in turn.
“If you’re bisexual, you’re bisexual. If you’re pan, you’re pan. If all you know right now is that you want him, or you want me, or maybe you want both and it terrifies you—that’s okay.”
You reached for both of their hands—John’s was calloused, Bucky’s was cold vibranium. Your fingers slid between theirs, and neither pulled away.
“You don’t owe anyone certainty, but you shouldn’t deny yourselves that curiosity,” you rubbed soothing circles on their knuckles, “I care about both of you. ’m not trying to push you into something you’re not ready for. But I… see you.”
Their breathing had synced up without meaning to. They were both looking at you, and for once, it was not with jealousy or accusation or distraction—but with… recognition.
“I want this to be okay,” Bucky said, almost a whisper.
“So do I,” John echoed.
“It is okay,” you whispered. “You just have to let it be.”
You leaned in then, not to kiss, not yet — but to rest your forehead lightly against Bucky’s temple, your other hand brushing John’s knuckles as he gripped your knee.
And still, neither of them pulled away from your touch.
That’s when you realised, you weren’t in between them. You were the bridge.
You could feel them both vibrating beside you with something just shy of frenzy, as if touching each other or you would send everything over the edge. You exhaled slowly, before tilting your head toward them.
“Can I test a theory?” you asked, voice too sweet to be true.
They both nodded, eyes locked on you like you’d hung the moon.
You turned to Bucky first, climbing into his lap with grace, knowing exactly how to break a man apart. He choked on his own breath when your knees bracketed his thighs and your weight settled against him. His hands, both metal and flesh, fluttered for a moment, unsure of where to land, before they found your hips. Your lips brushed his—just once, like a tease— before you kissed him properly. He opened to you like a man who’d been holding his breath for decades. Your fingers wound into his hair, tugging, and he groaned softly into your mouth.
John hadn’t moved. You could feel his eyes on you both — on the way Bucky held you, the way your hips rolled. You didn’t see a hint of jealousy, not even a single hint of possessive rage.
Instead, your theory was proven right.
He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even tense. He was... flushed, breathless, and very, very turned on.
You grinned as you rode one more slow grind into Bucky’s lap—just enough to make his head fall back against the couch with a curse—and then looked over at John.
“C’mere,” you said, voice like a spark to dry kindling.
He came closer. God, did he.
You reached for him as he reached for you, and your lips met in a kiss that was all tongue and heat and frustration burned down into feral need. John’s hands tangled in your hair, tugging, framing your face as you leaned back against Bucky, trapped between them. You moaned into his mouth, felt Bucky’s grip on your waist tighten as he watched.
And Bucky didn’t hate it.
He should have. A week ago, he would’ve punched John for taking what was his.
But now, after listening to you talk through your experiences, he couldn’t bring himself to look away. He loved the flush in John’s cheeks, the way your body writhed between them, the sight of his mouth on yours. He was transfixed.
You pulled away from John, lips swollen, and looked between them—your two soldiers, your boys.
“I want you to try something,” you said carefully. You nudged gently between them, drawing them closer together. “Only if you want to.”
They hesitated, if only for a second.
Then—almost in sync—they nodded.
And you watched as John turned to Bucky, watched as the uncertainty warred with curiosity in both of them.
It started clumsy, just a brush of mouths— more uncertainty than contact.
But then they clicked.
Bucky’s hand came up to cradle John’s neck. John leaned in. The kiss deepened, it became urgent. Mouths opening, tongues sliding together, a shared breath between them. A shocked noise escaped one of them—you couldn’t tell who.
You slid off Bucky’s lap, legs folding under you as you perched on the coffee table in front of them, watching them kiss like they were unraveling everything they thought they knew about themselves.
When they finally broke apart, it was almost… unwilling.
“What,” John blinked, dazed, “The fuck.”
Bucky was still touching his neck, his thumb rubbing slow circles. “I… liked that.”
You leaned in slowly, a smile curling at your lips as your mouth brushed Bucky’s ear, then John’s.
“Atta boys,” you whispered. “Told you. Nothing wrong with this.”
Your hands slid lightly across their thighs— just enough to make their breaths hitch again.
“Now,” you murmured, eyes dark. “I think it’s time we all blow off some steam.”
Their hands moved at the same time. One flesh, one metal. Both hungry, both learning how to be unafraid. They met midair, just inches from your thighs.
John’s calloused palm grazed Bucky’s vibranium knuckles, and both of them flinched like the contact had short-circuited their programming.
Then, you leaned back onto your hands on the table, satin parting at your thighs, fabric slipping open like a curtain revealing a show. Your legs shifted slightly apart as an invitation. As an anchor.
“Touch me together,” you whispered. “No one’s losing. You’re both here with me. With each other.”
You guided them up — gently threading your fingers through theirs, dragging their hands together up your thigh. You felt the tremble in both of them.
“Still scared?” you asked.
They nodded.
“Still want this?”
They answered in two voices, almost overlapping “Yeah.”
You dragged them both closer, until Bucky’s mouth was at your throat, his tongue tracing the beat of your pulse. John kissed your jaw like he wanted to bury every doubt he’d ever had.
You didn’t try to split the attention, and you didn't need to.
They were learning how to exist together.
You caught Bucky’s hand and placed it flat against John’s chest, just over his heart.
“Feel that?” you told him. “He’s not the enemy.”
John’s breath hitched, but he didn’t move away. His fingers hovered, then wrapped slowly over Bucky’s wrist, holding him there.
And then… without any direction from you, they… kissed again.
You watched, heat pooling low in your belly.
“Look at you,” you praised, almost reverent. “Figuring it out.”
John broke the kiss first, breathless. “I kissed a guy,” he whispered, like it hadn’t really hit him until just then.
“And you liked it,” Bucky said, almost amused.
You slid into John’s lap, letting your legs straddle him as you reached for Bucky, curling your fingers into the waistband of his jeans to pull him closer. The three of you tangled—hands on skin, mouths finding mouths, exploring, relearning what wanting felt like when it wasn’t laced with shame.
You tugged your top over your head. You were bare from the waist up, and their eyes followed, even as you helped them out of their clothes.
“I’ve got you,” you reassured, almost affectionately. “Both of you. Let go.”
And they did.
—
Hours later, the room was wrecked.
Sheets were half-hanging from the mattress. Your pajama shorts were slung over a lamp. Bucky’s dog tags tangled in the headboard, and John’s shirt was on the other side of the room. The air still smelled like skin and sweat and sex.
You were curled between them, blissed out, your limbs a lazy sprawl of post-chaos satisfaction. Bucky’s arm was draped over your waist like he’d claimed the space and wasn’t letting go. John lay on the other side, hands behind his head like a man pretending this wasn’t the first time he’d shared a bed with someone he couldn’t label.
“Well,” John finally said, clearing his throat, “that was… something.”
Bucky snorted without opening his eyes. “That’s your takeaway? ‘Something’? Jesus, Walker.”
John turned his head to glare at him, cheeks flushed. “Sorry, didn’t realise we were supposed to be doing slam poetry after an orgy.”
“It’s a threesome, technically,” Bucky corrected, just out of spite.
John rolled his eyes. “You’re technically so annoying for someone so hot.”
You made an amused sound between them, stretching with feline satisfaction. Your fingers traced a lazy line up Bucky’s chest, then reached across your stomach to trace the veins on John’s arm.
“You’re both very chatty for two people who just had their minds blown,” you said, lips quirked up.
John rubbed his face, groaning into his hands. “Yeah, well, I’m trying really hard not to overthink the fact that I—” He gestured vaguely, as if the admission physically hurt. “—liked it.”
Bucky cracked one eye open. “Define ‘it.’”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I really don’t. Be specific.”
John sighed dramatically, like a teenager admitting he cried during Toy Story. “You,” He choked out. “Okay? You.”
Bucky tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it didn't look smug. A little touched, maybe. “You’re actually gonna say it out loud.”
John rolled his eyes. “You fucked me too, Barnes. Don’t act like you didn’t make that noise when—”
“Alright, alright,” Bucky cut in, holding up a hand. “Let’s not do a play-by-play.”
You bit your lip, half-laughing, half-listening — but you saw it. The edge under the jokes. The old fear, the years of conditioning.
So you pushed up on one elbow and reached for them both.
John closed his eyes. “I do. Like you. And…” He opened his eyes just to look at Bucky. “Him too, apparently.”
Bucky sighed, looking up at the ceiling.
“Do you… ever wonder,” he said, tentatively, like he was stepping into an old wound, “what it would’ve been like if we’d been allowed to figure this out sooner?”
John could only nod. “Maybe,” he started, “I wouldn’t have been so hard on myself.”
“You’re here now,” you whispered. “You’ve got time, and…” you paused to press soft kisses to each of their shoulders, before settling back against the pillows with a content hum. “You’re both mine. And maybe… just a little bit each other’s too.”
Bucky let out a chuckle. “We should be terrified.”
“I am” John said, already half-asleep. “But I don’t wanna run from it.”
Neither did Bucky.
Neither did you.
And as sleep pulled you all under, John mumbled one last thing, almost inaudible, “Still think I’m a better kisser.”
Bucky, slurring now, breathed out, “Debatable.”
—-
You did not wake up all at once.
The sun was too bright over the curtains. Someone’s – probably Bucky’s— thigh was over your legs. And there was definitely an elbow — probably John’s — wedged in the small of your back.
You shifted slowly, careful not to disturb the fragile peace.
Bucky made a quiet, muffled sound into the pillow and curled in closer, hair a mess across his cheek. John just groaned and rolled the other way, nearly falling off the bed, dreamily saying something about "needin’ a chiropractor" and "why do you bite."
Oh, he needed a chiropractor? Funny. Last time you checked, you were the only non-supersoldier here.
Not that you were complaining.
You cracked an eye open and saw your pajama top on the floor a couple feet away. Bucky’s henley was closer. That would do.
You dragged yourself from the tangle of limbs, tugging the henley over your head. It smelled like him — clean, metal and cedar. You walked quietly to the door, only grabbing an old mug on your way out.
The hallway was cold.
The common room, thank fuck, was not.
Bucky wandered in a minute after you, hair tied back with a rubber band he’d found on the doorknob, wearing John’s grey sweatpants. John followed a few seconds later, in Bucky’s boxers and your fluffy pink slippers — clearly stolen in desperation.
You raised an eyebrow.
He blinked at you. “What?”
“Slippers.”
“They were closer than my self-respect.”
Fair.
Bucky glanced down at the sweats and sniffed as he sat down on the couch. “Why do your sweatpants smell like an Axe spray bomb?”
John rolled his eyes and gestured at his current outfit. “Why do your boxers ride up my ass?”
From the armchair in the corner, Bob looked up from his Sudoku book and smiled. “Oh! You all learned how to share,” he exclaimed, “That’s nice.”
John jumped, none of you realising that he was even there in the first place.
Bucky coughed into his cup of water like he’d swallowed a fork.
You dropped onto the couch beside them with the blankest face you could manage. “Morning, Bob.”
Bob tilted his head. “So, you had a sleepover?”
“We had a revelation,” Bucky said dryly. John, who was sitting in between you and Bucky now, nudged his metal arm. “We had a lot of things.”
You kicked him lightly under the coffee table. He didn’t even flinch. He was too tired, too exhausted in all the best ways.
Bob leaned forward with a curious sparkle in his eyes. “Is it because you’re all dating now? Or… dating-adjacent? dating-ish.”
You chuckled. “You’re weirdly chill about this.”
Bob beamed. “I watched a lot of Bojack Horseman in recovery. I learned… a lot from that show.” He shrugged before giving John a proud thumbs-up. “Proud of you, buddy.”
You snorted into your coffee, while John managed a half-hearted salute, pink slippers dangling off his toes.
Then, you heard a SLAM.
The door burst open.
Alexei stormed in wearing the same shirt as last night — his hair rumpled with bloodshot eyes.
“I could not sleep,” he declared flatly. “Your room is next to mine. Next. To. Mine.”
Bucky lowered his mug. John looked like he was calculating if the toaster could double as a coffin.
Alexei’s eyes were cold and full of fury. “You screamed,” he said to Bucky. “Like we were under nuclear threat. I prepared go-bag before I realised it was sex.”
Bucky’s ears turned pink. “I...Sorry?”
“And Walker!” Alexei turned his glare to John. “You sounded like angry raccoon!”
John shuffled your slippers in shame.
“Do not even get me started on you!” he pointed at you, “I thought it was bad with one of them. I was wrong. Both is worse.” Alexei grabbed a mug of coffee like it was vodka, slammed it back like a shot, and let out a deep breath. “You all are lucky I support the gay,” he said. “But next time maybe do not explore your sexuality like… freight train.”
Bucky sank down on the couch. “We should really get Alexei noise-canceling headphones.”
You stood, grabbed a glass of water, and handed it to him. “Sorry, old man,” you winced, “I’ll upgrade the armouring on your suit, if that makes up for it?”
Alexei sighed, hand to his heart, and looked to the ceiling. “This is my penance. For being terrible father in past. I accept it.”
You all laughed — Bucky with a breathy chuckle, John with a wheezing groan, even Bob with a little grin that warmed up the whole room.
You leaned over, kissing Both John and Bucky temples as Bucky tugged the waistband of the boxers John was wearing — his own, technically — and pulled him closer.
John mumbled into Bucky’s shoulders. “Guess we’re doing this.”
Bucky nodded, pouting playfully as he pulled you back on the couch. “Guess so.”
Bob, watching the three of you squished into one couch cushion, just sipped his tea with a sigh of exaggerated patience.
“Well,” he said, glancing back at his Sudoku, “at least it’s good for team bonding.”
A/N - reader is Wakandan. Her family had names, but you choose how they look. Reader is Ayo’s sister. Reader is described to wear a bonnet/scarf on missions
Warnings - mature language, violence, blood, drowning, illness? Does that need a warning? Mentions of abuse, suicide, and overdosing.
The hum of the outreach center faded as the vibranium doors slid shut behind you. Another day of mediating disputes, guiding young minds, and reminding the world that Wakanda was not simply a beacon—but a boundary.
You hadn’t even unwrapped the shawl from your shoulders when you saw the familiar black SUV idling at the curb.
Bucky Barnes was leaning against the hood, arms folded, eyes half-hidden beneath his tousled hair. His vibranium arm gleamed faintly in the sun, a gift your country had made for him. Your sister Ayo still called him White Wolf, but you had other names in mind.
“You’re late,” you said as you approached.
“I’m early,” Bucky replied. “You’re just always on time.”
You slid into the passenger seat without another word. The car moved forward with a low growl of the engine, and the silence stretched comfortably for a while—until Bucky broke it.
“They’re a mess.”
“I know. I read their file.”
He sighed. “Alright. Quick run-down. You ready?”
You nodded, fingers tapping the edge of the console.
“Yelena works better alone. She’s brilliant, lethal, and talks to her Guinea Pig more than any of us. I respect it.”
“Guinea Pig?”
“Don’t ask. Anyways, Alexei—Red Guardian—he’s… enthusiastic. Tries to force bonding exercises. Made us do trust falls last week.”
You blinked. “Did you catch him?”
“I didn’t participate.”
“Mm.”
“John Walker—”
“Ayo told me about him. Called him an ass.”
“Yeah. He thinks he’s in charge. Looks at himself in the mirror like he’s the second coming of Steve Rogers. Ava hates him.”
“Don’t blame her.”
He gave you a look. “Ava’s trying. But she doesn’t work with anyone she doesn’t respect. And she doesn’t respect anyone.”
You hum, before asking about the one he forgot to mention. “And Robert?”
Bucky’s hands tightened on the wheel. The car shifted lanes.
“Bob’s… scared. Doesn’t say much. Doesn’t do much. He’s powerful—beyond what anyone understands. He flat out refuses to do any training because he’s scared he’s gonna hurt someone. Very timid and jumpy.”
You looked out the window, watching the landscape shift from city streets to a more remote, secure perimeter. Towering steel and glass rose ahead—the new Avengers facility.
“So,” you said, “a loner, a failed Captain America, a hyperactive Soviet, a bitter ghost, and a god in self-exile. And you want me to turn them into a team?”
He gave you a sideways glance. “You made me better, didn’t you?”
You scoffed. “You needed a bath and boundaries. That wasn’t hard.”
He actually laughed.
But as the car approached the gates, your smile faded, replaced by something steadier. Quieter.
“They’re not going to like me,” you murmured.
“Nope,” Bucky agreed. “But they’ll listen to you. Eventually.”
“No they won’t.”
“No, they won’t.” He sighed.
•••
The elevator was silent save for the soft hum as it climbed. You leaned casually against the wall, watching the numbers tick upward.
“This place is impressive,” you murmured, eyes scanning the sleek paneling. “Shuri would be losing her mind right now. She’d probably try to scan everything before declaring it inefficient.”
Bucky chuckled beside you.
“She’d challenge Tony to a tech duel if he were still alive,” you added.
“She’d win,” he replied.
You gave him a sly look. “Obviously.”
The elevator dinged.
And then chaos.
The doors slid open into a modern, open-concept living room—and total pandemonium.
Yelena stood with her arms folded, eyebrows drawn, her accent sharp and slicing as she argued with John Walker, who was pointing with that infuriating confidence only men like him could muster. Ava was on the other side, jaw clenched, eyes blazing, practically vibrating with suppressed rage.
“I don’t take orders from you,” Ava snapped.
“You’re on a team, not a solo mission anymore—” John barked.
“You’re not the damn leader,” Yelena cut in, throwing a hand between them. “You’re just loud. There’s a difference.”
Off to the side, Alexei watched the spectacle with a bowl of Wheaties in one hand and a bemused expression.
“We must work together,” he announced through a mouthful of cereal. “Like family. Like Avengers! You know, they do the trust falls!”
You stepped out of the elevator without flinching.
“Should I come back in five minutes?” you asked dryly.
All heads turned.
The room went very still—except for the sound of Alexei crunching loudly.
“Who’s that?” John asked, still scowling.
“Someone smarter than you,” Yelena muttered.
You ignored both of them. Your eyes swept the room once, cataloging body language, friction, and power dynamics like instinct.
Then you saw him.
In the kitchen, away from the shouting, Bob Reynolds stood alone.
He didn’t look up. Didn’t move. Just kept his hands braced on the counter like he needed it to anchor him.
You let your eyes linger for a beat.
Then looked away.
“Alright,” you said, clapping your hands once. “I see this is going to be even more fun than I thought.”
“Who are you, exactly?” John snapped.
“Your new therapist,” you said with a flat smile. “Y/N L/N. From the Wakandan Outreach Center in New York. And apparently, your only chance at functioning as something vaguely resembling a team.”
“Now,” you said, turning toward Bob briefly before facing the others again, “someone tell me which one of you started the fire in the training room.”
A beat of silence.
Then Alexei raised his spoon.
“I said we should not use the flamethrowers indoors… but no one listens to Red Guardian.”
This is going to be fun.
A/N. I know it’s kinda short but I’ll be writing more once school lets out Friday
These prompts have snowballed into an ongoing series following the beloved Fem!medic!oc trope (written via 1st person reader with no real descriptors). They're in chronological order, and I've tried to make sure to mention if any earlier works in particular are referenced in each one.
If there is a trigger warning that you are concerned about but want to enjoy the story, please please please reach out! In many instances I can alter snip-its or tone things down, or at least highlight the sections in question so you can avoid them (I could do a vague summary for continuity).
Also, these stories are getting added to Ao3 via Monday updates. I'm not dumping them all at once, but you're welcome to pop on over if you prefer that format - just don't forget to drop a kudos/comment!
Touch Starved - Echo - The new medic catches Echo hiding a strained shoulder and gives him a much needed massage.
Warnings: Pretty mild – some cussing, a bit of angst, otherwise just a lot of comfort via a much needed massage
Round 2 with Echo! - just a soft second massage because I wanted to write it - Warnings: Body dysphmorphia from prosthetic limbs, angst, some anxiety/tension from a thigh massage
TS Ch 2 - Hunter - Doc convinces Hunter to let her help him through a tension headache.
Warnings: Tension headache, no real warnings - just another much needed massage
TS Ch 3 - Wrecker - An innocent request leads Doc to a horrifying discovery that she's quick to remedy.
Warnings: Reference to child neglect/ starvation, star wars cursing
TS Ch 4 – Tech - Left alone on the Marauder while the others retrieve a replacement part, Doc and Tech discuss the local culture while Tech works on mechanical upgrades. The unfortunate side effects of his poor posture prompt Doc to step in with a helping hand.
Warnings: Discussion of cultural/religious differences, joking reference to reverse harem, touch aversion, medical language
TS Ch5 – Crosshair - Fed up with Crosshair's dismissal of her help after a nearly disastrous escape, Doc finally snaps.
Warnings: Maybe light arachnophobia? Cursing, yelling, brief mention of injection
Flinching - OC&TBB - Doc has a dangerous near-encounter while away from the boys. They aren't pleased when they find out.
Warnings: Reference to attempted SA, reference to physical assault, some cursing, borderline panic attack.
F Ch 2 - OC&Echo - Echo patches Doc up after her attack.
Warnings: Reference to attempted SA, reference to physical assault, some cursing, wound care, energy crash from excessive bacta use, non-intimate undressing, some self-deprecating thoughts
F Ch 3 - OC&TBB - Doc tries to lighten the mood en route to speaking with her superior officers.
Warnings: Mostly fluff, but still some reference to attempted SA, reference to physical assault, reference to victim blaming
F Ch 4 - OC&TBB - After the grueling retelling, Doc has a brief talk with Cody regarding her place in the GAR before finally returning to learn that her squad has a surprise for her.
Warnings: Summarized attempted SA, reference to physical assault, reference to victim blaming. The first half is heavy, not gonna lie, but there's nothing explicit.
Muzzled - Crosshair - Crosshair is captured by Separatist forces. Though brief, his time imprisoned left him in need of help.
Warnings: Some light medical jargon and an injection, a bit of cussing, kinda muzzle/gag duo complete with saliva
M Ch 2 - Crosshair - Hiding an injury rarely ever ends well. Luckily, Doc notices something is still wrong.
Warnings: This one's gone some proper medical procedures - gore/blood/injections. Adult language. Good bit of guilt and angst.
TS Ch1.5.5 (because Cross needs more attention) - Crosshair - Nothing's easy with Crosshair, but after a joke goes too far, he and Doc manage to find a deeper trust in each other.
Warnings: More cursing, panic attack
Knife to Throat - OC&TBB - Doc is blindsided by a grief-maddened civilian.
Warnings: Blood and cursing. Kinda flirting with death a bit, and some light fluff that goes with it. Knife wound and subsequent medical procedures.
Soft Words - Hunter - A Separatist outpost sets a cruel trap for Hunter. The Doc tries to keep him sane until rescue comes.
Warnings: Went very heavy in the whump with this one – sound torture, imprisonment, mild language
Secrets Revealed – OC&TBB - An unexpected EMP forces Doc to reveal aspects of their past that could well turn the batch against them. (Censored version for those uncomfortable with heavy gore)
Warnings: Explicit details of severe injury – blood/gore, language, panic attacks, angst, PTSD flashbacks, self-depreciation, offhand reference to minor character death. This one hits a lot of potentially triggering topics pretty intensely and is fueled from a very dark place I was in with my own injury. Be kind to yourself. Healing is a nonlinear process.
Made to Watch - OC&TBB - Doc becomes the subject of torture in an attempt to force intel from Hunter.
Warnings: Get yuh whump here! Fresh, violent whump! Explicit details of torture and physical injuries, blood and minor gore, broken bones, near death, language.
Panic - Echo - A quiet discussion between Doc and Hunter is delayed when Echo has a nightmare. Doc tries to ease him through it, resulting in a fun bit of shared taunts with Crosshair the following morning.
Warnings: Nightmare-induced panic attack. Non-intimate bed sharing. Fictional curses (does that need a warning?), sexual innuendo
No Anesthesia (Extra per request) – OC&TBB – Wrecker’s overzealous efforts to destroy a building lead to Doc getting pinned in a dire situation.
Warnings: Very heavy whump in this one, with a couple moments of descriptive gore and medical procedures, impalement, difficulty breathing, near death, cursing. TW: claustrophobia
Found Footage - OC&TBB – A pleasant moment at 79s is shattered when someone tries to blackmail doc with footage of the crash on Agamar.
Warnings: Huge PTSD warning here. Flashbacks, disassociating, past injury description, blackmail, grief, angst, some alcohol use (social, not abuse), cursing
Difficulty Breathing – Medic OC&Wrecker- During a mission in a cave, Doc realizes she didn't come out of the rubble of that building with only physical scars, but is determined to push through.
Warnings: Big Claustrophobia warning. and Bats. Ptsd, panic attack. That's about it for this one!
DB Ch 2 - OC&Wrecker - Wrecker and Doc face additional challenges in their attempt to reach the surface.
Warnings: Heights, bats, mild gore, drowning, near death, hypothermia
DB Ch 3 - OC&TBB- When Hunter reveals what really prompted the cave beasts to attack, Doc is faced with an impossible decision.
Warnings: hypothermia recovery, thought of mortality (no character deaths), extreme guilt/angst/self doubt. Talked of wartime casualties. Dis one do be pretty tense, sooo prepare yourselves I guess
Fever – Tech - Tension are high after Doc's discussion with Commander Cody, but when Tech is exposed to a certain fungus, she doesn't hesitate to help.
Warnings: Angst, accidental drug exposure via fungal spores.
Fever - Tech Pt 2 - The effects of the spores quickly wear off, rending Tech into a severe withdrawal.
Warnings: TW: symptoms of withdrawal, accidental drug exposure via fungal spores, sense of impeding doom, high fever, vomiting, delirium-induced violence, strangulation, cursing, needles/IV
Fever - Tech Pt 3 - Crosshair and Echo take a moment to remind Doc that she needs to take care of herself, too, as Tech continues fighting through the effects of withdrawal.
Warnings: TW: symptoms of withdrawal, accidental drug exposure via fungal spores, high fever, needles/IV, seizures, light angst
Fever - Tech Pt 4 - Hunter and Wrecker each spend time helping Doc tend their brother.
Warnings: TW: symptoms of withdrawal, accidental drug exposure via fungal spores, high fever, needles/IV, paranoia induced violence, blood, broken nose, vomiting, dry heaves, mild sexual tension
Fever - Tech Pt 5 - Things get worse before they get better.
Warnings: TW: symptoms of withdrawal, accidental drug exposure via fungal spores, high fever, needles/IV, angst, fear of death/decommissioning
Fever - Tech Pt 6 - Finally through the worst of it, everyone is allotted a moment to breathe before returning to Kamino.
Warnings: TW: symptoms of withdrawal, accidental drug exposure via fungal spores, high fever, reference to vomiting, delirium induced violence, guilt
More then Skin Deep - Wrecker - Doc notices something about Wrecker while training and offers her help.
Warnings: Light sexual tension, reference to past injury, disabilities and light prejudice from appearance - It's mostly just some softness fluff.
"Not Gonna Believe This" - Doc & Tbb - Chow time on Kamino dissolves into chaos in the wake of thoughtless words.
Warnings: Fighting, broken nose, blood, light medical procedures, mild guilt, bit of sexual tension, reference to bullying
Arrows (Special Request) - Doc - A brief moment of peace precedes a mission doomed to misfortune.
Warnings: Bone/joint injury, some PTSD, brief insect creature, mild sexual tension (when isn't there with these guys)
Arrows - Doc Pt 2 - Rapid medical care is given, but it offered little reprieve.
Warnings: Bone/joint injury, profanity, vomiting, heavy whump, medical procedures, needles
Arrows - Doc Pt 3 - Medication offers some relief before the team splits up to retrieve a cure.
Warnings: This one's pretty mild - descriptions of pain, some guilt... I think that's about it
Arrows - Doc Pt 4 - Doc continues to decline as the others race to get back with the cure.
Warnings: Near death, vague drowning (kinda?), reference to light medical procedures, some guilt and profanity
Breaking Point - Doc - Sent to Devaron under the guise of a med-leave, Doc and the boys get a chance to relax, and Doc learns a disturbing truth of Crosshair’s specialty.
Warnings: Vague, cryptic warnings, moral dilemma over assassination, mild tension
Breaking Point - Doc Pt 2 - The squad enjoys the remainder of that day on the lake before finally fulfilling the real reason they were sent there.
Warnings: Sexual tension galore, mild brotherly bullying, profanity, mild body dismorphia regarding prosthetics, assassination, minor character death, blood, guilt, angst, horrors of war
Breaking Point - Doc Pt 3 - Doc struggles with the aftermath of Crosshair's mission.
Warnings: Intense descriptions of grief and guilt. Heavy angst.
Breaking Point - Doc Pt 4 (Explicit) - Doc and Crosshair find an escape in each other. (Click Here for the Censored Version)
Warnings: Guys. It's smut (unless you opt for the censored version, then it's steamy kisses and implied sex). In fact, it's inappropriate use of sex to cope with grief. See tag for explicit version's detailed warnings, profanity, and dread/guilt
Breaking Point - Doc Pt 5 - Before she can deal with the ramifications of her actions, Doc seeks out Crosshair for answers.
Warnings: Non-explicit sex scene, profanity, and dread/guilt - might offer an explicit chapter later, but it wasn't important to the scene, so I didn't go into it this time
Breaking Point - Doc Pt 6 - Tensions are high about the squad as they struggle to accept changing dynamics.
Warnings: Vague reference to sex/ sexual innuendoes, profanity, and more dread/guilt
You'll Have to Go Through Me - Doc Pt 1 - Tensions are still high as the squad attempts to prepare for their next mission.
Warnings: Lots of heavy emotions in this one - angst, guilt, angry, blame, got some profanity in there, and reference to child soldiers kinda
You'll Have to Go Through Me - Doc Pt 2 - A brief distraction from Crosshair offers little comfort once the mission actually starts.
Warnings: Some sexual tension, mild making out, severe anxiety, profanity, war typical violence, and some gory killing
You'll Have to Go Through Me - Doc Pt 3 - Doc shows just how far she's willing to go to save her men.
Warnings: It dark. Ye be warned. Torture. Blood. Broken/dislocated bones. Disassociation. Stabbing. Big profanity warning. Murder.
You'll Have to Go Through Me - Doc Pt 4 - They escape the planet before Doc's actions finally catch up with her.
Warnings: Reference to bone trauma, blood, vomit, disassociation, medical procedures, guilt, angst, needles
You'll Have to Go Through Me - Doc Pt 5 - Doc has a couple conversations that have been held off for too long.
Warnings: Nightmares, guilt, reference to torture/gore, reference to murder/assassination, profanity
You'll Have to Go Through Me - Doc Pt 6 - Doc has the chance to reconnect with most of her squad before plans change.
Warnings: Mild PTSF, guilt, reference to torture/gore, profanity, heated kissing
You'll Have to Go Through Me - Xtra Scene - Crosshair and Echo have a chat.
Warnings: Just some standard guilt, angst, and regret, along with a little sprinkling of profanity.
Identity - Doc Pt 1 - Awkward goodbyes precede the beginning to Doc's secretive mission.
Warnings: Nothing serious - some cursing, a bit of sexual tension/heavy kissing, and some tension in general. Well, lots of tension in general
Identity - Doc Pt 2 - Doc reconnects with her old squad.
Warnings: Brotherly fighting, talk of hunting, nightmares with reference to gore/torture, heavy tension, profanity
Identity - Doc Pt 3 - After a final chat with the 104th, Doc enters the gala.
Warnings: Brotherly bullying, varying degrees of dread, unwanted advances (between two women, though I want to be clear: the 'unwanted' aspect is not due to gender), profanity, brief descriptions of gore and burns, needles, brief description of dead bodies
Identity - Doc Pt 4 - The gala starts of well enough...
Warnings: torture, waterboarding, drowning, interrogation, panic, panic attack, flashbacks, self-blame, giving up, longing for death, temporary insanity, arguably inappropriate use of sedation, guilt, profanity, intense whump
Identity - Doc Pt 5 - Her old squad struggles in the aftermath of the gala.
Warnings: Minor flashbacks/PTSD, reference to torture, loads of guilt and tension, otherwise mostly just fluff and angst
Identity - 99 & 104th Pt 6 - Crosshair demands answers from the remaining members of the 104th.
Warnings: Big emotions in this - rage, guilt, blame, and the like. There do be a bit of fighting, but it's not gory. Brief description of water torture. Profanity
Identity - Doc Pt 7 - The debrief with Cody doesn't go well.
Warnings: Flashbacks/PTSD, description of torture, loads of angst, reference to gore, profanity, self-deprecating thoughts
Identity - Doc Pt 8 - After composing herself, Doc finally returns to her squad.
Warnings: Honestly, aside from the standard guilt and regret, this chapter is mostly fluff
An Ode to Artists - Doc/Crosshair Pt 1 - The squad is sent on a mission with the sole intent of being granted a moment of peace.
Warnings: This arc will mostly be fluffy stuff, but there will be references to past torture here and there. This one has some flashbacks, profanity, and loads of emotions like guilt, fear, anger, and general angst, as well some brief mention of wanting to die (not SI - with relation to ending torture), and I supposed some dependency
An Ode to Artists - Doc/Crosshair Pt 2 - A soft morning precedes an important chat.
Warnings: Kissing in bed with some light sexual tension if you squint, then right back into the good ol' hard emotions: self blame, guilt, anxiety; reference to torture, Crosshair being Crosshair, I think there's some light profanity, too
An Ode to Artists - Doc/Crosshair Pt 3 - The squad lands on Alderaan.
Warnings: sexual tension, mild ptsd
An Ode to Artists - Doc/Crosshair Pt 4 (Explicit) - Doc and Crosshair finally enjoy some isolation. (Click here for the censored version)
Warnings: Um... so, it's over 8k of smut. Unprotected PiV, oral (m & f receiving), light teasing, profanity
An Ode to Artists - Doc/Crosshair Pt 5 - Wrecker is shown a moment of the kindness he deserves, and Echo and Doc have a chat
Warnings: reference to sex but nothing explicit. Profanity. Some of the usual, heavy emotions (guilt, dread, etc). This one's pretty calm
Fool's Errand - Hunter Pt 1 - Plans never survive first contact with the enemy.
Warnings: Back to some good, ol' whump here. Minor ptsd, blood, broken nose, needles, profanity
Fool's Errand - Hunter Pt 2 - Doc patches up Hunter while Echo tries to coordinate with Tech and Wrecker to escape.
Warnings: Medical procedures, broken nose, blood, needles, profanity
Fool's Errand - Hunter Pt 3 - Echo and Doc race to get Hunter out of the prison.
Warnings: Suspense, profanity, dread, mild PTSD, mention of blood, reference to medical procedures
Fool's Errand - TBB Pt 4 - Doc races to rescue her squadmates.
Warnings: decent bit of cursing, blood, needles, minor body horror, some ptsd/ minor flashbacks, dislocated knee
Fool's Errand - TBB Pt 5 - The worst injuries are tended to first.
Warnings: fair bit of medical procedures in this one: blood, needles, big needle, body horror, brief mention of child prisoner
Fool's Errand - TBB Pt 6 - The flight back is mostly quiet.
Warnings: reference to previous medical procedures (blood/ needles), wound cleaning, some, uh, tension, child trauma
Warnings: impatience toward a child (kinda? I mean, yuh know... Crosshair), guilt, medical procedure/ gore, fantasy profanity (that warning always makes me giggle), sexual innuendo ish, gonna also add romantic tension because it's not really sexual tension, self-depreciating thoughts, body horror
Fool's Errand - TBB Pt 8 - Doc tends to Hunter.
Warnings: wound care, Doc's a bit thirsty in this one, so, some sexual tension, mutism, child with mutism, aftermath of torture, blood, medical procedure
Fool's Errand - TBB Pt 9 - The rescue mission planning begins. And ends.
Warnings: Tension. Some big emotions. Mild cursing. Also some legit fluff
Warnings: mild suspense, vague injury descriptions, decent bit of cursing, minor character death (very minor), (is there a warning for a kid wielding a gun?)
Fool's Errand - TBB Pt 11 - Doc does her job.
Warnings: heavy into medical procedures; a lot of grief, guilt, thoughts of self-doubt; near-death experience; blood; gore; needles; cpr; body horror; eye injuries; profanity.
Warnings: Reference to medical procedures, panic, eye injuries, profanity, blood, mild violence, guilt
Fool's Errand - TBB Pt 13 - Emotions run high during the trip back.
Warnings: Reference to child being injured, standard guilt and regret, mild injury description and medical procedure, panic, profanity, mild brotherly teasing
Reassigned - Doc & TBB - Doc's first meeting with CF99
Warnings: Not a ton of warning: some bullying, some angst; written via phone, so probably could have used some more editing
Flowers - Doc x Crosshair - Fluffy prompt for Clone x Reader Bingo (set a couple arcs ahead of Breaking Point)
Warnings: none really - just has a fluffy kiss
I Missed You, Too - Doc x Crosshair - Another fluff fic for Clone x Reader Bingo (a couple arcs after You'll Have to Go Through Me)
Warnings: Crosshair being Crosshair, but he's really a softy. Snuggling in bed. Probably one of the least Warning-heavy things I've written
A Quiet Celebration - Polybatch x Doc - a fluffy, little, not-entirely-canon life-day celebration
Warnings: Eh, it's the guys, soooo there's plenty of suggestive and near-steamy bits, but it's mostly just poly-batch (non clonsest) fluff
Doc's Tales with the 104th
Recommended reading Found Footage first though these will take place before Doc joins CF99.
First Impressions - The wolf pack get their first real meeting with Doc.
Warnings: vague bugs
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