♡ Hi! I'm Annie/34/Sometimes writer, sometimes reader/Small and sweet. Satan says they'd protect me/ My Masterlist/ Add yourself to my taglist/ My other media/ Reblog Masterlist/ Annie's library/ Backup blog ♡
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All my entries for @julybreakbingo July Break Flash Bingo 2026:
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Todas mis entradas para July Break Flash Bingo 2026:
Series Summary: The Avengers have faced dangerous enemies before. This one learns. She does not fight like the others. She fights like him. And with every encounter, Steve Rogers gets closer to understanding why.
Chapter Summary: To break the pattern, the team changes tactics—removing Steve from the field and testing a new approach. For a moment, it works. Then she adapts. When a single misstep cracks her control, Tony finally sees what they have been missing all along—they were never ahead. They were being watched.
Words: 3,573
A/N: Two updates at once. What is happening? Your author lives on comments and likes. All errors are mine. :)
Warnings: Canon-typical violence. Swearing. Minor character death.
Series Warnings: Steve Rogers x fem!villain!Reader; canon-typical violence.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. No copyright infringement intended. This is not written for profit.
📖 AO3 | 💜 Tip Jar | 🦋 Thank you for reading!
Mirror Protocol Masterlist | Part One | Part Six
Hours later, Tony sat alone in his lab, sifting through data. Screens filled the space, reflections of code and footage flickering across the walls as he paced, muttering to himself while he followed the tech trail.
He shifted to the recording of the mission, scrubbing through until it hit the blackout. His jaw clenched. “Twenty-three seconds is not random…”
He moved to another screen, pulling up overlapping feeds. “How'd she know Steve was close…”
Then something clicked. He stilled, leaning in. “She's not blocking the signal—she's redirecting it…”
In the adjoining space, the others worked through their own angles. Natasha sat with her tablet, Sam leaned over a console, and even Thor had taken up a screen, trying to make sense of information that did not come naturally to him.
Steve stood at the window, gaze fixed on the lawn, unmoving. Tony’s voice carried behind him, but Steve barely registered it. His focus stayed locked on that final moment, turning it over again and again, dissecting a single word like it held the answer.
The door slid open.
Bucky stepped in with purpose, attention fixed on Tony. “You're following the wrong trail.”
Tony did not even look up. “Oh yeah? Unless you suddenly speak fluent algorithm, I'm not—”
Bucky cut in with a quiet exhale, shifting his weight. “He's holding something back.”
That snapped the room’s attention. Natasha went still, watching. Sam’s eyes flicked between them. Thor straightened, alert.
Tony froze mid-motion.
Slowly, he turned. “Explain.”
Bucky’s tone stayed controlled. “Steve hesitated. Something threw him. Not just the fight. She pushed at something—like she did with me.”
At the window, Steve rolled his eyes, not turning. “We have bigger problems.”
Thor’s gaze settled on his back. “If it affected the battle, it is relevant.”
Tony’s expression shifted, something sharper sliding into place as he looked at Steve. “Oh. Oh, that is diabolical.” He let out a breath, eyes narrowing. “She's not just controlling the tech…”
The realization settled fully.
“She's controlling you.”
The room went still.
Steve tensed but did not move, did not turn.
“Shit,” Bucky muttered, tipping his head back briefly. “She already got in your head.”
Natasha did not look up from her tablet. “Then we account for it.”
The quinjet settles just outside the HYDRA detention facility, engines whining down as dust kicks up around them. The ramp drops before the craft has fully stilled and the team moves, boots hitting the ground in quick succession.
Tony is already in their ears before they even clear the landing zone. “Okay, I have put a fix in place for the comms.”
That pulls attention immediately.
He continues, fast, certain. “Closed loop system. Just us. She can't edit what she can't touch.”
Natasha fits the new earpiece as she walks, testing the connection with a slight tilt of her head. Sam slots his in beside her, shoulders loosening just a fraction as the channel comes through clean.
Bucky does not look at Tony. His focus stays locked on Steve.
Steve does not notice. His eyes are already on the building.
Thor stands at the rear of the formation for half a second longer, scanning the structure, then steps forward with the rest, posture set for a fight.
Natasha raises a hand, drawing them in tighter. “Objective is simple. We get the scientist out.”
No one wastes time responding. They move.
The doors give under the breach and Tony’s voice guides them immediately. Clean. No delay. No lag.
“Left corridor clear. Two turns ahead, take the right.”
They follow without hesitation, movements snapping into place with the kind of efficiency they have been missing. It feels right. Too right.
They sweep through the first corridor, then the next, clearing corners, checking rooms. Nothing. No resistance. No movement.
Sam’s voice cuts in low. “Still clean on my end.”
Natasha signals forward. Keep moving. They push deeper. The detention block opens ahead, rows of cells stretching down both sides. Empty. Too many empty.
They slow just slightly, tightening formation as they begin checking. Steve steps forward to the next cell—
Thor’s head tilts. A shift. Barely there. His arm moves before anyone else reacts. “Down—”
Mjolnir leaves his hand in a blur, tearing through the air—
She is already there. And already not. She steps aside, smooth, effortless, the hammer passing through the space she occupied a heartbeat earlier.
It slams into the far wall and returns just as fast, Thor catching it without looking away from her.
Sam stares. “That's her?”
She does not answer him. She does not look at him. Her attention is already elsewhere. On Steve.
The team moves to intercept—Natasha cutting left, Bucky stepping in from the right, Sam dropping lower to close the angle—but she slips through them, not engaging, not committing, redirecting just enough to pass.
Like they are not the objective. Like they never were. She reaches Steve. They collide. Fast. Close.
“You're not holding back anymore,” she says, almost pleased, even as she strikes.
Steve blocks, drives forward, forcing space between them. “You're still a pain.”
She laughs, light and sharp, dropping just enough that his next move redirects—his shoulder catching Natasha’s advance instead of her. She is already shifting, already inside his guard again.
Around them, the others try to re-engage, but she keeps moving, deflecting, slipping past, never letting herself be surrounded.
The comms crackle. Tony’s voice cuts in, mid-thought— “No—no, she is adapting—”
Static spikes. Silence. She moves. A sharp kick to Steve’s chest sends him stumbling back, breath knocked out of him—
And metal slams down. Bars drop between them with a violent clang, cutting the space in half.
Bucky hits them immediately, momentum carrying him forward. The barrier does not give. “Move—” he snarls, already trying again.
On the other side, Steve regains his footing just as she closes the distance again. Too close.
There is no space now. No room for wide strikes. Everything compresses—shoulder to shoulder, hands catching, redirecting, blocking at inches instead of feet.
Every movement is contact.
Steve pushes back, trying to break the rhythm, but she stays inside it, controlling the pace, forcing him to react instead of act.
Then she shifts. One step. One angle change. Steve adjusts—
Too late.
She drives forward, forcing him off balance, and he goes down hard, air leaving him in a sharp exhale.
He tries to recover—
She is already there.
Her hand comes up, gripping his jaw, fingers tight, holding him in place before he can turn away.
For a fraction of a second, everything stills.
Then she leans down. A quick press of her lips against his cheek. Controlled. Deliberate. “Bye, darling.”
She releases him and is already moving, turning away before he can even push himself up.
On the other side of the bars—
Everything breaks at once. Bucky slams his fist into the barrier.
Sam just stares. “What the hell—”
Natasha is already moving along the edge, tracking exits. Tony says nothing.
Thor watches Steve, something in his expression shifting as he takes in the exchange.
Her voice drifts back down the corridor, already distant. “See you soon.”
Then she is gone. For a moment, no one moves.
Then Natasha turns. “Objective.”
Two cells down. Steve pushes himself up as they reach it. The scientist is inside. Still. Too still.
The signs are obvious. Torture. Time passed. They were never meant to reach him alive.
“Damn it,” Sam breathes.
Tony’s voice returns, steady but stripped of earlier certainty. “There's a secondary exit. I'm routing you now.”
They move without speaking, breaking out through the route Tony feeds them, clearing the facility with no further resistance.
By the time they reach the quinjet, the silence has settled in fully.
No one says anything as they board. No one looks at Steve. No one needs to. The ride back is quiet. Stunned. Tense.
And there is no question left between them. This is personal.
The quinjet lands and no one speaks as they disembark. Boots hit gravel, then metal, the sound echoing too loudly in the silence as they move straight for the compound and into the briefing room.
No one breaks formation. No one slows.
Inside, Tony is already moving, pulling up screens before the door fully shuts behind them. Footage flickers across the walls—angles of the fight, the moment of the barrier, the exact second everything went wrong.
Natasha stops beside her usual chair, hands on her hips, focus turned inward as she runs through it all again. Sam lingers near the table, caught between sitting and standing, unsure where to put himself. Thor moves to the edge of the room, quiet but intent, watching all of them instead of the screens.
Steve goes straight to the window. His jaw is set, shoulders tight, putting distance between himself and the rest of them.
Bucky does not stop moving. He paces the length of the room, sharp turns, too much energy with nowhere to put it.
The silence stretches until Sam finally drops into a chair, dragging a hand over his face. “Okay… what the hell was that?”
Steve answers without turning. “It was a trap.”
Bucky spins on him immediately. “No. We're not doing that.”
The room tightens.
He steps closer, voice low but cutting. “You let her get in your head. And you froze.”
Steve shakes his head, still not looking at him. His voice is firm, controlled. “I lost a second.”
“And she took that second.” Bucky does not raise his voice, but it hits harder for it.
Sam shifts in his seat, uncomfortable, eyes flicking between them. Natasha’s gaze sharpens, tracking both men without stepping in.
Tony turns just enough to show he is listening, one hand still moving through the data on the screens.
Thor’s attention settles fully on Steve now, steady and unblinking.
Bucky exhales sharply, trying to rein it in, but it does not soften his next words. “You're still not telling us what she said.”
Steve’s shoulders tense. “It wasn't relevant.”
Bucky closes the distance in two steps, grabbing Steve’s shoulder and forcing him to turn. “It mattered enough for you to miss her.”
Steve’s eyes cut hard. “I had her.”
“But you didn’t.”
The words land and stay there.
No one moves. No one speaks.
Thor breaks the silence, voice even but carrying. “She strikes at the mind, not just the body.” His gaze shifts between them. “That is how she wins.”
Tony finally turns fully, gesturing at the screens behind him. “Great, we can unpack that later.” The edge in his voice is back now. “Right now she's rewriting the board in real time.”
Natasha exhales once, sharp, then straightens. “Enough.”
That cuts through everything.
“We're giving her too much control,” she continues, voice steady, authoritative. “We focus on the endgame, not her.” Her eyes land on Steve. “We adjust for it. All of it.”
Bucky does not move, does not back off. His voice is quieter now, but more dangerous for it. “You don't get to hide this.”
Steve holds his gaze for a second, then looks away, jaw tightening. “I'm not.”
No one calls him on it.
Natasha moves first, dropping into her chair and pulling up her tablet. “We map a new plan. Now.”
The room shifts, but the tension does not go with it. It lingers, threaded through every movement, every glance.
No one says it again. They do not have to.
That evening, the target is set and the team gathers around the table. The room is quieter than usual, focus sharpened by everything that has gone wrong.
Tony pulls up the schematics of the HYDRA lab, screens blooming to life around them. “Okay, I tightened the closed loop comms. No delay this time. No interference. We control the signal now.”
His tone is confident, but his fingers do not stop moving, adjusting, refining, double-checking.
Bucky watches Steve instead of the screens. Steve studies the map, jaw tight, shoulders set, irritation barely contained.
Natasha exhales slowly, pressing her fingers briefly to her temple before straightening. “We need to test her. She expects Steve.”
Tony does not hesitate. “So we remove the variable.”
Steve’s head snaps toward him. “I'm not a variable.”
Sam shifts in his seat, eyes flicking between them, unsure where to land.
Natasha meets Steve’s gaze evenly. “Right now, you are.”
Thor watches all of it, not the screens, not the map—Steve. Measuring the tension, the restraint, the edge just under the surface.
Tony claps once, sharp, pulling the room back. “Okay. We send in Red, Cyborg, and Wings. Point Break stays in the jet as backup in case things go sideways.” He gestures without looking. “Spangles stays with me. I coordinate.”
Steve’s jaw tightens further, but he says nothing. The decision has already been made.
No one argues.
The quinjet ride is short and quiet.
Tony is already working, screens up, live feeds syncing as they descend. Steve stands behind him, pacing tight lines, each turn sharper than the last. His eyes never leave the screens.
Thor remains seated but alert, watching both the feeds and Steve’s reflection in them. They land.
Sam launches immediately, wings cutting into the air as Natasha and Bucky move low and fast toward the structure.
“Comms are clean,” Tony says, almost to himself, watching the signal hold steady. “Stay on my call.”
On overwatch, Sam circles. “No heavy resistance. Two patrol teams, three each. Four on the main door.” No lag. No distortion.
Tony overlays the satellite feed, tracking movement in real time. “I see you. Adjust left—good. Go in three… two… now.”
Natasha and Bucky break into a sprint. She takes two with precise shots, Bucky catches the other pair, knocking them together and dropping them cleanly.
“Breaching,” Natasha confirms, already moving.
The door goes down without alarm. Inside, they move fast. Clean. Controlled.
Tony tracks them constantly. “Clear left. Two ahead—take them now.” They do.
Sam’s voice cuts in overhead. “Contact—couple drones.” A beat. “They are down. Shouldn't be noticeable.”
Bucky glances at Natasha. Something about that sits wrong. They keep moving. Rooms clear too easily. Resistance is light. Too light.
Natasha feels it settle in her chest—wrong, off—but pushes through it. They have been burned before. That does not mean every mission is a trap.
They push up toward the roof access. The door swings open—
And she is already there.
The punch is mid-swing before either of them fully register her. Bucky barely gets his guard up in time.
In the quinjet, Thor leans forward slightly. “She has changed her focus.”
Tony’s eyes snap to the feed. “She pivoted—target change—”
Behind him, Steve goes completely still, then forward a fraction, eyes locked on the screen, fists clenching at his sides.
Back on the roof, the fight explodes into motion.
Bucky ducks the first strike. She flows through it, dropping low and sweeping Natasha’s legs out from under her before pivoting back up into Bucky’s space, driving an uppercut that barely misses.
Natasha rolls, already recovering, turning as a group of HYDRA agents spill out of the access door behind them. She meets them head-on, pulling the fight away just enough.
Bucky is left with her. He swings. She blocks, eyes locked on his. “Let's see what is left of you.”
He ignores it, driving forward, aiming for her center. She closes the distance again, too close, voice quieter now. “Seventeen… dawn… does that sound familiar?”
Something in him stutters. Just a fraction. It is enough. Her strike lands, knocking him back a step.
Steve inhales sharply behind Tony, the sound barely contained.
Bucky rolls with it, anger snapping hot, catching her next move and twisting, trying to regain control of the exchange.
Sam dives in from above, cutting straight toward her—
She turns with the motion, both legs driving into him and sending him off course, crashing back into the edge of Natasha’s fight.
She rises smoothly. Right back into Bucky’s space. "Ready to comply?”
Bucky swings harder this time—connects—
And that is when it breaks.
A HYDRA agent turns, weapon raised, firing directly at Bucky’s arm. The shot lands. Sparks explode. The arm jerks—goes slack.
Tony’s breath catches. “That's not—”
Steve steps forward without thinking. “Buck—”
On the roof, Bucky does not slow. He does not even look at it.
But she does. She stops. Just for a second. Something shifts.
In the quinjet, Thor rises. “I am coming down—”
“Negative. Stay put.” Natasha does not even look over as she says it.
Her eyes are already on the shift. Back on the roof, the HYDRA agent moves again—
And she is suddenly in front of him. Two steps. No hesitation. Her hand comes up—
A sharp twist—
The snap is clean. Immediate. The body drops.
“Do not interfere.” Her voice is tight now. Not amused. Not playful.
Sam stares. “What—”
Tony goes completely silent. Steve does not move at all.
Thor’s voice comes back over comms, lower now. “That was not control.”
She turns back to Bucky. The rhythm is gone. Her movements are sharper, faster—less precise. She drives forward, forcing Bucky back into Sam and Natasha as they close in again, collapsing the space between all three of them.
For a moment, it looks like they might contain her. Then she disengages. Fast. Too fast. She is already moving for the edge. Gone over the side of the roof before anyone can cut her off.
The HYDRA agents scatter after her. The fight collapses with them.
The three regroup automatically, taking down what remains, but Bucky’s arm sparks again, smoke curling up from the damaged plating.
Natasha sees it immediately. “We move. Now.”
Back at the compound, Tony is already deep into the data, replaying the fight from every angle, isolating frames, tracking timing—especially the moment she stopped.
Behind him, Steve resumes pacing, faster now, tighter, every turn sharp enough to snap.
Thor remains on comms, watching the feeds with him.
“She slipped,” Thor says after a moment.
Tony shakes his head, eyes narrowing at the screen. “No.”
He rewinds the moment again. The shot. The pause. The kill.
“She exposed something.”
Behind him, Steve stops pacing. Just for a second. Then starts again.
The moment they are back in the briefing room, Tony is already moving.
Bucky does not argue as the metal arm comes off, the weight of it set onto the table with a dull, heavy sound. Tony is in motion immediately—tools out, a screen pulled close, diagnostics already running before the casing is fully opened.
Steve stands a few feet behind him, tension humming through him like a live wire, but he says nothing.
Natasha pulls up her tablet, already typing as she speaks, voice steady. “It was going well. Too well. Until we hit the roof. She went straight for Bucky, but she didn't ignore us this time. Then she lost control—and pulled out before we or her own agents could react.”
Sam leans back slightly, eyes flicking between Tony’s hands and the exposed wiring of the arm. “Why though? I get her not wanting interference, but that was overkill.”
Thor’s voice cuts in, thoughtful. “For some reason, she did not want the arm damaged.”
Bucky lets out a sharp, humorless breath. “Could have fooled me. She ripped it off the first time we tangled.”
Tony does not respond. He barely even grunts, focused as he removes the lodged bullet and begins repairing the damaged plating, movements precise and efficient.
Then his attention shifts. His eyes flick to the diagnostic readout.
Something spikes. He stills. “That’s… not right.”
No one stops talking.
Sam exhales, dragging a hand over his face. “She killed her own guy. Full stop.”
Natasha shakes her head without looking up. “No. That wasn't planned.”
Bucky nods once, jaw tight. “She lost control.”
“And she was not pleased by it,” Thor adds quietly.
Tony is no longer listening.
He isolates the signal, fingers moving faster now, pulling logs, cross-referencing data streams. His focus narrows, the rest of the room falling away.
“No, no…” he mutters under his breath. “That’s embedded… not external…”
He freezes.
Everything clicks.
His head lifts slightly, eyes fixed on the screen like it might change if he looks away. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
That cuts through the room.
Natasha looks up immediately. “Tony?”
Sam leans forward. “What is it?”
Tony turns the screen toward them, jaw tight. “It’s not the comms.”
His gaze shifts to Bucky. “It’s you.”
The room stills. All eyes snap to him.
Tony reaches back into the arm with careful precision, extracting something small—so small it is almost invisible between his fingers.
Bucky goes completely still. The words take a second to land, longer to settle, anger rising underneath them like something waking up.
Thor leans in slightly, studying the device with open surprise.
Steve shuts his eyes for a moment as the realization hits all at once. His mind flashes back—her hand on Bucky’s arm, the way she pulled him in, the headbutt—
“Christ.”
Natasha is already recalculating, her tablet forgotten for the moment as she rewrites everything she thought she knew.
Sam exhales sharply. “You’re saying she’s been—what—watching us?”
Tony nods once, sharp. “Exactly.”
“She hasn’t been predicting.”
His eyes flick back to the screen.
“She’s been listening.”
Part Eight
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Request: Hi! Just wanted to request a Steve Rogers x fem! Reader fic The reader has powers kind of like rogues, so they can't touch anyone without harming them. Then they accidentally touch Steve without gloves on, which results in the reader spiralling and sobbing as Bruce stabilises Steve in the medbay. Once Steve wakes up and is healed the reader feels nothing but guilt and continues to apologise over and over, as Steve tries to show her that he's okay and it's not her fault. Thank you!! @ nonny
Summary: you accidentally hurt Steve. You freak out and wonder if you've killed him when he recovers and comforts you in the aftermath. [wc 972] [ao3]
Warnings: Reader has powers like Storm, angst, fluff, steve gets hurt
It happens so fast. One second, you're laughing—actually laughing—because someone made a joke about Steve’s “grandpa playlist,” and the next—
Skin. Bare skin. Your hand against his wrist. No glove. No barrier. No protection.
Steve’s expression doesn’t even change at first. That’s the worst part. He just looks down—mildly confused—like he doesn’t understand why you’ve gone so still. And then his knees buckle.
“No—no, no, no, no—” You’re already backing away before he even hits the ground, hands raised like you’ve just committed a crime—which, God, it feels like you have. “I didn’t—I forgot—I thought—Steve—!”
He gasps. It’s sharp. Wrong. Like something inside him is being pulled out piece by piece.
Your chest constricts. “Someone help him!” you choke, voice breaking apart. “Please—please, I didn’t mean to—”
Everything becomes noise. Running footsteps. Shouted commands. Tony barking something into the comms. Natasha pushing past you. And Steve—God—Steve— He looks pale. Too pale.
You press yourself into the farthest corner of the room, shaking so hard your teeth chatter, staring at your hands like they don’t belong to you. Like they’re weapons. Like they’ve always been weapons. “I hurt him,” you whisper. “I hurt him—I hurt him—”
By the time they rush him to the medbay, you don’t remember walking there. You just… are there. Hovering in the doorway like a ghost that doesn’t deserve to cross the threshold.
Bruce is already working. Focused. Fast. Calm in that terrifying way that means things are not okay. “Vitals are dropping,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Heart rate’s unstable—Steve, stay with me—”
“I didn’t mean to,” you choke from the doorway.
Bruce glances up briefly—not angry, not accusing—just… assessing.
“I know,” he says, steady. “I know. Let me fix this.”
You slide down the wall. Your hands curl into your sleeves, gripping the fabric like it might somehow contain you. “I didn’t mean to,” you say again, softer now, like a broken record. Because what else is there to say? Sorry doesn’t fix this. Sorry doesn’t undo what you are.
Time stretches. Every second feels like punishment. Every beep of the monitor feels like judgment.
You don’t realize you’re crying until your vision blurs. “I forgot,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I just—I forgot for a second—I thought I was normal—” Your breath hitches. “I thought I could touch him. I didn't think I would hurt him.”
Silence. Then, “Hey.”
You flinch. Hard. Because that voice— No. No, that’s not—
Steve is sitting up. Weak. Pale. But awake. Alive.
You scramble backward on instinct, pressing yourself even farther away like distance might undo what you’ve done to harm him. “No—don’t—don’t come near me,” you choke out. “I’ll do it again—”
“I’m okay,” he says. His voice is rough, but steady. Grounding. “I’m okay.”
You shake your head violently. “No, you’re not—don’t lie to me—I saw what I did to you—”
Bruce cuts in gently, adjusting something on the monitor. “You drained him—temporarily. But his physiology is… well. Exceptional.”
Steve huffs a faint, tired laugh. “Perks of the serum.”
“He’ll recover fully,” Bruce adds. Then, softer—“He already is.”
But you’re not listening. Because all you can see is him collapsing. All you can hear is that gasp. All you can feel is your hand on his skin.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Then louder. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to—” It spills out of you, uncontrollable now. “I forgot my gloves, I wasn’t thinking, I just—I touched you and you—God, Steve, I could’ve killed you—”
“Hey.” His voice is firmer now.
You freeze.
“Look at me.”
You don’t want to. You really, really don’t want to. But you do anyway.
He’s watching you—not with fear. Not with anger. Just… concern. For you. “I knew the risk,” he says quietly.
Your head snaps in a sharp, broken shake. “No, you didn’t—”
“I did.”
“You didn’t feel it—”
“I do now.”
That hits you like a punch. You shrink back, breath hitching.
Steve exhales slowly, like he’s choosing every word carefully. “And I’m still here.”
Your voice trembles. “That doesn’t make it okay.”
“No,” he agrees softly. “It doesn’t.”
A pause.
“But it doesn’t make it your fault either.”
You let out a hollow, disbelieving sound. “How is it not? I’m the one who—”
“You didn’t choose this.”
Silence. Heavy.
“I should’ve been more careful,” he continues. “We both should’ve.”
Your hands tighten in your sleeves. “I can’t touch anyone,” you whisper. “Do you understand what that means?” Your voice cracks again. “I can’t hold someone’s hand. I can’t hug anyone. I can’t—” You swallow hard. “I can’t even comfort people without hurting them.”
Steve shifts, wincing slightly—but he doesn’t stop. “You still show up,” he says.
You blink at him. “What?”
“You still care,” he continues. “You still protect people. You still fight beside us.” His gaze softens. “That matters more than whether you can touch someone.”
Your vision blurs again. “I almost killed you.”
“And you didn’t.”
You shake your head, tears spilling freely now. “That doesn’t make it better—”
“It means I’m here,” he says gently. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Something in your chest cracks open. Painfully. “I’m sorry,” you whisper again.
Steve gives you the smallest, tired smile. “I know.”
You hesitate. But then, you pull your gloves back on. Every movement careful. Deliberate. Like armor being rebuilt.
He watches you the whole time. Not afraid. Never afraid.
When you finally look back up, your voice is barely there. “Are you… really okay?”
Steve nods. “Yeah.” A pause. “I will be.”
And somehow… Somehow… That feels like something you can hold onto. Even if you can’t hold onto him.
Type: standalone mostly fluffy one-shot, (mutual) pining with a side of idiots in love
Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 8500
Summary:
You’re in love with Steve. You’re in love with your closest friend.
Sometimes, you think he knows, or at least has some idea of the profoundness of your affections. Sometimes, despite your doubts and insecurities, you think he might like you more than a friend too.
And so, for this Valentine’s Day, you decide to act. Knowing your voice might fail you, you revert to penwomanship.
You did not expect it to fail you too.
A/N: There is it, my submission to @mercurial-chuckles 's lovely event of Vivifying Valentine's Atelier. I slightly modified the prompt, but it's there towards the end 🥰 I hope our lovey host will enjoy and so will you all! Cute divider by @firefly-graphics 💕
Warnings: mention of a gunshot wound (Steve) and a concussion (reader), allusions to Steve's PTSD, some self-deprecation and sprinkles of humour, mentions of alcohol, Steve being Steve, like one f-bomb, PINING
Dear Steve,
You must be wondering – what could I possibly want to send you a letter for, besides a formal resignation from my position. Do not fret – this is not it. Do not freak out. Or do.
Maybe, though, this is a resignation of sorts.
I’m resigning. I am giving up.
I am resigning from working so hard on trying to resist you – it’s been far too futile. A Sisyphus pushing the stone uphill; all in vain because there is no winning. The only win is to give in and hope you feel the same.
I am giving up the fight. I’m giving up my heart, to you, and I trust you with it, like I trusted you with secrets I trusted no one else with. Like I trust you with my life.
I might not be an Avenger or much of a fighter at all – there is a notion in you possibly trusting me with your life, an utterly ridiculous one and for a good reason. I am not strong. Not even half as you. But I promise: if you trust me with your heart, I will protect it with all I am.
With love and hope,
Yours
You reread the letter and gulp. Then reread it again. The more your gaze passes over each word, the stupider, heavier, sappier and over-the-top it seems. Completely ridiculous. Entirely foolish.
You huff and crumble the poor paper – an expensive one, a nice one, cream-coloured and thick, suited for meaningful words and matters of heart – and throw it to the trashcan at the opposite side of the room.
You miss.
The sad caricature of a love letter and the perfect parody of a ball of paper rolls for dramatic effect.
Just like the stupid stone in the Sisyphus myth which you thought, for some reason, should be mentioned in a confession of love and months of fruitless pining after the man who had become your closest friend. As if loving Steve was a never-ending chore meant to torture you.
Maybe it does, just a little bit; but the pain is not for Steve to know.
All the more for the fact that despite the torture, you keep doing it, your heart stubborn like the man who owns it is in matters of justice for all, the little man first and foremost.
You missed the trashcan just like you missed when trying to pour your feelings into a letter you hoped to give to Steve on Valentine’s Day, at last.
Ah well. The night is growing shorter, but is still young.
You will try again after taking a shower.
It’s not like this was your first failed attempt; the pile of unfinished and scraped letters is ever-growing, it seems.
That’s alright, you try to coax yourself, rising from your desk, neck cracking after the tens and tens of minutes crouched over every single word you tried to write in a writing better than your usual chicken scribble. Or maybe it’s the frustration making your head weigh a ton, straining your muscles, one failure after another.
That’s alright, you sooth yourself as you shed your clothes and wish you could shed your skin and insecurities all the same, the traitorous thoughts and anxieties perhaps being the true hinders that keep your penwomanship back.
You’ll get there. It’s alright. You have time.
It’s still a week till Valentine’s.
Just before you step into the shower, you decide to reroute – to learn from your mistakes this time, you go back and collect the letter from where it didn’t reach the trash and st it on your desk next to the clean sheet of paper, ready to be filled with all that fills your heart.
Dearest Steve,
I know this must feel silly – putting words onto a paper – but it is what I feel I should do. Writing a true love letter. A lovely, old-fashioned thing – a bit like you-
You crumble the paper fast, grinding the word silly between your teeth.
There is a piece of old-fashion in your man, in your beloved. An old-fashioned gentleman with ideals he knows are as good as unattainable, but will keep trying to reach for them anyway and make the world a better place. He’s old-fashioned in his love life too, you gathered, taking his time when dating – but that is just another thing to swoon at, more so since your experience with men is usually the opposite.
To jump into bed as soon as possible.
To touch to grope and fuck before the two to-be lovers could touch each other’s hearts.
Stupid. Shallow. Empty.
Not Steve though.
He’s slow in his approach, you think, a man to pine as much as a man to pine after. It’s one of the many things that drew you in, luring you into the sweet trap of his proximity and sincerity, the cage door snapping shut as soon as you began to fall for him, steps back impossible, stumbling forward the only and the most alluring option.
Yes, Steve can be old-fashioned, a true gentleman to open doors and ease your strains – but to call him that without context, the written word robbed of the affection you’d pour into your voice if you were able, would be a mistake.
You begin your letter anew.
Dearest Steve,
I feel a little silly, putting words onto a paper instead of speaking them face to face, but I often find my voice failing me in your presence when I want to say something of meaning.
As someone, whose soul might be old in the best sense of the word, and with the kindest heart I know, with mischief without malice, I thought that perhaps, despite how silly it might be, you would not laugh at me.
I am writing you with a secret. A secret only very few people know, but is very dear to my heart. And it’s you.
You, my sweet secret, are what’s hidden in my heart. You are my heart. With your every step my heart beats fierce, with every word and touch, my heart hums in a quiet, gentle song.
My secret is my love. I am in love with you and I love you. Do with this secret as you please – it’s yours to keep now or to speak out loud and act upon. I merely hope it will build a bridge between us, rather than a wall.
Sincerely,
Yours
Your frown at the letter, not quite satisfied. There’s so much more you want to say, so little you managed to fit onto the page and while it for once lacks the terrible number of metaphors, the words feel empty.
Unworthy.
Steve, on the other hand, is worthy of everything.
You know this in your heart, in your very soul – and if one could ever doubt it, you remember that one party when all of the company got drunk and tried to lift Thor’s hammer.
You saw Steve tilt it a fraction, the briefest shock on his face that the ‘only the one who is worthy shall possess the power’ could include him; and that is what has only proved the point of the very universe whispering to him and you and all.
And if that wasn’t enough, the fact he moved it no further, wished not to rob his friend of the feeling of uniqueness, would alone make him worthy.
You crumble another expensive, silky-smooth paper, smudging the ink, angry at your inability to put into words the magnitude of your feelings.
Before your next attempt, you close your eyes and breathe; you breathe what you wish was Steve, holding you in his arms, close to his chest, his vigorous heart beating calmly against your cheek, his lips tender on top of your head, his embrace warm and gentle, not minding that the bliss and secure feeling he elicits in your chest makes a few tears gather in your eyes and seep into his t-shirt. You breathe in and smell the echo of his aftershave, musk and him, the ghost of his fingers, rough but oh so careful, threading through your hair.
You breathe and you let the feeling consume you inside out, crawl through your veins straight into your heart where its home is, pushing it into every cell and tissue of you with every slow beat of the most important and most vulnerable muscle in your body.
You lick the non-existent taste of his lips on yours, breathe once more, and open your eyes.
Where the other balls of paper flew straight towards the trash, this one is clean for now; tabula rasa literal, a new opportunity.
You began writing, letters flowing over the page, a little rivulets of your affection frantic and imperfect, but your own to share, and with a feeling so acute your eyes almost burn with tears.
Dearest Steve,
my Sun and my Moon. I feel like to all, you are a man spangled by stars; pardon the pun, you know my affinity to them. But to me, you are so much more. You are everything. A cosmic wonder, the most beautiful glitch in the universe full of celestial bodies.
You are the Sun. You are the warmth I wish to great each morning with, burn in it at noon and be reborn in the golden hour of the afternoon.
You are the Moon. You are the serenity and quiet of the night I welcome, for like your arms, they feel safe.
You are the Earth. You are where I wish to put roots and tangle and bloom together, to become something new and full of life together, a careful care to each branch and leaf and blossom, supporting what looks like it might break and letting go of what’s better left behind so we could grow further, closer to the sun and the moon in beautiful, unperfect harmony-
You whimper, setting – no, throwing – the pen aside, covering your face with your hands and screaming into the silence of your palms.
What is even this one? Attempts at metaphors of times and space, referring to Steve’s designation, comparing him to celestial bodies as if you just wanted him for his body, speaking of creating new life as if you couldn’t wait to be bedded and bred, comparing him to a glitch in the universe and spacetime, as if you wanted to rub in his face all the times when he has opened his heart to you about what he missed about the past?
Unacceptable.
To have him think, even if for a moment, that you are mocking him, insulting him, that you think him less for nostalgia and missing what was and perhaps still is his home? You’d break your hand before writing it and meaning it.
Which is a rather dramatic thought, you suppose – way too dramatic and that of poets and romantic heroes in the true sense of the late 18th century, ready to throw themselves off the cliff to drown in the eternal love for the one they could not have. To consider breaking your hand, as little as the action might seem in comparison to drowning, is dramatic, an aftershock of having started two letters, finishing none, missing the trash can once and just failing the third letter of the night.
The Valentine’s Day is in two days.
You have nothing to show. Nothing usable. Nothing but a pile of bad metaphors as well as bluntness, purple prose and confessions that lack the magnitude of your sentiment that’s been gathering for over a whirlwind of two years, filling your chest so richly that your ribcage might burst at its seams.
You grab after the poor cream-smooth stationery and attack it with fervour with the hands that failed you, another sad ball flying towards the trash can. It lands inside for once.
The satisfaction of scoring a point but missing the mark completely where it matters has your heavy head fall on the top of your desk.
It falls hard enough that the pain echoes in your skull and you whip your head back with a curse on your lips, rubbing the spot on your forehead gently as you lean backwards as if it could make up for the hit.
You end up tipping the chair backwards – and this time, the impact vibrates through your whole body.
You don’t remember how you got to the hospital, but you do remember waking up with one hand stiff and cold even under the covers and the other endlessly warm even though it’s on top on the comforter.
You do remember waking up to Steve sharing the warmth of his skin with the very hand.
He explains how he literally broke down your door when you hadn’t answered his calls, the tips of his ears as red as his lips, turned downwards in worry, but tempting all the more. He asks if you remember what happened.
He’s watching you earnestly, eyes the softest blue with a speckle of green you do want to plunge into and drown in, awaiting your answer, so genuinely clueless.
He looks like he could be in love with you too.
For just a moment, for a few delirious beats of your heart, you let yourself believe it.
You don’t mention the letters.
You do admit – for a big part simply because you want to show him you’re feeling better, that you do remember, that it’s not so serious, and because you wish to erase the crease on his forehead and if your lips cannot kiss it away, you let them form words so they could do the job at least – how it happened, physically speaking.
He’s staring at you for a beat, silent, awed and stunned with horror and doubt at once.
You do not waver, because you know you speak the truth.
You reciprocate his stare, hoping your possible heart eyes showing when being able to look at his face for a prolonged period of time, could be blamed on your concussion.
And then he laughs.
It’s sun and it’s a rainbow after the most electrifying of storms and you realize you were so so wrong to think his frown was more kissable than his laugh.
He carefully wraps his arms around you when you sit up enough for him to do so, holds you tight, and laugh-whispers:
Only you.
The two words sound so fond you wish he’d say it over and over, with the same affection that burns in your stomach, in your brain, in your lungs and in your stupid heart; or that you’d turn deaf so you’d never hear him speak it again if he doesn’t mean it the way you crave.
The gentle, protective, but unrelenting squeeze of your body in his arms feels just like his gaze appeared and his words sounded, even if for a fleeting moment – like he could love you too.
You allow yourself to melt into his embrace and into him, and believe.
Must be the concussion taking its toll.
He’s full of contradictions, your Steve.
He is not yours in ownership, not yours in terms of a relationship either – but your heart has already claimed him, so you suppose you can be forgiven for thinking of him such. He’s a keeper; one you wish you’d belong to and one you wish to keep.
He’s full of contradictions, but instead of crashing in harsh contrasts, they blend together like paint on artist’s pallet to create the whole, mesmerizing image of who he is.
All hard muscle and the softest of hearts.
Brutal fists and the softest of hands; you’d know.
Fierce spirit and the gentlest of souls.
A man who had been frozen for seventy damn years yet whose touch is the warmest you’ve ever felt, its tendrils reaching all the way to your heart, through skin and tissue and bone. His smile is the sun itself, sweet hesitance of the morning, brightness and humour of the midday, the secret and softness of the golden hour; you want to trace its shape with your fingertips and wish to taste his ‘I love you’ with your mouth. He’s the Moon and you’re the sea, inevitable gravity pulling you close whenever you try to wash away your feeling, affections rising away like a tide instead.
There’s a reason why you’ve tried to liken him to the celestial bodies on the Milky Way and beyond.
But the fact is that no matter hard how you had been trying, failure was the only thing you did with success.
There is no letter to give, no courage to speak up what the pen in your hand could not put into words, leaving no hope for your mouth to form instead.
The Valentine’s Day passes, the evening bringing Galentine’s Day, accepting the men of the Avengers as well.
Perhaps it’s the sympathy of those of the friend group that are coupled up, to have moved their romantic plans for another time, spending the 14th in the company of friends and games and chatter and food and alcohol.
You know Natasha knows; she knows almost all.
You also think she knows you know she’s been trying to get you drunk, probably to make you profess your undying love for Steve, preferably to Steve.
The joke is on her. You don’t drink much ever, but have made up a simple lame excuse of having decided to stick strictly to alcohol-free February, something you read people in central Europe did. Stark googles it. Finds out it’s real and they actually call it a Dry February.
You’re sure it’s Bucky who mutters something about a Dry-spell February, while Sam, inebriated from his drinking game against the Black Widow herself, straightens on the sofa and asks about who started talking about dry humping and whether you’re playing Never Have I Ever.
Never have I ever confessed my love for the most loveable man on Earth.
You confess none.
You go to bed before they do start playing.
You stay the night at the Tower, not driving home nor letting anyone to drive you.
And it doesn’t click until the next day when you meet Steve in the communal kitchen, his lips twitching gently when he sees you wearing the most ridiculous Avengers merch pyjamas Natasha could find in the late evening; you guess that for a night, you just wanted to sleep home.
And spending the night in the Tower, where Steve decided to sleep for the night too, was sleeping much closer to home than your empty apartment could ever offer.
Steve, my beloved,
Roses are all colours.
But your eyes are deep blue
with the prettiest drop of green
that makes you unique and you.
I wish I could jump
and drown in your colours
to make my world yours
to make the world ours.
Sincerely, and entirely
Yours.
You’re at loss. Prose has failed you and so you’ve reverted to poetry.
The result is… tragicomically disastrous. The words that are supposed to feel light and lyrical sound heavy like reciting a thesaurus, the ones you work with for simplicity result in but a nursery rhyme.
You’ve tried to reread some of the books Steve has borrowed or even gifted you, for inspiration. You happen to love poetry, in fact, and so you have naively thought with how well-read you are, words will come easy. After all, one of the keys to good writing is reading.
What no one told you was just how hard it was to rhyme in a less than predictable ways, how to resign on rhymes in certain times so it seems like artistic intent and cleverness rather than giving up, and how to set together verses when even full sentences fail to capture how much you feel.
You decide after the first few tries – those on normal paper rather than on the expensive letter one, you know better by now – that poetry is not the way. You decide to come back to the welcoming arms of prose.
You do not get to start another letter than night, however.
You get a phone call instead.
One of the dreaded ones.
You take a cab almost half-dressed, and three halves scared to death.
You get to the medical at the Tower before they roll him out of the surgery, running straight into Natasha with tears in your eyes.
There are tears in her eyes too; you’d crashed into her before she had the chance to tell you she has several bruised and two cracked ribs.
Most people get to think Steve Rogers an embodiment of red and white and blue and see him in these very colours; you have the privilege to get to see him like a human being and see him in colours that make your stomach twist in tight knots and tears spring anew.
Red. There had to be so much red when they rolled him in the surgery, abdomen hit with the nastiest of weapons. A wound disguised as clean and simple, if one could ever call a gunshot wound that. A single bullet that splintered into quarter smaller ones upon embedding in the flesh, an explosion of mass tearing what would have killed a non-enhanced human on the spot.
Steve is an extraordinary human being in many ways, but today, you’re thanking any higher power there is for the serum coursing his veins and remind yourself to lay flowers on Doctor Erskine’s grave.
Serum or not, it’s still been a touch and go for a while, adding two little heart attacks to your name when the alarms blared, inviting extra hands to the operating theatre during complications.
The red is all gone but inside where it’s supposed to be.
You only see red in a rather shallow cut over Steve’s brow.
There’s blue and black all over though – bruises changing colour in front of your eyes, blending into greens and yellows if you blink for too long, eyelids growing heavy as you guard Steve’s bedside, the colours all too sharp against his skin so pale in might as well be white to complete the trinity of patriotism most people associate with him.
It’s been days.
The sofa that’s been present in every Avengers level hospital room is a lifesaver and not a coincidence; there’s always someone dutifully watching over their friend or partner, losing appetite as well as sleep, the latter making for inevitable unvoluntary naps one falls for when in a place as comfortable as this.
People come and go, switching worrying about Steve still not waking up, reassuring you and themselves that it is normal given the extent of his injuries, reproaching him for being an idiot and taking a bullet meant for someone else – and scolding you for staying in the room at all times, safe for bathroom breaks.
It’s the Avengers’ fault really though, that you are able to stay, something you are grateful for.
They’re the boss. If they truly wanted you to leave, they could just order you to go back to work rather than giving you a personal time off, bringing food and drinks and books to read to Steve until your voice grows hoarse, and your laptop to deal with matters that need tending without too much delay.
You type a letter into a word document and end up deleting it, because it’s stupid and impersonal and despite Steve’s condition slowly improving, there is no telling if he’ll ever be able to read it.
You write another to a folded piece of paper you’ve been using as a bookmark anyway, when you reach the end of the story and cry, not over the plot, but over managing to recite a whole damn book without Steve’s condition improving enough to show off his lovely blues, even if the white of his eyes would probably be bloodshot, to once again complete the trinity of colours that makes him Captain America and are really just colours that brought him to the hospital bed in the first place.
Coincidentally, you cannot really be mad, however – those colours also happen to be what tied his fate with yours, bringing him to you to love him and weep for him.
He wakes up on April’s Fools.
You cry rivers and nearly punch him when he learns the date and one of his first words after what happened, are the others okay and are you okay, are him trying to make a joke.
You’re not sure you catch the punchline.
You’re sure his tired grin is the most beautiful thing in the whole damn world.
And you’re just as sure that your heart is far too gone loving him, all the more just for being alive.
Dearest Steve,
Please. Let me bleed my blood. Let Tony, Nat, Bucky bleed theirs when it comes to it, instead of catching the brunt of impact. I know you well enough to know it is not quite in your nature, but I still wish you read my plea and take it to heart. It’s a precious thing, your heart. You are precious.
Please, let us bleed our blood and let us bleed it for you. How funny a thing that would be – it would work wonders. If my blood was what was coursing through your veins, you’d be much more careful with it, wouldn’t you? That is the thing that’s in your nature, isn’t it? Being so careful with others. But you yourself must be careful too.
For you are cared about.
For you are loved.
You are loved all the same, whether you are selfless or get selfish, whether you are good or not feeling good enough. Whether you are laughing or crying, whether you stand tall and carry the weight of the world on your shoulders or you feel yourself breaking under it.
You are cared about. You are loved. You are ours and we are yours. Sometimes, you must let us feel the pain of it for a change and carry the weight with you – for I know you’d never give it up completely.
Let us bleed for you, for a change. And heal.
Pleading, aching and praying, sincerely and entirely
Yours.
Steve’s puppy eyes are a weapon with a lasting effect. That expression of his is so etched into your mind – pleading, oftentimes guilty and sometimes doing the guilting at the same time – that when he asks you, even if only over a text, you simply cannot say no.
If you had the defences built out of a sound mind, you would have refused – but you don’t.
No, Steve Rogers, the beautiful bastard, always leaves you defenceless, already having made it through the cavalries and infantries guarding your heart.
That’s how you find yourself in his arms again, heartstrings pulled at achingly, gaze locked almost as close as your bodies.
He’s still not hundred perfect fit – even as he is very fine, like always – so while he cannot go lead the troops and fight for a better world with his fists, it has been decided he can make himself useful by representing and chitchatting with important people. And do so on one of the fancy galas he prefers to avoid like a plague and would normally rather jump out of a plane for than attended.
There will be dancing, he said when he had been – as you realized later – slowly softening you around the edges the whole evening you had been texting. I need to practise. Help? 🥺
You curse whoever has taught him to use that emoji which evokes the exact expressions you know he makes writing that text; you are fairly certain it was you and it’s come to bite you in the ass.
Now your heart is racing as Steve’s hand rests gently but firmly on your back, maddeningly respectful and full of warmth and friendship, even as his eyes are the softest blue with an unspoken promise of deeper affections.
“Are you sure you should be even doing this?” you question quietly as he twirls you around in rhythm of a waltz that has no right being so romantic. You wonder if he’d chosen it, or if Natasha had, having confirmed to you that no, she could not be the one to help Steve since she was just heading to another assignment. “Should you even be up and running?”
His smile is as sweet as honey and for a moment, you forget yourself and stare, wondering if that’s what his lips taste like too.
“I’m not running. We’re dancing.”
You try to set a firmly unimpressed deadpan expression. You’re sure it has zero effect. Steve’s blues crinkling at the edges confirm your suspicion.
“I mean it, Steve. I know you’d like us to all remember it as if it were just a flesh wound, but the flesh that was hit was really damn deep.”
The cold shudder rushing through your body is soothed by Steve’s arm embracing you closer, his thigh pressing firmly against yours as if he knew his touch usually distracts you enough to make you forget things.
Your heart does stumble and your feet nearly do too, but it does not work. Not this time. The pale face looking damn near lifeless resting on the pillow for days and days with no end haunts you, day and night; and Steve’s voice is quieter, more intimate, after you whisper that he really scared you.
“I know I did… I’m sorry,” he says sincerely and you know, undeniably, that you’d let him get away with murder, with anything really. Anything but his actual death. That, you’d never forgive him. “And thank you for being there. That meant a lot. I… it was a little cold.”
Your breath hitches, your eyes burning just a bit, hearing the unspoken words written in his confession.
When it’s cold, when he says it was like that, you know what it means: nightmares. Nightmares and flashbacks to the icy cold of the ocean, limbs immobile, crushed under tons of water, and loneliness that runs deeper than the marrow of his bones.
Steve rarely says things he doesn’t mean; but when he says this, you understand then just how profoundly he feels grateful for not having woken up alone.
The simple ‘always’ slips from your lips, easy and natural. As if it’s not a declaration of love on its own.
As if the brief haunted shadow in Steve’s eyes doesn’t dissolve into something warmer and full of wonder upon hearing it.
As if his fingers don’t twitch on your back and you are not acutely aware that the music is still playing but you barely hear it anymore, your feet having stilled, your chests brushing with every breath, gaze flickering dangerously from his eyes to the inviting pinkish red of his parted lips.
Your breath hitches when you catch yourself and force your gaze back to meet his, only to find him distracted from looking into your eyes by the quick dart of your tongue over your suddenly dry lips.
Your name spoken softly is no louder than a breath, yet feels louder than the music that seems to have faded into nothingness far away outside your bubble, air thick and headily sweet, pulsing with every frantic beat of your heart.
His StarkWatch vibrates.
It’s the reality calling.
It must want its two favourite idiots back; one lost to the dream already, the other on the verge of a promise they probably don’t even mean.
Steve ignores the incoming message, but you’ve already flinched, the bubble having burst, and so you answer the call.
For both of you.
You clear your throat and slowly, feeling all of you ache sharply, you untangle from his hold, first having grown tighter then falling completely limp.
You smile reassuringly, not showing teeth because you feel their bite in your chest where your heart is supposed to beat for you and not him.
What a farce of a concept.
“You should probably check that out, Cap. They need you,” you say, choosing not to see the way his expression seems to fall for it’s all but your mind playing tricks on you to sooth the sharpened heartstrings cutting into your veins. “And we both know you’re plenty prepared to dance with whomever you deem worthy tomorrow.”
Steve opens his mouth, no sound coming out, the regret and something akin to pain flashing in his eyes so distinctly you’re sure that you can’t have imagined.
And like a sucker, you rush to brush your fingers over the invisible wound, because if you only could, you’d make sure Steve Rogers does not know a single day of pain.
“We’re still on for our Takeout Tuesday?”
His smile is small but warm like a cosy winter evening by a fireplace you never got to experience.
“You got it. Always.”
You’ve got me, the last word whispers, the unfair promise spoken out loud now.
“Good.”
You hug him briefly before you can change your mind, before you can make it awkward with your best friend who knows you better than anyone in the whole damn world, and you pretend your eyes and the bridge of your nose don’t burn when his embrace lingers, his cheek brushing your head where he gently leans in, an almost deliberate stroke of his fingers where he holds you.
You’re already stepping back when the words stumble out, slow and sure and yet somehow frantic.
“Hey, uhm, I was wondering… with the AI celebrating Labour Day by giving everyone a day off and a long weekend… still don’t have any plans?”
You blink, surprised by the question – mostly because you know Steve knows you barely make any plans. At least he has enough courtesy not to make you feel lame when you truthfully answer that you don’t.
“Yeah, me neither… and it’s been a while since we had a movie night? I could cook too – or we could, together. If you’d like.”
He sounds unsure, looking a little small despite his huge frame and you gulp, goosebumps rising all over, because you feel sorry. You’re so sorry it’s become awkward already, leaving him uncertain about something as sweetly innocent as asking for an evening between friends; all because of one silly moment of what could have been a lead-up to a kiss.
Though is it all what he’s asking for?
His fingers fix his hair almost nervously and so yours itch to do it for him, his feet shuffle a bit and he truly does look like he’s feeling too small for his large body – or maybe too large to be contained even the great mass of flesh holding the most beautiful soul you’ve ever known. There’s a hint of pink in his cheeks that could easily be just the exertion of the waltz and all the dances you’ve dance before that, only now catching up to him.
It still does sound quite like a date night without saying so.
Well. If it turns out it’s not, you can lick your wounds later. You’d already decided your answer months and months before he asked.
“Sounds great, Steve. I’d like that.”
The joyful crinkle in his eye somehow fails to light up his face more than the shy, barely there smile he gives in response.
You reciprocate the smile, glad he simply bid you goodbye instead of saying ‘it’s a date then’.
Though are you?
Dear Steve,
Please, you must forgive me – I can no longer keep silent for I have been so for far too long. I must speak my accusations even as it hurts me.
You, my beloved, are a criminal. And a smooth one at that.
The list of your crimes, your rap sheet if you will, is an extensive one.
I speak not of your signature disobedience of authority or falsifying your records to earn your place in the army to begin with, I mean not to blame you for choosing to take down an entire intelligence organisation at the first sign of corruption in its ranks, nor rising to fight the whole damn governments over an farce of an international agreement. None of these crimes I would ever hold against you – they came from a good place and of noble intentions, from following your personal true north which I admire and harmonize with.
No.
Your crime, my dear Sir, is that you are a thief. An incredibly sneaky one, a true criminal strategic mastermind, relying on the fact no jury would ever convict you. For if you coax me into giving willingly, do you truly thieve, little by little, over and over?
You walk into a room and you steal all my attention, you smile and you take my breath away. You touch me, a mere squeeze of a hand in support and you rob me of my heart, and in your gentleness, you carefully steal away my soul.
All of this loot lies at your feet, you cradle it with your hands without your knowledge, and yet I know you will never give it back. I cannot tell if that is what I’d wish for anyway.
Instead, I suppose, I merely ask of you to take care of it and should I ever be so bold, I ask if you could give some of yours in return. So we could be thick as thieves together, you possessing all I am and me cherishing anything of you that you are willing to let me take. Two little thieves, stealing each other’s breath and returning it, lips to lips, locked away for life in a kiss.
Perhaps, if you are a criminal, I am a criminal too. I surely do plead guilty of loving you.
What of you, my darling? How do you plead?
Most sincerely, and entirely
Yours.
P.S., for I must add to the ever-growing list:
Your eyes are, truly, criminally blue, the hint of green in them the royal jewels you’ve heisted so recklessly. I wish to see the beauty every day in the sharp light of the rising sun and in the soothing reflection of the rising moon.
In your endless search through poetry, having been trying to find words to express your affections for Steve, you came over a peculiar case of a poem whose author could not have assumed the power it would hold over an entire nation almost two centuries later.
Having died young, Mácha wrote a true love letter to romantic way of life. Of love short and fierce and wild, of a wanderer coming to a place of a love whose story did not die with its lovers. That poem is called Máj.
May had perhaps always been, as spring is, a time of all love blooming; but two little nations in the heart of Europe, you have learned, carry on a tradition born out of associating May with love in particular. For them, the first of May is the time to kiss your lover under a blooming cherry tree, to strengthen and maintain your love.
Late evening, on the first of May— / The twilit May—the time of love, reads the first verses of the best-known part of the poem; and how fitting it feels seal the envelope at last at the very evening, hands shaky, your steps and every move unsure when Steve rings the bell.
An evening in his company is familiar.
The evening is one of the strangest you have ever lived.
There’s a gentle hug and laughs and smiles, but the embrace puts you on the edge instead of soothing you.
The laugh is short and quiet, smile forced and unsure. For your part anyway.
The food smells delicious, Steve’s touch is certain but delicate to still you when you stir the sauce too frantically, your anxiety not rubbing off on him but noticed.
You know he’s noticed, because he watches you. He watches and he sees and despite his best efforts, he seems clueless as how to help you relax.
You do not hold it against him; but every second he watches, every second he sees, you fall further down the spiral of overthinking your life choices.
It feels like every word you have poured into your failed letters is written on your skin for him to read.
It feels like the one you wrote tonight might as well be scripted over your forehead and yet you display it for him more than your eyes, your gaze lowered to the food for you cannot bare his own.
When he leads you to the couch after you’re done eating, the desert still cooling, he politely doesn’t ask about the box on the coffee table.
He does not ask you what movie you’d like to put on either.
He holds your hand like it’s a precious artifact that could break under his touch; he cradles it in both of his, as if it was a baby bird who’s not learned how to fly yet and must be protected at all costs.
“I… I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t,” you respond, voice thick and emptier than a void, earning a curious tilt of his head and a squeeze to your hand.
It’s not a lie though; because it’s you, not him.
What a perfect line to lead with as you are about to break up with your friend.
What a perfect line to lead with to ruin this friendship.
You do not say it out loud, for you cannot find your voice; that is why you have chosen to write a letter instead.
Two dozens of them and then some.
You counted them all.
Because you kept them all too, sad little balls of paper, creamy, silky smooth and the most ordinary, cheapest one you could find, straightened and carrying the scars of having been crumbled.
“Not to call you out, but you’ve been on the edge all night, sweetheart,” he says, the endearment so soft you can’t but forgive him for denying that calling you out is exactly what he’s doing. But you’d let him get away with murder, this smooth criminal – you’ve already established as much. “Talk to me. You can tell me anything… you know that, right? I… I just want to be here for you.”
The words are gentle like a caress and as sharp as a knife to your throat – so close you cannot breathe in without cutting your skin on the blade.
And so you don’t.
You raise your eyes from the midnight blue of his button-up where a dust of flour has lingered and meet the infinite kindness written in his eyes like constellation on a clear day’s skies.
I just want to be here for you.
As a friend.
As anything you wish.
Always.
You gulp, gaze falling to your joined hands, the warmth seeping through to your very bones; you slip your hand away.
Your heart is a thunderstorm in the silence of your living room; if fills your throat and your head sharply, mind misted over with pouring rain and nearly blinding you as you watch your hands reach for the box and pull out two envelopes with a sigh of a resigned and carefully hopeful okay.
Two envelopes.
One, cream-smooth and almost golden, precious and thin. One short letter.
Another one, ordinary white smudged with ink, heavy and thick, unclosed for there are too many sheets of paper, once having been crumbled. Almost too many letters to count; and yet you remember writing every single one.
You feel Steve’s gaze boring into every feature of your face, watching closely, grasping at straws to help him understand.
Late evening, on the first of May—
The twilit May—the time of love - ---
You don’t think you’d come across the poem before you started writing. You have not thus shared it with him and yet it echoes in your head like cacophony along with his always.
It is now or never; it is now for it’s too late to go back already.
You hand him the thin envelope, fingers cold and trembling brushing over his warmth.
The other envelope you lay into his lap when he doesn’t say a word to question your actions or strange behaviour anymore.
He opens the letter with delicacy his large hands have no right being capable of; he opens the letter with the artist’s touch, even as the words awaiting him are all but art.
And he reads.
Dear Steve,
I love you.
I love you so much words seem to fail me whenever I try to express it in other than these three simple words.
But I do, love you – enough to never stop trying.
Sincerely, and entirely
Yours.
The silence that follows as he reads over and over is so loud the empty sound must be reaching three floors up; your heart is thundering so heavily they must hear it all across the city at the Tower.
Steve is still, completely.
With your gaze lowered to his chest, you realise he has stopped breathing too, a beautiful statue of a titan frozen in time.
When does move, it’s the tinniest motion of his head and you feel his gaze shift, a burning brand, from the words you have scribbled to your face, his hand carefully landing on the thicker envelope.
“Are… are those-“
“Yup,” you choke out, the tip of the blade having been to your throat seemingly cutting closer to your windpipe.
Then again, Steve, ever the gentleman, rasps as well. How kind of him to not leave you suffering alone without a proper voice.
“And you--- are you-”
Are in love with me?
Yes. Yes, you are.
You’re not sure that is exactly what he was about to ask but you respond anyway.
“Yes.”
He releases you from the scrutiny of his gaze with a deep sigh that cuts deep; but at least you are free to look up at his face, just in time to see his eyelids slip shut, having finished reading the lame completely uncalled-for letter for what must have been the twentieth time.
Yes.
What a perfect word to ruin this friendship.
You can hear the foundations it stood upon cracking.
And you cannot stand it. You scramble frantically to salvage what you can, because you cannot, you cannot lose him.
You’d let him get away with murder, but not his death.
Not him leaving.
Tears burn in your eyes and pour like acid down your throat, but you speak anyway, because if you cannot find your voice now, you might as well remain silent forever.
“Uhm, yeah, okay, I’m--- this…. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry-”
Steve winces, eyes snapping open so fast you’re reminded that for all the humanity of his that you love, he is a superhuman too.
His blues shine bright, the letter dropping to his lap to join the other witnesses to your failure and before you can process that the emotion in Steve’s eyes is on the edge of panic, the blue is all you can see and you’re drowning.
He’s always been a hero; he’s not letting you drown.
His hands are gripping yours, as urgent as his voice.
“No! Don’t you---- No,”he softens his words and his grasp alike, thumb brushing over your wrist carefully and--- yes. He is a thief.
He is stealing your breath again and the emotion in his gaze diluting the panic with sweetness is… nothing short of dream come true. It’s also something you have seen him look at you with countless times and you cannot comprehend how you have not seen before.
“No, this… all this is perfect. You are perfect.”
You’re waiting for the ‘but’ even as the understanding that it’s not coming slowly trickles into your ribcage and fills your chest, heart beating despite and for it.
For you.
For him.
He watches you with the softest intent.
He’s the sun at the golden hour, gentle and warm and instead of saying goodbye with grandeur, he’s opening the gates to something even tenderer walking it, the soothing secrets of the night.
When you whisper his name, a question, one syllable pleading for reassurance, one of his hands releases yours and slides under your chin, tipping your face just a bit higher to make you look directly into the sun and feel the warmth caressing your skin, cradling your cheek.
He looks at you as if you are the Sun and he’s the Earth in your orbit and the gravity pulling you to each other is everything but a glitch in the universe. It’s everything right.
“I wasn’t sure,” he whispers, distance erased inch by inch, still light years away and almost touching, “I thought… I thought maybe… that I was just seeing what I wished so much to see and if I told you, it would…”
Your heart is threatening to jump out of your ribcage, but all that escapes your chest is a choked laugh, gaze falling, a little self-conscious, as it feels like instead of speaking his truth, he’s reading your mind.
“Yeah… I know how that feels.”
“Yeah?”
There’s a little smile on his face, a shy little thing, the first sunbeam breaking through the morning fog that’s gathered in your eyes, and it’s the most beautiful sight.
You can’t speak anymore and so you nod; he might not see it, but still holding your face so gently, he certainly feels it. You know he does.
His thumb strokes your cheek, so tender, his lips hovering an inch too far, brushing over the corner of your mouth.
As if he’s asking permission; yet no question falls from his lips.
Instead:
“I love you too. And I’m sincerely, entirely yours.”
And then he’s kissing you.
By god and all the universe, Steve is kissing you and you understand that the foundations of your friendships were never meant to crumble entirely.
Instead, they are being repaired with golden threads of love pouring into the cracks to create something new and breathtaking and precious.
He’s kissing you. He’s pulling you in to hold you close as if nothing is close enough.
And you know that every word you’ve written – no matter how corny, how simple, how wrong it has felt – was true. And yet could never be enough.
No wonder the words have been failing you.
Kissing Steve, at last, is a joyful explosion of bright colours and the serenity of coming home after the longest journey, sweet like honey and tart with the meal you have prepared together, his touch is a touch of celestial bodies poured into your veins instead of blood; he holds you in the tenderest embrace, respectful and old-fashioned and protective, the way his fingers brush over the column of your neck tickling and raising the most pleasant goosebumps and there’s about as much of oxygen left as in the vacuum of space and it’s silly to say you do not care, but you truly don’t; not when his lips detach for just a moment and then they are back because you are not alone in this, you’re not; he’s stolen your heart but you have stolen his, two little thieves locked away for life in an eternal kiss, sharing the most sacred secret that might have not been so to anyone but yourselves:
That you do love one another and indeed belong to each other.
Entirely and sincerely, indeed.
Steve Rogers masterlist
Complete masterlist
Hello lovely readers! Thank you for reaching this part. If you did so and have something nice to say, if you have the time and energy to share and send this fic further to the maze of tumblr, I'll be grateful 🥰interaction is life and love.
I hope April has been gentle with you so far 💕
And if you haven't already, go check out @mercurial-chuckles 🩷 (As you can see, I took the maximum word count to the heart's content seriously 🤭 bless)
Summary: In the midst of an undercover mission in Venice during the events of Avengers: Infinity War, you survive a brutal shootout only to witness the horrifying aftermath of Thanos' snap, leaving you isolated and desperate to get in contact with your boyfriend
Paring: Steve Rogers x Reader
word count: 8000+
warnings: injury, blood, mentions of death
A/N : Hello my friends, this is a rewrite of a fic I wrote in college. I have been rewriting some of my old fics because the writing is bad is dated. So I hope you enjoy this one!
Masterlist
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
The air hangs heavy with a biting chill that night, seeping into every corner of your dimly lit hotel room in the heart of Venice. The city's eternal glow filters through the tall, arched windows, casting elongated shadows that stretch across the ornate walls like ghostly fingers. Below, the labyrinth of canals and narrow streets pulses with life, the distant hum of gondolas slicing through water and the faint chatter of tourists echoing up from the cobblestone alleys. Venice, with its ancient bridges and crumbling facades, has always been a city of secrets—perfect for an undercover assignment like this one. You've been embedded here for weeks, posing as a high-society art dealer, rubbing shoulders with the underworld elite to infiltrate a local gang tied to black-market dealings in alien tech scavenged from past battles. The Avengers' world has bled into the criminal underbelly, and Fury sent you in because you're good at blending in, at becoming someone else entirely. But tonight, the facade has cracked, and the mission has devolved into a bloodbath.
The room itself is a lavish suite in a centuries-old palazzo turned boutique hotel, overlooking the Grand Canal. Crystal chandeliers dangle from frescoed ceilings, their glass prisms refracting the yellow streetlights into a kaleidoscope of dancing spots that whirl across the walls whenever a gust of wind slips through the partially open window. The silk curtains, heavy and luxurious in ivory, billow and flap like sails caught in a tempest, their soft rustle mingling with the high-pitched howl of the breeze that snakes through the corridors. It's as if the wind itself is mourning, calling out for lost souls in the gathering darkness. Thunder rumbles low and ominous in the distance, a deep vibration that you can feel in your bones, and the air carries that unmistakable scent of an impending storm—ozone mixed with the salty tang of the lagoon, heavy and foreboding. Rain hasn't started yet, but it's coming; you can taste it on the tip of your tongue, a promise of cleansing or catastrophe.
Yet, overlaying that natural aroma is something far more sinister: a sweet, metallic tang that clings to your nostrils, laced with the sharp bite of copper. It's the unmistakable smell of blood, fresh and pooling, staining the once-pristine Persian carpet in dark, irregular puddles that seep into the fibers like ink on paper. Bodies litter the floor—four of them, to be exact—twisted in unnatural poses, their eyes vacant and staring at nothing. These were the gang's enforcers, sent to silence you after your cover was blown during a tense meeting in a hidden warehouse by the Rialto Bridge earlier that evening. You'd fought like hell, using every trick Steve had taught you in those quiet training sessions back at the Avengers compound—precise strikes, improvised weapons, sheer willpower. Bullet casings are scattered across the room like discarded confetti, glinting under the faint light, and the assault rifles lie abandoned, their barrels still radiating heat from the recent exchange of fire. The acrid scent of gunpowder lingers, mixing with the blood to create a nauseating cocktail that makes your stomach churn.
In the adjacent bathroom, the fluorescent lights hum with a persistent, irritating buzz, casting a harsh, clinical glow over the small space. The room is a stark contrast to the opulence outside—white marble tiles veined with gray, a deep clawfoot tub, and a vanity mirror cracked from a stray bullet. You're sprawled on the cold floor, your limbs tangled in a heap, every movement sending jolts of agony through your body. Small whimpers escape your lips unbidden, raw and vulnerable, and you cough harshly, the action wrenching your torso. You wipe the back of your hand across your mouth, smearing more blood there, the metallic taste flooding your senses. At your feet lies a small, broken television set, propped awkwardly against the wall; its screen flickers with grainy static from poor reception, the antenna bent and useless. An Italian reporter's voice crackles in and out, her words fragmented but urgent: "...altercatione con una banda locale... sospettata femminile, pesantemente armata..." She's describing the shootout, no doubt pieced together from eyewitness accounts and police chatter. The gang's influence runs deep in Venice's underbelly, corrupting officials and silencing witnesses, but tonight's violence was too public to ignore.
Your fingers press desperately against your stomach, trying to staunch the flow from the gunshot wound that's burning like fire. The pain is a living thing, pulsing with each heartbeat. Reaching out with your other hand, you grasp a small tactical knife from the floor beside you—its blade still slick from earlier use. Gritting your teeth, you jab the tip into your skin, probing for the bullet lodged in your muscles. A scream rips from your throat, echoing off the tiled walls, raw and primal, as the metal slug squeezes out and clatters to the floor with a wet plink. Blood wells up immediately, hot and sticky, soaking through your fingers.
The marble tile beneath you is ice-cold, sending shivers racing up your spine despite the adrenaline flooding your system. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and goosebumps prickle along your arms, exposed in the sleeveless black dress you'd worn as part of your cover—a elegant disguise now torn and bloodied. Glancing up at the ceiling, where faint water stains from old leaks mar the plaster, you clench your jaw against the waves of pain crashing over you. Your hands clutch a red-stained cloth—ripped from one of the curtains—to compress the wound, but the pressure only amplifies the throbbing. Blood cakes your hairline, matted and sticky, with long tracks of crimson trailing down your face, neck, and shoulders, mingling with sweat. More of it dribbles from your mouth and nose, making each breath a labored rasp; your throat swells, constricted, as you feel the warm trickle sliding down your esophagus, choking you from within. Pools of the viscous liquid spread across the floor, seeping into the grout lines between tiles, the fresh blood gleaming ominously under the fluorescent light like spilled rubies.
Dark purple bruises ring both your eyes, swelling them partially shut, and red patches of abraded skin bloom across your cheeks and arms from where fists and boots connected during the brawl. You've lost at least a liter of blood, maybe more—enough to leave you lightheaded, the room spinning in slow, nauseating circles. A queasy unease grips your stomach, bile rising in your throat, threatening to spill at any moment. Breathing is a torment; each inhale feels like shards of glass grinding in your chest, a clear sign of broken ribs—two, perhaps three—and possibly fractures elsewhere, like your wrist or ankle, twisted in the fall. Your entire figure trembles uncontrollably as you gasp for oxygen, muscles quivering from shock and blood loss. A stinging sensation permeates every inch of your body, from the tips of your fingers to your toes, as if your nerves are on fire. The seductive pull of unconsciousness tugs at the edges of your mind, whispering promises of relief, but you fight it back with sheer force of will. You can't afford to pass out here, not like this, vulnerable and alone in a foreign city where enemies lurk in every shadow.
The world around you is a cacophony of contradictions—too loud and too silent all at once. A high-pitched ringing echoes in your ears, a remnant of the gunfire's roar, overlaid with the incessant drip-drip from the broken faucet in the sink, each drop landing like a hammer on your frayed nerves. Thinking is dangerous right now; the more you dwell on your predicament, the more panic creeps in, insidious and paralyzing. You can't be scared—you won't allow it. Panic is a luxury you can't afford; it clouds judgment, slows reflexes. You've trained for this, endured worse in simulations and real ops with the team. Steve's voice echoes in your memory: "Stay focused, breathe through it. You're stronger than the pain." But memories bring their own ache, a reminder of what you've left behind for this mission.
Your thoughts drift briefly to Steve—Captain America to the world, but to you, just Steve, with his quiet strength and that boyish smile that lights up even the darkest days. You'd met during the fallout of Civil War, when the Avengers were fractured and on the run. He was a fugitive then, bearded and weary, but his eyes held a fire that drew you in. Your relationship blossomed in stolen moments—late-night talks in hidden safehouses, training sessions that turned into lingering touches, promises whispered under the stars. "I'll always come back to you," he'd said before this assignment, his hands cupping your face, blue eyes searching yours. "And you do the same." Being his girlfriend means sharing the burden of his world-saving duties, but it also means nights like this, alone and bleeding, wondering if he'll ever know how much you love him.
A sudden, explosive bang shatters the fragile calm—wood splintering, hinges groaning as the hotel room door is blown inward, fragments clattering to the floor. Loud footsteps thunder down the short hallway, heavy and purposeful, a squad of reinforcements no doubt drawn by the earlier gunfire. Your back presses harder against the cool tile wall, seeking any semblance of stability as you scan the floor frantically for a weapon. The steps grow louder, echoing like approaching doom, a large group rounding the corner into the corridor leading to the bathroom. Your fingers, slick with blood and shaking uncontrollably, trail across the cold floor until they close around the grip of your gun, lying near a pair of surgical scissors and scattered rolls of gauze you'd used in a desperate attempt at first aid.
This is it, you think, a grim acceptance settling over you. This is how you go out—gunned down on a bathroom floor in Venice, far from home, far from Steve. What a poetic end for an Avenger's shadow operative: not in some epic battle against cosmic threats, but in a grubby skirmish with low-level thugs. You raise the gun high, your arm trembling as you fight to steady it, the weight feeling ten times heavier in your weakened state. The stomping feet come to an abrupt halt just outside the threshold, and from the shadows emerges a large, towering figure. He glares at you, his face twisted into a nasty scowl, features hardened by years in the criminal world. He's tall, broad-shouldered, overdressed in a tailored suit that screams mob enforcer—much like your own elegant attire, now ruined. His eyes, dark and merciless, lock onto yours, promising no quarter.
He points his gun at you, the barrel a black void staring back, and in that moment, clarity hits: this is the end. The men behind him materialize in the bathroom's harsh light—three of them, armed and grim-faced, their shadows elongating across the floor. You're not prepared for death, not really—who ever is?—but you have to accept it. Tears well up unbidden, hot and stinging, rolling down your cheeks to mix with the drying blood, creating salty rivulets that burn your wounds. He pulls back the hammer with a ominous click, and you let out a final sob, sucking in air through gritted teeth, bracing for the inevitable shot that will end it all.
He steps forward, boot hovering over the threshold into the bathroom, when suddenly, inexplicably, he begins to disintegrate. His body crumbles into fine gray dust, swirling in the air like ash from a dying fire. The gun he'd held clatters to the ground with a metallic thud, and you part your lips in horror, a gasp escaping as you watch the dust settle in a neat pile where he once stood. Confusion and alarm flood your mind. His companions fall silent, their eyes darting from you to the remnants on the floor, fear etching their features. They spit out frantic words in Italian, voices rising in pitch: "Che diavolo è successo? È una strega?" Accusations fly, suspicion turning to you as the cause.
One of the assailants, burly and red-faced with rage, bellows at you, his yells echoing through the suite. He raises his weapon, finger hovering over the trigger, convinced you're somehow responsible for this nightmare. "Tu! Hai fatto questo!" he snarls, eyes wild. But before he can fire, he too vanishes into dust, his form dissolving mid-shout, particles drifting lazily to join the first pile. The air thickens with the scent of ozone again, but this time it's unnatural, charged with something cosmic and wrong.
Now, only the youngest of the trio remains—a boy really, no older than twenty, his face pale and boyish under the stubble. His eyes are glued to the floor where his comrades stood moments ago, chest heaving with hyperventilation. His pistol slips from nerveless fingers, clanging against the tile, and he looks up at you, terror mirroring in his wide eyes as they meet yours. He lifts both hands in surrender, palms out, babbling incoherently: "Per favore... non... non farmi questo..." A distressed cry tears from his throat, high and keening, and he bolts backward, feet scrambling as he flees down the hall, out of the suite, his footsteps fading into the night.
A massive crack of thunder splits the sky, shaking the building's foundations, and a brilliant flash of lightning illuminates the room for a split second, revealing more piles of dust scattered across the carpet—remnants of the earlier bodies, or perhaps others who'd entered unseen. The gun tumbles from your grasp, forgotten, as your legs shift uncomfortably beneath you, every movement a fresh agony. Something draws your gaze back to the broken television; the reporter's voice has cut off mid-sentence. Squinting through swollen eyes, you realize she's gone—vanished, leaving only speckles of dust drifting in front of the camera, the feed now silent save for static.
More sounds pierce the night: screams erupting from the streets below, raw and terrified, mingling with the screech of metal as cars collide in the chaos. Horns blare, sirens wail in the distance, and the rain finally unleashes, pounding against the windows like a barrage of bullets. The wind howls louder, whipping the dust around on the floor in miniature whirlwinds. Something is profoundly wrong—wrong on a global, existential scale. This isn't just Venice; this feels like the end of the world. Whispers of Thanos, the Mad Titan, flicker in your mind—rumors from Avengers intel briefings, warnings of his quest for the Infinity Stones. Has he succeeded? Is this the snap they've feared?
The room feels even colder now, the chill seeping into your soul as your lips tremble. With fumbling hands, you reach for your small clutch purse, discarded nearby, and fish out your phone. The screen is cracked, spiderwebbing from a earlier impact, but it lights up at your touch. Fingers glide over the shattered glass, navigating to your contacts. First, Fury—your handler, the unflappable director who's pulled you out of worse scrapes. You hit call, heart pounding, and listen to the rings drag on eternally. No answer; it clicks to voicemail, his gruff voice instructing you to leave a message. You hang up, pulse racing, breath coming in frantic gasps. The distant cries outside intensify—people wailing in confusion, calling out for loved ones who've vanished.
Staring at the screen, you hesitate before pressing another name: Steve. The phone rings against your ear, and you pray silently, desperately, for his voice to answer. Disappointment crashes over you as it diverts to voicemail, his warm, steady tone greeting you: "This is Steve. Leave a message, I'll get back to you." A small sob escapes, but you force the words out, voice cracking like brittle glass.
"Steve... Baby...I don't know where you are... but something's happened. Something really bad has happened." You swallow thickly, tasting blood and saliva, the metallic tang grounding you. "Please tell me you're okay. I need to know you are okay." Your words waver, emotion choking them. "If you get this message... please call me back. I love you."
Hanging up, you bite your lip hard, drawing more blood, hoping against hope that he hasn't turned to dust like the others. Setting the phone down, your head falls back against the wall with a dull thud, more warm tears tracing paths down your battered face. Exhaustion wars with fear, your mind replaying fragments of your life together: that first kiss in a rainy Wakandan forest, stolen dances in dimly lit bars, whispered plans for a future beyond the fight. "One day, we'll have normal," he'd promised. But normal feels like a myth now.
You're not sure how long you've been drifting, eyes heavy and closed against the pain, when a vibration jolts you awake. The phone buzzes insistently on the tile beside you. Gripping it with blood-slick fingers, the screen illuminates, displaying a photo that tugs at your heart: you and Steve in front of a bustling baseball stadium, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. Your face in the picture is alight with joy, captured mid-laugh as he surprised you with a kiss on the cheek just before the shutter clicked. It's from a rare day off, a slice of normalcy in your chaotic lives—a reminder that love persists even in war.
A small, tremulous smile forms on your lips despite the agony, a breath of relief escaping as you swipe to answer the incoming call.
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Series Summary: The Avengers have faced dangerous enemies before. This one learns. She does not fight like the others. She fights like him. And with every encounter, Steve Rogers gets closer to understanding why.
Chapter Summary: After turning the system against her, the team finally gains ground. But when she changes targets and reveals who she is meant to be, the advantage slips again—because she is not just copying them. She is built from them.
Words: 1,827
A/N: This one was so fun to write. I love psychological warfare. Maybe that's not so good to admit. >.> Your author lives on comments and likes. All errors are mine. :)
Warnings: Canon-typical violence. Swearing.
Series Warnings: Steve Rogers x fem!villain!Reader; canon-typical violence.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. No copyright infringement intended. This is not written for profit.
📖 AO3 | 💜 Tip Jar | 🦋 Thank you for reading!
Mirror Protocol Masterlist | Part One | Part Seven
In your lab, the screen leaves your hand before the thought fully forms.
It hits the wall hard enough to crack the casing before it shatters, glass and circuitry scattering across the floor in a sharp burst.
The sound echoes.
You are already bent forward, the motion pulling through your body as the scream tears out of you—raw, uncontrolled, gone almost as quickly as it came.
Silence follows.
Your hands brace against the edge of the workbench, fingers digging into the metal, shoulders tight as you hold there for a second longer than you should.
Then you straighten. Slowly. Deliberately.
Your shoulders square. Your spine aligns. You take a breath in through your nose, measured, controlled—hold it—then release it just as carefully.
The room settles with you. But not completely.
Your eyes track the damage without moving your head. The broken screen on the floor. The disrupted layout. The imbalance.
They will have to repair the arm. Stark will take it apart.
He will look deeper than the surface. He always does.
Your jaw tightens, just enough to feel it.
“That was a mistake.”
The words are quiet now. Controlled. But they do not soften the truth of it.
You turn your head slightly, attention shifting to the live data feed running along the far screen.
It stutters. Just for a fraction of a second.
But you see it. You always see it.
Your eyes narrow as you step closer, the movement precise, contained.
You reach up, pinching the bridge of your nose, eyes closing briefly as you force the frustration back down where it belongs.
When you open them again, the feed is still moving—but not as cleanly as before.
There is drag now. Latency. Small. But present.
Your jaw ticks. They are already adjusting. Of course they are.
You shift closer to the console, fingers hovering over the controls for a moment before you begin inputting commands, movements sharp but controlled.
“Recalibrate.”
The system responds, lines of data correcting, smoothing, tightening back into place—
But not perfectly. Not like before.
You watch it longer than necessary.
Confirming. Adjusting. Learning.
Behind you, the broken screen remains where it fell.
You do not look back at it again.
They are already in flight toward the HYDRA base when Tony steps forward in the quinjet, suit fully deployed, HUD lit as data scrolls across his vision.
“Okay,” he says, voice steady, controlled. “We have a clear target. Intel from this base should give us something on the endgame. And this time—” he glances at the feed, already tracking movement “—if she wants to watch, we decide what she sees.”
Steve stands toward the back of the quinjet, already tense, already bracing for the moment she shows up.
Bucky watches him from a few feet away, but his focus splits—part on Steve, part on the fight ahead.
Sam adjusts his goggles, rolling his shoulders loose.
Thor remains still, observing, his gaze sliding back to Steve more often than the others.
The ramp drops before they fully land.
Wind tears through the cabin as Tony, Thor, and Sam launch into the air, breaking formation upward as the quinjet descends the rest of the way.
“Remember,” Tony calls back over comms, “we know she’s coming—and we know what she knows.”
Steve lets Natasha take point without comment.
The three of them move in tight formation across the open ground, fast and low.
Overhead, Sam circles. “Several pathing patrols. No stationary guards except at the door.”
Tony overlays the field in real time. “Alright, kids—let’s make her play our game. Ground team, you’ve got five seconds. Move.”
They do.
Bucky and Steve hit the guards first—clean, efficient—while Natasha covers the entry. Bodies drop before alarms can even think about triggering.
“Tony—drones,” Thor’s voice cuts in from above.
“I see them. Wings, redirect.”
Sam banks hard, intercepting, tearing through the incoming drones before they can lock onto the ground team.
For once, everything lines up. No delay. No lag. No hesitation.
“Breaching,” Natasha calls, already moving as the door gives way without a sound.
They slip inside.
Sam drops lower after clearing the last drone. “Well… this is new.”
“Stay focused,” Natasha answers, but there is a flicker of something else in it—awareness, maybe.
Inside, the pace is fast. Cleaner than anything they have run in weeks.
Thor moves through the interior on Tony’s direction, clearing resistance ahead of the others, while Steve, Bucky, and Natasha push deeper without resistance slowing them down. Too clean.
They converge in a central computer room.
Natasha is already setting up the link before the others fully stop moving.
“Go,” she says.
“Gotcha,” Tony grins, data flooding in. “I'm a freaking genius.”
Schematics, stolen tech, something bigger—all of it scrolls across his display.
Then—
“We’ve got movement outside. Backup inbound.” Sam’s voice cuts sharp.
They do not hesitate. The connection drops, gear comes back up, and they move.
“Multiple vectors,” Tony says, tracking it live. “They’re coming from all sides. No sign of Copycat yet. Spangles, Cyborg—left. Point Break, Red—right.”
The team splits cleanly.
Steve and Bucky move together, both already anticipating the same thing—waiting for her to appear.
Steve throws his shield—
It never reaches its target.
She is there. The catch is effortless. For a split second, everything stutters.
But she does not look at Steve. Does not look at Bucky. Instead, she turns—
And throws.
The shield slams into Tony’s legs mid-flight, throwing off his balance as he drops hard to avoid a worse hit.
“Care to play tag, rust bucket?” she calls, already moving.
Tony recovers instantly. “Oh, you’re on, Copycat.”
Behind him, Steve falters—just a fraction—nearly taking a hit from the soldiers he had been engaging before snapping back into the fight.
Tony fires.
She dives, rolls, comes up with the shield again and sends it back at him.
“Is that the best you’ve got? I thought you were brilliant.”
Bucky shifts, recalibrating, keeping both Steve and her in his line of sight.
“You got better,” Tony says, dropping lower this time, closing distance instead of keeping it. He meets her head-on, a stun hit landing clean.
Natasha adjusts immediately, redirecting the field. “Thor, support Sam—air’s getting crowded.”
Thor veers off without question, rising back into the air to intercept incoming drones with Sam.
On the ground, Tony and her collide again.
She drives into him, a punch snapping his head to the side—but he rolls with it, using the momentum, dropping low and sweeping her legs out.
They hit the ground. For a second, they are both still—
Then she smiles up at him. “Well… my handlers call me Ms. Rogers.”
Steve’s head snaps toward them.
Bucky’s next hit lands harder than it should.
Tony blinks. “Seriously?”
She rolls away, already moving. “Would I lie?”
He clicks his tongue, firing a close-range repulsor burst—
She is already gone from where it lands.
By the time the smoke clears, she is moving for the tree line. Fast. Clean. Controlled again.
The HYDRA forces follow her lead, breaking off, thinning out almost immediately.
The fight collapses with them. What remains is dealt with quickly.
Above, Sam and Thor finish off the last of the aerial drones, the sky clearing as the ground settles.
Silence creeps back in. They regroup near the quinjet.
Tony is already pulling up the footage, energy sharp and focused, replaying the fight in real time.
Steve stands apart, face pale, jaw tight—still caught on the name.
Sam and Thor exchange a glance, less shaken, more curious.
Natasha has already pulled up her tablet again, adjusting notes with precise movements.
Bucky does not look at the screens. He watches Steve.
The gym is lit only by the sunlight streaming in through the high windows, long beams cutting across the floor.
Steve stands alone in it.
Hands wrapped. Shoulders set. Staring straight through the heavy bag in front of him like it is not even there.
He flexes his hands slowly, deliberately. Something he can control.
The door opens behind him, quiet enough that he does not turn.
Natasha steps inside and watches him for a moment before speaking.
“You going to hit it,” she says, dry, “or just glare it into submission?”
Steve’s jaw tightens. “Just thinking.”
Natasha hums, walking further in, leaning casually against the bar of a weight bench. “That usually goes well.”
He does not answer.
Instead, he drives a fist into the bag—quick, sharp—but not clean. The impact sends it swinging, uneven.
Natasha watches the movement, then him. The tension in his stance. The lack of rhythm.
“Ms. Rogers.”
The next hit lands harder. “Don’t.”
She breathes in slowly through her nose, steady. “You hesitated.”
“I didn’t.” Calm. Simple.
His hands move anyway—one, two—faster now, the strikes snapping out without precision, just force.
Natasha pushes off the bench and steps closer, her voice lowering slightly.
“She’s not trying to beat you.” Another punch lands. “She’s trying to get inside your head.”
Steve’s hook drives into the bag, harder this time, enough to jerk the chain. “She doesn’t get to.”
Natasha exhales, glancing briefly toward the windows before looking back at him. “She already did.”
Steve goes still. Every muscle tight. Every line of him locked in place.
The door opens again. Bucky steps inside, taking in the scene in a single glance.
Natasha shifts her attention to him, then back to Steve. “Fix it.”
She moves past Bucky, their eyes meeting for a fraction of a second. “He’s all yours.”
The door closes behind her.
Silence settles in her absence.
Steve moves again, fists hitting the bag in a steady rhythm now, but there is no control in it—just repetition.
Bucky watches him for a moment, something tight in his expression—part concern, part irritation.
“Ms. Rogers.”
“Drop it.” The words snap out with the next strike.
Bucky steps closer. “You going to?”
Steve exhales sharply and turns, finally facing him. “It’s nothing.”
Bucky shakes his head once. “That’s not nothing.”
Steve looks away again, back to the bag, voice sharpening. “She’s trying to get a rise out of us.”
Bucky nods, not disagreeing. “And it worked.”
Their eyes meet again. There is nothing soft in it.
Bucky’s voice drops, quieter now, but more precise. “You thought about it.”
Steve turns back to the bag, throwing a quick jab that sends it swinging wide. He does not answer.
Bucky watches him for another second, then turns toward the door.
Just before he steps out, he throws it over his shoulder—“She’s not guessing anymore.”
The door shuts behind him.
Steve stands there, staring at the bag as it swings back toward him.
For a moment, he does nothing. Then he hits it. Hard.
The chain snaps with a sharp crack. The bag tears loose and slams into the wall. The sound echoes through the empty gym.
Steve does not move.
Part Nine
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Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: you meet a new friend as you start a new hobby, but they aren't the only one interested in you. (best friend's dad)
Characters: nomad!Steve Rogers
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You blink away another yawn as the bus pulls up to the stop. Your shifts never quite align with the schedule so you end up waiting forty minutes for the next or walking nearly as long to get to another connection. After an opener, you’re more than ready to stay in one spot.
That won’t be the case but you’re not mourning your usual after work routine. Your binge watching can wait and you brought your snacks with you to share with Saralie. What made stacking shoe boxes and searching the backroom easier was the promise of seeing her again.
She texted you almost as soon as her dad drove away from your building. It was both surprising and not. You’re not used to anyone being so excited about, well, you, but that just seems to be her way. She can’t help but run at top gear.
Along with the invite to finish your maps, she sent over a dozen Pinterest references and as many Youtube and TikToks videos showing shading and plotting techniques. She’s thorough at least and her passion is infectious. You’ve been thinking about where you want to place a pitfall for days.
You flash your pass at the censor and find a seat near the middle of the bus. You hug your bag and stare at the stained toes of your sneakers. The rosy colour is faded and dingy. The little stars sewn to the sides are almost indistinguishable from the rest of the worn out suede.
The bus stops at the downtown centre and you get off ahead of your usual route. You’ll need to transfer to get to Saralie’s side of town. Your maps app says you’ll be traversing a labyrinth just to get to her cul-de-sac, too.
You board the second bus and sit against a window. A man, reeking of tobacco and with his phone on speaker, pens you in as he takes the seat next to you. You fidget and stare out the window as you try to ignore the blare of his cell phone. Even with your earbuds in, it’s distracting.
He shifts close to you. You press yourself to the side of the bus as he overflows onto your seat. His hand slips between his leg and yours. Subtly, he turns his palm out and feels your thigh. You wince and try to evaporate through the wall. You’re trapped.
You look around. Everyone is entranced by their phones or books or their riding buddies. His fingers curl further under you and your blood surges. You reach up to pull the cord then push on him with your elbow.
“Scuse me!” You squeak.
The bus stops and the man huffs. He slinks up to his feet and looms so you brush against him. You scurry to the doors and stop, looking back to see if he’s following. Another rider is getting off too. Thank god.
You thank the driver and step off. You stumble onto the sidewalk and wait for the bus to roll away. The other rider heads off across the street and you look around, disoriented. You check your phone. You’re three stops short of where you should be.
You shudder and follow the little arrow on your screen. You wish it was the first time you dealt with a bus creep. Well, if you had your choice, you would never deal with them.
You shake it off as best you can. It’ll be fine. By the time you head home, the bus will be mostly empty… and it’ll be dark out.
You walk around the suburbs, following the bright bus stop signs until you get to where you’re supposed to be. From there, you rove through the cozy avenues and terraces until you get to Morningside. You triple-check the number before you head up the walkway.
There’s a star ornament on the door. You glance around as you hover your hand, ready to knock. Something chirps.
“Come on in!” Saralie sings from nowhere.
You spot the doorbell cam and lean over to look in the lens. “Oh, hi.”
“Door’s open.” She chimes back.
“Right, uh, okay.”
You stand straight and grab the handle. You let yourself in and look around cautiously. You put your bag down and bend to take off your shoes. You set them on the shoe rack as a soft creak rises from the hardwood.
You look up, expecting Saralie, but find Steve in the archway just next to the entry. “Thought I heard the door,” he says.
“Oh, yeah, I… Saralie…”
“She’s in the kitchen making her unicorn juice.” He steps forward and picks up your bag. “I’ll show you.”
You stare at your bag and nod. He’s just being nice. He turns and heads across the entryway to the hall. His gait is tall and straight, his shoulders broad, hair curling slightly just above his collar.
“Thanks…” you murmur from behind him.
“No problem.” He says over his shoulder.
He turns through a doorway and you trail after him. You hear clinking as Steve puts your bag on the large wooden island where Saralie stirs a large jug of bright blue juice and ice. She brightens as she sees you.
“You’re here!” She chimes as she lets the large spoon fall against the side. She skips over and hugs you. “We’re gonna have so much fun.”
Steve hums flatly as you sense him watching. You peek over and your eyes meet briefly before he retreats. He lingers at the door. “Have fun. I’ll try not to get in the way.”
You feel bad as he disappears. It’s his house. If anything, you’re in the way.
“So um…” you face Saralie again as she lets you go. “What is unicorn juice?”
“Unicorn…” she scrunches her nose. “No! It’s Mermaid Punch. Ugh. Dad can be so clueless. Uncle Bucky calls it a Diabetes Cocktail.”
You chuckle. “Oh?”
“It’s just sparkling water, white grape juice, blueberry syrup, strawberries sliced up, boba, and ice. You can top it with whipped cream and pop rocks but I ran out of those.”
“Interesting.” You eye the jug. “Sounds like a belly ache.”
“And you sound like my Uncle Bucky,” she giggles.
You make a face. “Well, I brought snacks. I don’t know if they go with all that. Pretzel twists and some cinnamon donut holes?”
“Ooh! Delicious.” She claps. “Oh, let me show you the setup!”
She waves you out another doorway. You follow her into a dining room. It’s a very normal looking room. There’s a glass cabinet with fine china inside; specialty glasses for various drinks. And the table is dark hardwood with matching chairs, the seats upholstered. An area rug warms the space in shades of burgundy.
“I tried to get dad to let us use his drafting table but he has ‘work’.” She clucks. “But, he gave us some super cool rulers.” She lifts up a large triangular ruler. “He designs buildings and stuff.”
“Wow. That’s cool.” You say.
“He takes it very seriously,” she shrugs. “He wanted me to get into architecture but I went with music. You think he’d be prouder since he paid for all those piano lessons!”
“Music? That’s awesome.”
“Not as awesome as Ecology. I love the earth.” She cheeps.
“Um, yeah. I… guess.” Your parents weren’t as proud as your major.
“Anywho. I got out my fancy markers and pencils. Oh, and I was thinking when we finish the maps, we could do some figures next week or something? Paint them or whatever? Did you say you wanted to be a cleric?”
“I… keep changing my mind.”
“It’s fine. We can make a whole party!” She wiggles excitedly. “We definitely need a brute.” Her cheeks turn rosy. “Oh, but we can’t start without our goodies. Let’s get some juice and snacks.”
“Oh, sure.” You let her lead you back to the kitchen.
“How was work?” She asks as she looks for glasses in the cupboard.
“It was work. I just sell shoes.” You shrug.
“Nice. Last year, I was working at the ice cream place. I got so many free scoops. Then I started part-time at the music store. Which is so awesome. And Peter works there too.” She pours the punch, splashing some over the edge.
“Peter… he’s your friend you mentioned?”
“Oh yeah. He’s doing photography for some online magazine. I don’t know. He was a year higher than me in high school.” She explains. “But his Aunt May taught me piano for a couple years.”
“Nice,” you say and unzip your bag. “You don’t mind dill pickle?”
“Love it!” She assures you. “This is going to be so much fun. I haven’t been able to think of anything else. I even composed a dungeon song!”
“Wow.”
“I’ll play it for you later!” She hands you a glass. “But I need my keyboard not the piano.”
“That would be cool,” you smile. This is much better than hiding from your roommates.
🎲
You bend over the table, meticulously shading in the pit at the center of the final chamber of the dungeon. Your brow hurts from squinting as you lean on the paper. Saralie ran off to get her keyboard so you’re filling in some last minute details. It’s looking pretty good.
You set down the black pencil and search for a proper dirt brown. A shifting shadow frightens you and draws a squeak from your lips. You look over, still half on the table as you find Steve watching. You clear your throat and stand up.
He leans on the doorframe, his arms crossed, and his brows draw closer. “Where’s Sara?” He asks.
“Oh, she went to get something from her room.” You say as you nervously spin the pencil.
“Right. It’s getting about dinner time. I was gonna ask what you all wanted.” He reaches up to graze his beard, the friction audible as he toys with the greyest patch.
“Um, well, we had snacks.”
“Sugar.” He glances at the pretzel twists and half-finished box of donut holes.
“I can wait.” You argue. “We’re almost done.”
He suddenly jerks forward as Saralie appears behind him. He steps inside as her keyboard bounces off his hip. She giggles. “Oops, sorry! I wasn’t expecting a door!”
“Hm. There you are.”
“Sup, Dad? I was just going to show her my new ballad.” She brings the keyboard to the table and puts it flat. It’s almost bigger than her.
“I’m glad you girls are having fun.” He grips his hips. The gesture makes the veins in his forearms bulge, his button-up rolled to his elbows. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat a goblin,” she trills as she flips switches on the keyboard. “You don’t happen to have any?”
“I forgot it at the store.” He shakes his head. “Pizza or Pad Thai?”
“Hmmm. Well…” She looks at you. “What does our VIP want?”
You clamp your lips together and shrug again. “I… I’m good with either.”
“If neither of you will choose, then I will,” Saralie insists. “Let’s get noodles. Extra spicy.”
“Sure,” Steve nods and drops his arms straight. “Anything else you ladies need?”
“All good.” You smile.
“We got it, dad.” Saralie chirps. “Unless you wanna look over the map and let us know all the structural hazards.”
“Ha ha,” he utters dryly. “Alright, I’ll go put the order in.”
He shows his palms and backs out. He turns and leaves. You look at Saralie as she laughs.
“He’s just being funny, you know? He’s always nosy.” She taps a key and switches the tone. “You should see him when Peter’s here. Won’t leave us alone.”
Had some interesting conversations with people about what life would be like after The Maze, the various possible endings. Here is one idea! I may make a few alternate endings if I get a whim lol!
Pairing - Steve Rogers x Reader / Lloyd Hansen x Reader / Slight Ransom x Reader
Summary - It's been a year since the day that saw your life turned upside down. How are you dealing with life after The Maze?
Warnings - SMUT, Noncon, belting, abuse, pregnancy, cheating. 18+ Only! My warnings are not extensive so enter at your own risk!
Word Count - 3300
The Maze Masterlist
"Fuck, push your hips back baby." Lloyd groaned behind you as you braced your arms on the book shelf and pushed your ass further back onto him.
"Oh god." You moaned loudly, as he bottomed out inside you, hips hitting your ass as his tip punched your cervix.
"That's it, fuck, your cunt is perfect, so fuckin' perfect." Lloyd groaned as he began pounding into you at speed, gripping at your hips with his palms.
The book shelf jostled under the impact of your arms as Lloyd continued humping his cock inside of you, working you to the delicious peak you'd gotten used too.
"I'm gonna come." You moaned after a few minutes of his unrelenting thrusts. He had spent months learning your body, knowing exactly which angles would make you scream and shake until you were a puddle.
"Cum for me baby." Lloyd grunted and you did, pussy clamping down on his cock as your eyes rolled.
"Fuck that's it, squeezin' me so good, fuck." Lloyd groaned, sloppily thrusting into you a few more times before you felt him spill inside of you.
"Fuuckkk." He moaned, slowing his movements while you panted, until he finally pulled out with a hiss.
He quickly grabbed a cloth from his back pocket and cleaned you up before straightening your dress out over your ass and thighs.
You turned to him and winced suddenly, bracing your hand over your stomach.
"You okay?" Lloyd asked softly, placing a hand on your shoulder.
"Yeah, baby just started kicking the shit out of me." You smiled with another wince as you received a kick to the rib.
"Daddy woke her up huh?" Lloyd smirked and you just rolled your eyes in response with a playful smile.
"Oh come on, we both know she's mine." He purred.
He was probably right, though you would never know. You'd been with only Steve for 6 months and nothing caught, it wasn't until you started fucking Lloyd behind Steve's back 6 months ago that you finally fell pregnant, so the odds were probably in Lloyds favour.
Lloyd dropped to his knees in front of you and lovingly stroked your belly beneath his palms.
"Hey baby girl, it's your daddy." He purred, "I'm gonna take such good care of you, you and your mama."
You smiled softly at him as he pressed a soft kiss to your belly and then you let out a sad sigh.
"I better get back before Steve gets home." You muttered.
"It's okay kitten, come here." Lloyd sighed, standing and holding his arms out invitingly.
He engulfed you in a hug, his strong arms wrapping around your shoulders and you stretched your arms around his waist, more difficult now with the baby settling in between your bodies.
"One more night baby and we're outta here." Lloyd said softly, pressing a kiss to your temple.
"You sure everything's ready?" You asked worriedly, you'd been planning for months, now it was here you couldn't help but panic that something would go wrong.
"It's all loaded in one of my cars, got our new passports, cash, clothes." Lloyd reassured you, "It's gonna be okay, we're gonna be a family, you and me."
"How are you gonna get me out of the house?" You whispered into his chest.
"I'll just take a break and release you, I told you that." Lloyd said with a slight scold in his tone.
"I still can't believe you guys weren't in the maze the whole time." You mumbled.
"Course not baby," He teased, "We needed breaks for food and water, we know that maze like the back of our hands, easy enough to slip out for 10 minutes."
When you'd found that out a few months ago you were in shock. You'd spent hours in fear, caked in dirt, hungry and thirsty, tiptoeing around to avoid the four brutal brothers and the whole time they were just going in and out at their leisure, laughing at you, mocking you. It shouldn't have surprised you, yet it still did.
"Just stay calm okay, stick to the plan." Lloyd reprimanded, "Once the maze is in play, I'll come let you out, you take the car and wait at the agreed place, okay?"
"Yeah, okay?" You sighed, enjoying the comfort that the hug was bringing you.
"Steve still going in?" Lloyd asked curiously.
"He keeps changing his mind but I think I've convinced him to do it." You returned with a flat lipped smile.
"Okay kitten, one more day okay? You can do this." Lloyd encouraged.
"One more day." You smiled up at him.
"I love you." Lloyd whispered as he brought his face down and pressed a soft kiss to your lips.
"I love you too." You replied before he finally released you.
You made your way back to Steve's wing of the house, back to your prison. Not that the rest of the house was any better. The whole place was secured with mechanical locks and was impossible to escape from. Most days you were locked in yours and Steve's suite with food and drink provided to you by staff members. Fridays were your only respite, fridays the locks disengaged on your suite and the library in the main part of the house, for one hour only. One hour was all you were allowed, but it was an hour you cherished.
That hour was soon interrupted by Lloyd and the rest is history, with Lloyd joining you there every single week, unbeknownst to his older brother.
You stepped over the threshold of your room and immediately felt panicked when you heard the creak of a floor board.
"Where the fuck have you been?" Steve yelled angrily as you crossed the threshold.
"Steve.. it's Friday.." You began stuttering, knowing it was a useless battle.
"I know what fucking day it is." Steve snapped, crossing the space towards you with heavy stops. He latched onto your bicep harshly, digging his fingers into your muscle painfully.
"I was in the library in the main wing, like you said I could." You continued pleadingly.
"You're supposed to be back here before I get back, but here I am sat waiting for you like a god damn dog." Steve spat in your face.
"I'm sorry." You whimpered.
"You will be." He snarled before he harshly pushed you back and brought his other hand up, slapping you so hard across the face that your head snapped to the side.
"Steve, please, the baby." You whimpered as you clutched your burning cheek.
"You're fuckin' lucky that's in there," Steve yelled, pointing his finger at your belly, "Or you'd be beaten so fuckin' hard."
"I know, I'm sorry." You pleaded as a few tears fell.
"You should be. You better get your fuckin' attitude in check cause when that baby comes, I expect nothin less than the perfect mother." He snarled at you as his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.
"I know Steve, I will be." You promised through the tears.
He'd been worse than you could have ever imagined, always wanting absolute perfection from you. So much as a seconds hesitation after an order and you would be beaten badly, often needing a doctor to visit to heal you up-. Even when you were bed bound from the pain, he'd still force you to fuck him, keeping you full of come at all hours of the day so it stuck. When it finally did, he eased off a little, but not enough.
"Good. Now get on your knees, been waiting all day to get my cock in your mouth and I ain't waitin' any longer." Steve grumbled as he dropped himself onto the edge of the bed you shared.
"Yes of course." You replied, scampering over to him and dropping to your knees instantly, your hands shook as you fumbled with his slacks button, hearing him growl in frustration.
You finally got it undone and unzipped, quickly wrapping your hand around his cock and pulling it from his underwear.
"Open up Angel." Steve smirked and you dropped your jaw, placing his tip on your tongue the way you knew he liked.
You licked around the rim as he groaned in pleasure, hand slipping into the hair at the crown of your head.
You closed your mouth slowly over the tip before lowering it over as much of his length as you could, deliberately triggering your gag reflex to keep steve happy.
"That's it. Fuck." Steve groaned when your throat constricted around him.
You began bobbing up and down on his length sloppily, leaving a trail of saliva in your wake as you continued to take him to the root, forcing yourself to choke on him.
"So perfect, my perfect wife." Steve groaned above you.
You braced one hand on his thigh, feeling it twitch under your palm and slid the other hand up to his balls, firmly fondling them.
"Treat me so good, fuck." Steve began to babble as you worked him towards release, "I'm sorry I hurt you baby, you made me mad, you know not to make me mad."
You fought not to roll your eyes at the statement, too used to hearing those words and knowing they meant absolutely nothing.
"You forgive me?" Steve asked and you looked up at him through your lashes, nodding around his length.
"Good girl, that's my good girl." He moaned, clearly pleased with your answer.
He suddenly pushed your head down, crushing your nose against his pelvis as you choked painfully on his cock.
"Here it comes angel, swallow it." He grunted before releasing his warm load into your throat as you squirmed.
You forced yourself to swallow around the intrusion, taking down what he gave you before he finally let you go and you fell back on your haunches, sputtering wildly.
Steve quickly scooped you up from the floor and placed you sideways on his lap, firmly holding you in his arms while you let out heavy breaths to steady yourself.
"I'm still not sure I should join in tomorrow," He said placing his chin on your shoulder, "Feels wrong chasin' another woman when I got you at home."
"You need to Steve, for your father." You sighed, "You know how happy it makes him."
"Yeah I know." He grumbled.
"You're his favourite Steve," You coaxed gently, "His best boy, can't let him down."
"Yeah you're right." He agreed, "But I ain't touchin' her."
"Then don't." You breathed, forcing yourself to relax against his chest.
"You really are an angel you know that?" Steve smiled, placing a soft kiss to your cheek before nuzzling his nose against your ear.
Moments like this you could almost forget the monster that he was.
"Hey I have an idea." You swallowed, unsure if it was wise to attempt this but you had to try.
"Oh yeah, and what's that angel?" Steve grinned as he pulled back to look at you.
"You do whatever it takes to win." You smiled up at him, "Get the girl and bring her out. Then trade the prize like you did for me."
"I don't want another wife." He scowled with furrowed brows.
"No baby." You reassured, placing your palm on his cheek, "Even better, trade for her freedom."
"Her freedom?" He scoffed.
"Yeah, imagine how annoyed your brothers will be when they realise they won't get a turn." You continued, "You won her after all, why should they get a go?"
It was all you could do to try and ensure the next girls freedom, before you could try to get them taken down for good.
"Hmmm, that's not a bad idea." Steve hummed, "Ransom could really do with bein' taken down a peg, specially after what he did to you."
You knew what he was referring too, Ransom was livid after he found out that not only had Steve won, but he was taking you for himself. Ransom was still furious about you hitting him and still wore a nasty scar across his cheek to this day, where the belt had cut his flesh.
A few weeks after you had been moved into Steve's wing, Ransom broke in one day while Steve was at work. He'd gagged you and hogtied you before belting your ass until it was bloody and bruised, Steve arrived just as he was unbuttoning his trousers to take you.
Steve was livid, obviously, Ransom ended up in intensive care for a full month after that. Safe to say he hadn't tried anything with you again.
"Exactly, it'll be the perfect fuck you to him." You sighed.
You went to bed that night with a racing heart and clamming palms, unable to rest your brain as the thoughts of the following day and everything it entailed whirled around. One whole year, one year of being stuck in this prison by these sadistic men, you were so close.
Steve kept an arm around you possessively as you slept, he always did. You weren't even allowed to use the bathroom without him getting annoyed during the night.
The following day, you did your best to remain calm as Steve got ready for the maze run. You kept waiting for him to change his mind, to say he was staying but you let out a breath of relief when he finally left and engaged the bedroom lock behind him.
You paced back and forth for what felt like hours, wondering if Lloyd had changed his mind, if he wasn't coming to get you. Or worse, Steve had found out, then you may as well be dead with what he would do to you.
The sound of the lock whirring stopped you in your tracks and you shook anxiously as you stared at the door opening. Lloyd peered around, finally locking eyes with you.
"Oh god Lloyd." You breathed, running at him and throwing your arms around him, "I thought you weren't coming."
"Silly kitten." He purred, pressing a kiss to your temple, "Course I was. Now come on let's go, I can't be too long or dad will get suspicious."
He gripped your hand in his and navigated his way out of the house to the other side of the property from the maze, where a car was waiting.
Lloyd quickly unlocked it and helped you settle into the driver seat, passing you the keys. He braced his hand on the roof of the car and lent into the space, reaching with his free arm to activate the navigation system.
"There, just follow the navigation to the motel, I'll meet you there later." He instructed.
"Okay." You breathed.
"You sure you remember how to drive?" Lloyd teased with a smirk.
"Yes." You replied, rolling your eyes at his jibe.
"Well okay then." He sighed, "I'll see you soon. I love you."
"I love you too Lloyd." You replied.
He lowered his face to yours, placing a few soft kisses to your lips before standing back and shutting your door.
You didn't waste anytime, speeding off down the long drive towards freedom.
When you crossed the large mansion gates, tears filled your tired eyes. You couldn't believe you had done it, you were going to be okay, you were free.
After the first 6 months with Steve you started to think you were going to die there, that there was no hope for you. Then Lloyd came into the library that day and a new plan formed. It didn't take much convincing to get Lloyd to start fucking you, telling him that Steve wasn't satisfying in the bedroom and Lloyd got great joy out of bringing you to orgasm behind his brother's back.
Then you started the subtle suggestions that you liked him, began telling him sweet, fake stories about yourself that you thought may appeal to him. It worked like a charm and soon enough he was telling you he loved you, by this point you'd found out you were three months pregnant and Lloyd was elated.
Everything slipped into place after that when you kept turning up on fridays with new bruises. Lloyd was livid, he wanted to murder Steve for putting you and his baby at risk and you played into it, convincing him that the only way out was for you to run away.
Now here you were, 6 months pregnant and on the run from all four brothers. As sweet and tender as Lloyd had been the past 6 months, you knew who he was and you'd never forget what he did or what he was capable of. They were all as bad as each other and no amount of sweet words and orgasms would change that.
You knew going to the police would be useless, they'd call Steve and you'd end up back there or worse, they could be in their pockets, it wouldn't surprise you with how many women they've taken and never been caught. No, you had your sights set on something much bigger.
You ditched the car after driving a few states away and hopped on a flight to europe. From there you spent 3 full weeks moving from place to place, getting on trains, buses and even hitchhiking until you finally made your way over the french border and headed straight for the embassy.
You told them they needed to notify the CIA, explained everything in detail. The CIA arrived a short while later and listened with open ears while you told your story, they promised they would do everything they could to bring the family down and placed you under witness protection.
They gave you a new name, a new home and hope, for the first time in so long.
6 months had passed since the day of your escape. You were happy, rocking your baby girl in your arms as you hummed her to sleep.
She coo'd softly in your arms as her eyes fluttered closed and you placed a soft kiss to her head before placing her in her crib and leaving the room.
You stepped into your hall and made your way back into your living room before jumping with a squeak.
"Well hey there kitten, nice place." Lloyd smirked as he looked around the room.
"Lloyd..." You breathed in surprise as your hands began to shake.
"Surprised to see me?" Lloyd teased as his brow rose.
"I...listen..I.." You began muttering.
"Spent months lookin' for you." Lloyd interrupted as he paced the room, "Trying to figure out where you went. Lucky for me I got an old buddy from college who practically runs the CIA, imagine my surprise when he does a deep dive and finds you hiding in their records."
"Lloyd, please.." You began to whimper.
He crossed the space and grabbed both of your arms in his palms, pulling you against him.
"No you listen here kitten." He snarled, "Here's what's gonna happen. We're gonna forget this little mishap, we're gonna pretend that the plan went wrong and that you had to go off book, that you knew I'd come for you."
"O..okay, yes." You mumbled.
"Yes what?" He snapped.
"That's what happened," You agreed shakily, "I knew you'd find me."
"I thought so, cause you love me don't you?" Lloyd scolded.
"I love you." You whimpered.
"And I love you too kitten." Lloyd smiled menacingly before pushing his lips to yours in a bruising kiss.
"What.. Steve?" You croaked when he pulled away, worried about his brother coming after you.
"Ha. Oh baby Steve forgot you the minute he laid eyes on the new offering." Lloyd scoffed.
"He did?" You squeaked.
"Oh yeah, won again and asked if he could get rid of you when the baby came," Lloyd snorted, "Replace you with the new one."
"W..what..." You muttered as tears filled your eyes.
"He's fucked up baby." Lloyd coo'd at you, 'He never loved you like I do, I would never give you up."
Lloyd finally released you and stepped back, making you jump when he clapped loudly.
Steve Rogers x Reader
You're worried about Steve while he's on the run
[A/N] Feel like I haven't had a Steve fic in forever so I wrote this! Hope everyone's having a good weekend 😘
It’s been ten months since Steve Rogers went into hiding. It had been even longer since you had last seen him. Not that many people believed you. As his partner most people thought you knew where he was. The US Government certainly seemed to think you must have an idea. When he’d first gone missing you’d been interrogated for days. The interrogating had increased even more when they found out Sam, Scott, Clint and Wanda had managed to escape the raft.
Even when the interrogation was finally over there was a long conversation about what should happen to you. If the government had had their way, you would’ve gone to prison. Not that they could pin anything specifically on you – maybe they just wanted to draw Steve out, maybe they truly believed you deserved punishment just for being associated with him. Either way it was Tony Stark who eventually bailed you out. You didn’t want to owe that man any favours but getting to go home rather than being stuck in a government facility was definitely preferable.
“People will be coming after you now,” Tony had said as you’d left the facility. It was the first time in days you’d felt the sun on your skin, and here was Tony ruining it by yapping in your ear. “I’ll have agents posted near your apartment.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” You’d said. “I’ll be fine.”
“The government won’t be the only ones looking to flush Steve out of hiding. If the wrong person got their hands on you-”
“I’ll take my chances. I appreciate you bailing me out but I just wanna be left alone.”
The first thing you’d done when you’d got home was check your post, hoping Steve would’ve left you something. Just to let you know he was okay. There was nothing. No messages on your phone and your apartment hadn’t been touched. Your boyfriend had disappeared into thin air which left you in a bit of a limbo. Were you still dating him? How long would he be on the run? What if something happened to him and you never found out about it?
Now you switch off the TV, stretching lazily. It’s been months since Steve disappeared and you’ve still not heard anything. Some of your friends have told you to move on, to get back out there but you can’t. As far as you’re concerned, you are still dating Steve. And if you have to wait… Well so be it.
You rub your eyes. It’s late and you have work in the morning but you haven’t been sleeping well lately. Not knowing where he is, is slowly driving you insane. You grab your book, deciding to sit in bed until you’re too tired to keep your eyes open anymore. Even then, it’ll probably still take you a while to fall asleep.
Just as you reach your bedroom you hear a noise from the kitchen and you whirl around, your heart pounding. Tony’s words about people coming after you ring through your mind and you swallow hard, starting to regret not taking him up on his offer. The thought of people watching your every move had sounded invasive at the time but now you wouldn’t mind knowing there’s back-up if you need it.
You hear the sound of footsteps in your kitchen and your heart leaps into your throat. There’s definitely somebody in your apartment. You take a step back towards your bedroom, trying to remember where you left your phone. Even if you could reach it though, the intruder would hear you making the call. Maybe you can make a dash for the front door? Start pounding on your neighbours front doors and hope that someone will come to your aid – you doubt it though. Most of the people on your floor are families or other women living alone. They might call the police for you but they’re unlikely to venture out into a fight.
Whilst you stand in your doorway, practically frozen with fear, your mind racing a mile a minute, a figure appears in the kitchen doorway. You take another step back when you hear a familiar voice “Y/N.”
Your eyes widen and you let out a sigh of relief “Steve.”
It’s him, he’s really here. Your boyfriend who’s been on the run for so long is finally back in your apartment. Before either of you even realises it you’ve both crossed the distant, Steve’s large arms wrapping around you as you wrap your own arms around his waist. He leans his head against yours, closing his eyes as he savours the feeling of you against him after so long. “Please don’t cry.”
You hadn’t even realised you were crying until he mentioned it. You sniffle, your arms tightening around his waist “I was worried about you.”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Steve mumbles, kissing the top of your head. “I’m sorry love, I’m so sorry.”
You cry into his chest, holding him as if you’ll never let go. Eventually you pull back enough to look up at him, your eyes shining with tears “It’s really you.”
“It’s really me,” Steve says, cupping your cheek with his hand, wiping away one of your tears with his thumb.
“You’ve got a beard now.”
Steve smiles “Yeah, sorry. Not had many opportunities to shave.”
“No, I like it, it suits you.” You sniffle. “Where have you been?”
“All over. We’re on the run, I’m trying not to stay in one place too long.”
“I missed you.”
Steve strokes his thumb over your cheek “I missed you too baby. I heard the government gave you some trouble. I didn’t want you to get dragged into this.”
You sigh “It’s fine-”
“It’s not fine. You were there for days, you must’ve been scared. I’m sorry.”
“I was mostly just worried about you.”
He leans his forehead against yours “I didn’t want to risk sending a message in case it was intercepted. I came round to see you a few times but there are agents posted everywhere, it was too risky.”
You frown “Agents? That- Oh for fucks- I told him I didn’t want that! Tony’s had people watching the apartment this whole time?”
Steve nods “I had to see you. It’s been so long, I found a way in. Called in a few favours.”
“How long can you stay?”
“I don’t know, a few hours maybe.”
“I want to come with you.”
Steve shakes his head “Our living conditions haven’t exactly been great. And if the government does catch up with me… It’s risky me just being here. I won’t put you in danger.”
“Steve-”
“I’m sorry baby, you can’t come with me. I need to know you’re safe. It’s the only thing keeping me going.” You start to cry again and Steve kisses your cheek. “Did they tell you what happened?”
“They told me about the accords. I didn’t really understand it but I know you did what you thought was right. And if you thought it was right then I trust you.” You sigh. “I heard Sam escaped the Raft. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?”
Steve smiles “The less you know the better. But… I may have had a hand in that.”
You smile back “Well you wouldn’t have left them behind. Kinda figured you were involved.”
Steve kisses your forehead “You know me so well.”
“How long?” You ask. “How long until you can come home?”
“I don’t know,” Steve admits quietly. “I don’t know if I ever can.”
“Steve…”
“I know love, I know.”
You stay in his embrace in your tiny hallway. You wish you could freeze time, so that Steve wouldn’t have to leave. If it were up to you you’d happily stand in this hallway for the rest of your life if it meant you knew Steve was alive and well. And more importantly, with you.
“Will you come see me again?”
Steve hesitates, stroking his thumb over your cheek before mumbling “I’ll try. I’ll try my best to come back, I promise.”
You nod, trying to feel comforted by his words even though you know that if Steve does manage to come back it won’t be for another few months. Maybe even longer than that. Is this your life now? Having a boyfriend who can only sneak in once a year. It’s like a bad tragedy. But you know that you will wait. Even if you can only see Steve once in a blue moon you wouldn’t date anyone else. He’s yours.
Steve takes your hand, pulling you into your bedroom and climbing into your bed. You lie down, resting your head against his chest, your arm around his waist. He kisses the top of your head “Try and get some sleep baby. I'm right here.”
It’s been months since you slept well but you know you won’t sleep any better tonight, even knowing that Steve is here and he’s safe. You know that when you wake up he’ll be gone. You want to savour every moment that you can with him before he disappears again. Burrowing into his chest you mumble “I love you.”
“I love you too Sweetheart. More than anything.” Steve lets out a deep sigh. “This isn’t forever. Okay? I’ll do everything I can so we can be together properly again one day. I don’t know when that will be or what it will look like… But I’ll figure it out.”
You trust him completely. If he says that things will be better one day then they will. The future is so uncertain. For now though you both have tonight. He’s here, with you. And right now that’s all you can ask for.
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Todas mis entradas para el Bingo de Parejas Raras de Marvel Round 5:
Series Summary: The Avengers have faced dangerous enemies before. This one learns. She does not fight like the others. She fights like him. And with every encounter, Steve Rogers gets closer to understanding why.
Chapter Summary: Tony tightens control and forces the fight forward. Steve pushes harder, slipping out of sync as the mission becomes personal. And for the first time, she begins to push back against her own directives. The system holds—but the people inside it start to crack.
Words: 1,926
A/N: I feel like this idea is just living rent-free in my brain. I swear I've tried to write something else, but this just keeps coming out. Your author lives on comments and likes. All errors are mine. :)
Warnings: Canon-typical violence. Swearing.
Series Warnings: Steve Rogers x fem!villain!Reader; canon-typical violence.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. No copyright infringement intended. This is not written for profit.
📖 AO3 | 💜 Tip Jar | 🦋 Thank you for reading!
Mirror Protocol Masterlist | Part One | Part Eight
Inside Tony’s lab, the screens are already alive.
Data streams cascade across them in overlapping layers as Tony moves through them at speed, fingers flying, eyes tracking three things at once. “Oh, no you don’t.”
Across the room, Natasha stands in the corner, half-turned away, low voice steady as she speaks to an asset through her comm.
Tony shifts something—code rewriting midstream—then starts feeding garbage into the system, flooding it deliberately.
“If she wants to watch,” he mutters, “I’ll give her something to look at.”
Another command. Another spike in the feed. “Let’s see how she handles noise.”
He does not stop moving. “No, no—don’t mirror it, scramble it…”
The door opens behind him. Steve steps in, taking in the wall of screens, the movement, the noise—and starts pacing almost immediately.
Tony does not turn. “What do you want, Spangles? I’m busy.”
Steve stops just long enough to look at him. “You said you had something.”
Tony grunts, eyes still on the data. “I do. It’s not ready.”
Steve drags a hand through his hair, already frustrated, already keyed up.
Across the room, Natasha’s voice goes quiet as she wraps her call, but she does not move yet—just watches him.
Steve starts pacing again. Tighter now. “We need to go after her.”
Tony doesn’t even blink. “We go when I say the system holds.”
He flicks a screen, pulling up a shifting model of movement.
“She’s expecting patterns. I break the pattern, she loses the edge.”
Steve exhales, sharp and low. “Every time we wait, we lose something.”
Tony finally swipes a screen away, irritation bleeding through. “Every time we rush, she wins.”
Steve stops at the window, staring out for half a second before the frustration snaps through. “Then keep up.”
That gets Tony’s attention.
His head turns slowly, deliberately. “That’s not how this works.”
The door opens again.
Bucky comes in first, Sam just behind him, Thor last. They take in the tension immediately, no one speaking as they settle around the table.
Natasha finally pushes off the wall and joins them, eyes still flicking once to Steve.
Tony turns back to the group, already moving on. “We run a test op. Controlled. No improvising.”
Steve exhales. “Fine.”
It is not agreement.
They land just outside the weapons facility.
The ramp drops and they move immediately, comms snapping into place—clear, clean, no delay.
Tony is already in the air.
“Wings, Point Break—take the sky. I’ll join you once alarms are down. Red, Cyborg, Spangles—perimeter. Hold until I call it.”
Sam’s voice comes back almost instantly. “They took the bait—most of the sentries are north. South side’s light.”
Tony smiles inside the helmet. “See? That’s control.”
In the tree line, Natasha, Bucky, and Steve watch Thor drop onto the roof and clear the guards in two clean strikes.
Everything is lining up. Too clean. Before Tony’s call comes—
Steve moves.
It is subtle, just a shift forward—but then he is gone, breaking from formation without a word.
Bucky sees it first. “Steve—”
Sam’s voice cuts in from above. “Cap—wait—”
Natasha is already moving after him.
Tony’s voice hits sharper. “I said hold.”
Steve does not. He hits the patrol head-on—fast, hard, no hesitation. The takedown is efficient, but not controlled. Not clean.
“We had the opening,” Steve throws back, already moving to the next target.
Tony clicks his tongue in irritation. “We had a plan.”
Natasha and Bucky catch up just as Steve engages another group, his strikes heavier now—less about disabling, more about ending it quickly.
Bucky adjusts to cover him. Natasha sweeps behind, clearing what he leaves exposed.
Above them, drones activate. Tony and Sam intercept, repulsors and wings cutting through the air.
“Yeah, this is exactly what I meant,” Tony mutters, taking one down.
The mission accelerates—faster than planned. Too fast.
Steve reaches the door first. He breaches before Tony fully kills the alarm.
Tony barely gets it offline in time.
“Point Break, get in there—Cap’s playing battering ram,” Tony says, exasperation bleeding through.
Thor drops in through the roof access, moving fast to compensate, clearing ahead as Steve barrels forward through the ground level.
Inside, Steve does not slow. Corners are taken hard. Rooms are bypassed. He is not clearing—he is pushing.
Natasha and Bucky trail him, forced into reaction, sweeping what he ignores, covering gaps he leaves behind.
They regroup in the central room. Natasha sets the uplink quickly, efficient despite the disruption.
Steve paces. Waiting. Expecting her. She does not come.
The silence stretches longer than it should.
“Got what we came for,” Tony confirms over comms.
No one answers. They pull out.
No conversation. No friction—just tension sitting under everything.
Inside the quinjet, the silence holds for most of the flight back.
Tony breaks it. “You don’t get to freelance right now.”
Steve does not look at him. Just stares straight ahead through the cockpit glass. “Then don’t slow me down.”
No one else speaks.
The light above you is low as you sit at the workbench, soldering tool steady in your hand.
Another piece slots into place with practiced ease, the machine taking clearer shape with each connection.
To your right, the data feed runs—slower than before, but continuous. Stable enough.
The comm on the wall lights up. The screen flickers on. You do not turn.
Your focus stays on the connection, precise, exact—no room for error.
Your handler’s voice cuts in, flat and droning. “There is an operation update.”
You make the connection, hold it a fraction longer than necessary, then release.
He continues when you do not respond. “We are expanding the scope of the mission. Looking at opening a secondary pipeline.”
Still, you do not turn. Then—
“Live acquisition will be integrated into phase two.”
Your head lifts. Not quickly. Not sharply. Just enough.
“That's inefficient.”
A quiet snort comes through the comm. “It's not your concern.”
You turn your head then, finally looking at him. Your expression is blank.
“It complicates the objective.”
He studies you through the screen, searching for something—anything—out of place.
You give him nothing. A pause stretches between you.
Then he exhales. “Focus on your directive.”
Your eyes narrow—just a fraction. Barely there. “Understood.”
The screen cuts to black. Silence settles back into the room.
You turn back to the workbench, hands returning to the task—
—but pause.
Your gaze shifts to the data feed. It flickers. Slower than it should be.
You hesitate. Just for a second.
Then, before you can reconsider, your fingers move—entering a single line into the system, adjusting the parameters.
A small correction. Nothing obvious. Enough.
You exhale quietly and return to your work. “Unnecessary variables.”
In the lab, Tony is already moving through the screens, back to them, hands flicking through layers of data as logs cascade across the displays.
“No… that’s not it…” he mutters, shifting to another stream. “She’s still compensating…”
At the far window, Steve stands with his arms crossed, staring out into the dark. His jaw is tight, shoulders set like he is holding something in place.
The others filter in—Natasha first, then Bucky, Sam, Thor—none of them taking seats at first. They hover near the table, the tension from the mission still clinging to them, thick in the room.
Natasha’s eyes go straight to Steve. “That wasn’t the plan.”
Steve does not turn. “It worked.”
Sam leans against the edge of the table, voice low. “It almost didn’t.”
Thor glances between them, then settles into a chair, attention shifting to the screens as if giving them space—but he is still listening.
Steve pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling through it. “Almost doesn’t matter.”
Bucky steps closer, not quite in Steve’s space but near enough. “You broke formation.”
Steve shakes his head once, still facing the window. “I saw an opening.”
Bucky’s voice tightens. “You didn’t wait for the call.”
Steve snaps back without turning. “Didn’t need to.”
Natasha watches both of them, measuring. Sam shifts, finally sitting, unease settling into his posture.
Tony does not turn from the screens, but his voice cuts in—low, even.
“You did.”
Bucky takes another step forward. In the glass, their eyes meet in reflection. “You’re not the only one out there.”
Pairing - StepBro!Bucky x Reader x Boyfriend!Steve / Stucky x Reader
Summary - Bucky doesn't like finding out that you have a boyfriend and he finally gets the courage to act on the impulses he's been hiding.
Warnings - Dubcon, cheating, smut, male on male action, threesome. 18+ Only! My warnings are not extensive so enter at your own risk.
Word Count - 5k
Another night, another family dinner. You'd been home from college for a week now for the summer, along with your step brother Bucky. Both of you had planned to stay at home the whole summer before your final year at college started, but your parents decided it was the perfect time to leave and go on vacation.
You hadn't been a family for long in the grand scheme of things, your mom and Bucky's dad meeting when you and Bucky were both 17 and they quickly married after, making you all a family during your senior year at high school.
You'd known Bucky before then, had a crush on him even, but as soon as your families united that all changed and you did your best to seperate the fantasy from your new reality. Normally it wasn't too difficult with you both being away at different colleges. Occasionally you'd see each other in the holidays if you were both home at the same time, but this was the first time in years you'd be under the same roof for such a prolonged period.
You were fine, dealing with it remarkably well as you had something or rather someone else to distract you. Bucky however, had been acting strange all week. You'd find him staring at you whenever you were in the same room, licking or biting at his lip. He'd make a point of walking around half naked, winking whenever he'd run into you with his shirt off. It was strange, for as long as you'd known him, he'd never shown any interest in you, so this was completely abnormal.
Your parents were due to leave the following morning and so had roped you all into a sit down meal together before they left.
"Now you promise not to throw any ragers while we're gone?" Your step dad said sternly, more towards Bucky than you.
"I haven't thrown a rager since high school, I think we'll be okay." Bucky scoffed into his dinner in response.
"They are adults now honey, they'll be fine." Your mom chirped in as she sipped on her wine.
"I still can't believe you're going on a cruise without us." You pouted at the pair playfully.
"Well we never had a honeymoon so this is a second chance for us." Your step dad smirked, turning to face your mom and planting a long kiss to her lips.
"Gross." Bucky grimaced.
"Is it okay if Steve stays over while you're gone?" You asked nervously whilst pushing your fork around your plate.
"Of course honey." Your mom smiled.
"Who the hell is Steve?" Bucky suddenly asked, eyes flicking up to yours, brows furrowed.
"My boyfriend...." You trailed off, unsure why he was acting so shocked, you hadn't exactly been quiet about it, surely he'd known by now.
"Since when do you have a boyfriend?" Bucky asked with an edge of annoyance in his tone, dropping his fork to this plate.
"We've been dating for like 5 months." You shrugged.
"He's pretty cute." Your mom coo'd.
"Mom." You groaned, rolling your eyes.
"Seems like a nice guy." Your step dad added.
"You've met him?" Bucky scoffed.
"So have you." You announced and his face dropped in shock.
"What? When?" Bucky bit harshly.
"Steve Rogers, went to high school with us? He was in your home room." You added, taking your last forkful of food and placing it in your mouth.
"You mean that weedy, art kid?" Bucky grimaced.
"Hey I always thought he was cute!" You jabbed back.
"He's not weedy anymore, could put you through your paces now son." Your step dad teased and you felt thankful for his interference.
"I doubt that." Bucky scoffed.
"If only I were 30 years younger." Your mom said dreamily and your mouth dropped in shock.
"Mom!" You yelled.
"Honey!" Your step dad said sternly at the same time, causing your mom to chuckle loudly.
The dinner ended shortly after, with conversation turning back to your parents vacation and the countries they were visiting on route. You were however aware of Bucky's glare throughout the rest of dinner. It pinned you to the spot until you escaped to your bedroom, exhaling in relief before you settled in for the night, wondering what the hell had gotten into him.
The next morning you pulled yourself from bed early, ready to see your parents off. You traipsed downstairs in your shorts and baggy top and head straight for the kitchen, beelining for the coffee pot.
As you are preparing the brew you felt Bucky's presence before you saw him, shocked when his body pushed up against your back and his palms pressed flat against the counter on either side of you.
"What the hell are you doing?" You hissed as he buried his face in the crook of your neck and inhaled deeply.
"Nothing." He murmured into your skin, "Just saying mornin' to my step sister."
He pushed his crotch against the top of your ass and your eyes widened in shock when you felt him stiff in his pants.
"Bucky get off of me." You breathed, wiggling against him as he began to dry hump against you.
"Can't, feels too good." He groaned.
You hated that your body began to react, you felt the tingling sensation building in your core and your skin goosebumped. You gave up your fight, not that it was much of one to begin with and let out a shaky breath.
"Can you feel how hard you make me?" Bucky whispered into your ear before taking the lobe between his teeth.
Suddenly Bucky jumped back as footsteps sounded on the staircase and your mom rounded the corner into the kitchen.
"Right we're ready to go." She smiled excitedly.
"I'll see you off." You stuttered out, desperate to escape from what just happened.
You followed her out the front door and onto the porch, watching as your step dad was packing the suitcases into the trunk of the car.
As you looked on, Bucky stepped out of the house and joined you, placing his hand on the base of your spine.
"Don't worry I'll take care of her." Bucky yelled to your parents.
Your mom chuckled and waved goodbye before slipping into the car. You felt Bucky's hand slip down over your ass before he massaged at the cheek firmly and a blush crept up your neck.
"Bye kids, be good." Your step dad said with a grin.
"Bye, have a great time." You responded with a squeak in your throat.
As soon as the car pulled away you stomped away from Bucky into the house, knowing he was right behind you as he chuckled under his breath.
He shut the door and you turned to face him with your hands on your hips.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" You hissed.
"What do you mean?" Bucky asked nonchalantly.
"The touching?" You seethed.
"What, you don't like it?" Bucky smirked back, making you stutter at the question.
"What?? I....No! Just fucking leave me alone okay!" You yelled before turning and stomping back to your room.
Later on that day, Steve finally arrived and you slipped from your room to greet him, pulling him into a bone crushing hug as he crossed the threshold. Just his presence was comforting, helping you forget your earlier dealings with Bucky.
You led him into the kitchen to fetch you both a drink, chatting away as Steve lent against the counter and you bounced around preparing your drinks.
Bucky suddenly walked in, dulling your mood instantly. He stopped a few feet away from Steve, looking at him up and down.
"Who the hell is this?" He purred in a sultry tone.
"Steve Rogers." Steve said shyly, holding his hand out for Bucky to shake, "I dunno if you remember me."
"Oh I remember you." Bucky grinned as he placed his own hand in Steve's, "You look good Rogers."
Bucky swiped his tongue over his lip and then bit it seductively, watching as Steve's neck and ears turned red and he quickly took his hand away from Bucky's.
"Leave him alone Bucky." You scolded, unsure if it bothered you more that he was flirting with YOUR boyfriend, or that he was flirting with someone that wasn't you.
"You didn't have all this last time I saw you." Bucky continued taunting Steve, lifting his palms to grip at Steve's biceps with a smirk.
"Uhh yeah... I guess I uhh..bulked out..." Steve stuttered shyly.
"Come on Steve, let's go upstairs." You interrupted, passing him his drink and using your then free hand to grab his and pull him away as you glared at Bucky.
You were straddled over Steve's lap, grinding your covered crotch onto his own as you swirled your tongue around his mouth. His hands were gripped on your hips and he groaned into your mouth sending a shiver down your spine.
He pulled back suddenly, breathing heavily.
"Baby we need to stop or I won't be able to." He panted.
"So don't stop." You whined, continuing to grind against him.
"Baby." Steve pleaded and you stilled your hips with a soft smile and a sigh.
"Okay." You nodded sheepishly, climbing off of his lap and settling next to him.
Despite being together for so long, you hadn't gone anywhere passed kissing and the occasional hand job, even though you desperately wanted too. Steve kept saying he wanted to wait, he was nervous. He'd only ever slept with men before, despite being attracted to women too, he was so shy around them that he hadn't crossed that bridge and it terrified him, he wanted it to be good for you.
Instead you snuggled into him, allowing him to wrap you in his strong arms as you watched a movie together and fell asleep.
The following morning, you and Steve made your way downstairs where you began making a pot of coffee. You kept sneaking glances at Steve sitting at the kitchen island as he sat in just his joggers and no shirt, revealing his ridiculously chiseled torso.
You made your way to where he was, placing a cup of coffee next to him and lent against the counter with your own as you talked happily together.
A few minutes later you were joined by Bucky and your mood immediately soured as he walked in and shamelessly raked his gaze over Steve's chest.
"Jesus Rogers, you tryna give a man a boner first thing?" Bucky smirked before biting his lip and you saw the flush creep up Steve's neck.
"Oh my god Bucky, leave him alone!" You shouted in annoyance, slamming your cup down on the counter.
"It's fine." Steve said softly, placing his hand on your arm.
"It's not fine Steve, he's being an ass." You grunted back.
"I'll go put a shirt on." Steve said as he got up from his chair and began to make his way out of the room.
"You don't need to, I don't mind the view." Bucky called out after him with a grin.
"Bucky!" You hissed angrily.
Steve rounded the corner and made his way upstairs while you stood glaring at Bucky.
"What the fuck are you playing at?" You whisper yelled at him.
"What? I'm agreeing that your boyfriend is hot." Bucky said as he strutted closer to you, placing his hands in his jeans pockets, "What's the problem?"
"Just don't okay." You grunted.
"You getting jealous?" Bucky teased with an eyebrow raised.
He began to step closer to you, until his chest was against yours and he placed his palms on the counter at either side of you.
"Don't worry, I'm still checking you out too." He flirted with a wink and you felt your own cheeks blush.
"Bucky stop." You whimpered, turning your face to the side in an attempt to avoid his gaze.
"Bet he fucks you real good huh?" Bucky hummed lowly, lowering his lips to your exposed ear.
"Does he make you cum? Does he know how to make you scream?" He continued seductively.
"We haven't...yet...' You begin to stammer, unsure of why you were even admitting that, as you felt the warmth building between your thighs.
"Are you a virgin?" Bucky asked softly, pulling your ear lobe into his mouth and sucking gently.
"No! He's just a gentleman okay?" You grunted back and you placed your palms on his chest and weakly tried to push him away.
"Hmm, sure, well he's messin' with something that belongs to me and I don't like it." Bucky growled against your ear.
"I don't belong to you." You breathed shakily.
"You sure about that? Look at you trembling." He teased, pulling one hand from the counter to place it on your hip, stroking the exposed skin of your belly with his thumb.
"You're my brother." You whispered.
"Step." Bucky chuckled, before placing a kiss to your neck beneath your ear.
"I love Steve." You whimpered.
"Oh yeah, does he love you?" Bucky whispered back, placing another kiss to your skin.
"Of course." You breathed.
The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs pulled you back into reality and you forcefully shoved Bucky away from you. You did your best to hide your flush as Steve walked back in with a smile and returned to his seat at the counter.
You were grateful when a phone ringing cut through the tense atmosphere and you grabbed it when you quickly realised it was yours.
You glanced at the screen, seeing that it was your Nana and quickly accepted the call.
"Hey Nana, yeah okay. No don't worry about it it's fine, I'll be there soon okay? Love you, bye."
"What's wrong?" Steve asked when you hung up the phone, biting at your lip.
"Nana needs her meds refilled, mom must have forgot before they went." You sighed, scratching at your brow.
"Shit, you need me to take you?" Steve asked, beginning to stand up from his chair.
"No it's fine, she only lives down the street and the chemist is around the corner, I'll go and be back soon. You said with a flat lipped smile as you headed towards the foyer and grabbed your trainers.
"You sure? I could come with you?" Steve offered as he appeared behind you.
"It's fine Steve, I'll be back soon." You promised, stepping on your tiptoes to place a soft kiss on his lips.
You saw Bucky appear behind Steve as you pulled away, smiling mischievously and you quickly turned and got out of the house.
You arrived back at the house a short while later and slipped off your shoes before heading through the house in search of Steve. After not finding him on the ground floor you figured he was probably hiding in your room and so you made your way to the stairs.
You made your way down the corridor, stopping a few feet away from your door when you heard the sound of Bucky's moans coming from his room opposite yours and your pussy tingled involuntarily. You needed your body to stop doing this, needed him to stop tempting you. You had Steve.
As you got closer, you noticed Bucky's door was ajar and despite your better judgement you tiptoed closer, looking through the gap.
Your eyes widened as they came upon the lewd scene, not only in arousal but in horror.
Bucky was naked, sat at the edge of his bed with his legs spread wide while your boyfriend Steve was knelt on the floor shirtless again, jaw coated in spit as he worked his mouth up and down on Bucky's cock.
The sloppy sounds of Steve's mouth and the sounds of Bucky groaning and panting as he clutched Steve's hair had your abdomen tightening, until you shook your head in an attempt to clear it, allowing the situation to finally sink in.
"What the fuck?" You yelled, as you threw the door open and stepped into the room.
"Shit." Steve hissed as he popped off Bucky's cock and sucked the spit back into his mouth, quickly jumping up from the floor.
"Oh hey." Bucky smirked from his position on the bed, raking his gaze over you.
Your hands were trembling by your sides, eyes glazing over as you glanced between the two of them, trying to avoid looking at Bucky's cock that was shimmering with Steve's spit and still prone between Bucky's legs.
"Baby I'm so sorry." Steve whimpered, crossing the gap and trying to reach for your arm.
"No, you don't get to touch me." You spat angrily, snatching your arm from his reach.
"Don't overreact," Bucky drawled as he hopped off the bed, "It's just a blow job."
"Just a ... what the fuck Bucky?" You argued with a sniffle as tears began to slide down your cheeks, "You get off on stealing peoples boyfriends, is that it?"
"Baby, it's my fault.. I..." Steve began stuttering as a few tears slipped from his own eyes.
"You what Steve? You forgot that I existed?" You scoffed at him.
"No, never." Steve's said, his voice breaking as he did.
"Oh so you just decided you no longer gave a shit. Great, perfect." You scoffed once more throwing your hands in the air.
"No of course not baby." Steve pleaded, clutching at his hair desperately, "I don't know, fuck I'm sorry."
Bucky chuckled loudly, placing his hands on his hips as he stood in all his glory.
"And you! You fucking asshole!" You yelled, pointing your finger at Bucky angrily, "If you wanted to hurt me you could have done it a hundred different ways but this is fucking low."
"I was trying to help you." Bucky grimaced.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" You spat back.
"You wanna deny there's something between us because of your little boyfriend." He hissed, taking a few steps closer to you, "So I had to show you he wasn't that great."
"What the fuck?" Steve spat, looking at Bucky with a hard glare.
"We belong together, you are mine." Bucky continued, stopping a foot in front of you.
"You sick fuck, you did this to break us up?" Steve snarled, fists clenching at his sides.
'So what if i did? Didn't take long to convince you to get on your knees." Bucky scoffed as he looked over his shoulder at Steve. "Besides you're pretty cute, if I wasn't obsessed with this fucking angel I would definitely go for it."
"You asshole." Steve yelled, storming over and getting into Bucky's face, pushing his chest against Bucky's.
You couldn't help but notice the way Bucky's cock was now sandwiched between their bodies, still hard and leaking, like he was enjoying this.
"I should knock you out right here." Steve snapped
"So do it, try me." Bucky yelled back and you could only watch as they both let out hard angry pants, glaring into each others eyes.
The tension in the room built as you stood shaking and watching the two men practically snarling in each others mouths. You hated this. Hated that you knew exactly the affect Bucky could have on someone, part of you didn't even blame Steve. Bucky had this pull about him.
Your thoughts were interrupted when Steve let out an animalistic growl and shoved his mouth onto Bucky's, grabbing his face in his palms.
Bucky responded in kind, groaning into Steve's mouth and grabbing his hips, pulling him roughly towards him as he slipped his tongue deep into his mouth.
You looked between them feeling the heat in your core as you watched them shamelessly make out in front of you, the sounds of moaning stirring in your chest.
It was soon overtaken by awkwardness as you stood on the sidelines realising that both of these men were too wrapped up in eachother to even care about you.
You turned and stepped away, only to be stopped when a hand gripped around your wrist firmly.
You turned to see Steve and Bucky parted gazing at you lustfully as Steve held onto you.
He pulled on your wrist, tugging you back towards him until you hit his chest.
"No, you're not leaving." Steve demanded in a low voice that sent a shiver up your spine.
He reached his hands around your waist and grabbed Bucky's hips. Pulling Bucky firmly against your ass, his hard length poking you.
"You want her," Steve growled over your shoulder. "You share her with me."
"Fine by me." Bucky smirked, placing his hands on your waist.
Steve glanced down at you and pushed his lips to yours. You gasped in shock, allowing him to shove his tongue against yours and you fell into the kiss, placing your hands on his chest.
Bucky began placing kisses on your shoulders and neck, slipping his hands up to your chest and palming at your breasts through your top as he grinded against you from behind.
"What? You...we...." You panted when Steve released your lips allowing you to catch your breath.
"Shhh, just let us take care of you." Bucky whispered into your ear.
"Yeah, both of us." Steve hummed and you took a breath before nodding shyly. Could you really have the best of both worlds?
Bucky and Steve grinned at each other over your shoulder.
Bucky bit down on the juncture of your neck making you gasp.
"You both need your clothes off." He murmured into your skin, raising his eyes at Steve who was watching the two of you with a darkened gaze.
Before you knew it you were all naked and you stood nervously before both men as they raked their gaze over you from head to toe, both licking their lips as they did.
Bucky stepped behind Steve, kissing his neck. He wrapped his hand around Steve's waist and gripped his hand around Steve's cock. Stroking as Steve moaned loudly.
"You gonna fuck her Steve?" Bucky whispered into Steve's ear.
"Fuck I want too." He moaned.
You stepped forward and slipped your hands along his chiseled chest.
"Then fuck me Steve." You purred seductively.
Steve placed his palms on your waist, pulling you closer and connecting his mouth to yours. You mewled into his mouth, hearing Bucky kiss at every inch of Steve's skin and feeling Steve's dick bob against your stomach as Bucky stroked him.
Steve broke the kiss, leaning his forehead against yours.
You sensed his nerves taking over as the reality began to sink in, so you placed your palm on his cheek softly.
"You're gonna be great Steve, I promise." You smiled.
Bucky clearly picked up on the atmosphere and quickly joined in.
"You want me to warm her up for you, get her pussy ready?" He whispered.
"Fuck yes please." Steve groaned.
"Get on the bed." Bucky ordered you from over Steve's shoulder as he kept stroking him.
You smirked and stepped away from the boys, heading straight for Bucky's bed and relishing in his scent as you sunk onto the sheets.
Bucky whispered into Steves ear once more before Steve nodded and they both stepped away from each other and towards the bed.
Bucky stalked towards the bed like a man on a mission, eyes darkened with lust and tongue poking out.
He knelt on the bed and began crawling up to you, stopping as he hovered over your face.
His gaze flickered to your lips as you panted beneath him, the air thick with unspoken tension.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this." He murmured and immediately pushed his lips down onto yours. You squeaked underneath him before parting your lips and allowing your tongues to slip together.
You heard Steve's moan next to you as the bed shifted. As your lips parted from Bucky's you caught sight of Steve next to you, lips parted and eyes dark as he'd been watching you and Bucky kiss.
"That was hot." Steve mumbled before pressing his own lips to yours.
Bucky began pressing kisses to your neck and chest. Taking special care of your breasts, sucking each nipple into his mouth in turn.
You could feel Bucky's cock pressing into your thigh and it only made you hungrier, hungry for both of these men.
As if he could read your mind, Bucky sat up on his haunches and pulled your hips around him, notching his tip at your entrance and you gasped into Steve's mouth.
Steve pulled away and you both watched in awe as Bucky slowly pushed his length into your pussy, his face contouring in pleasure.
"Waited so fuckin' long for this." He groaned as he bottomed out and you moaned in kind as you felt him hit your cervix.
"You like that baby?" Steve whispered to you softly and you gazed back at him with a dazed nod.
"Yeah she does." Bucky grunted as he began to thrust his cock into your core. "Likes that both of us want her, that she's got two men ready to fight wars for her."
"Oh fuck." You gasped as your back arched and your eyes rolled in pleasure.
"See, dirty girl would never be satisfied with just one man, she needs two." He continued. "Needs us both to fill this sweet pussy up."
You were lost to the bliss, panting and groaning beneath Bucky.
"Get over here Steve," Bucky murmured, "Get your cock in my mouth."
Bucky arched over you again as he continued pounding at your core and Steve shifted at your side.
You looked up just in time to see Steve's eyes roll back as Bucky sucked his cock into his mouth. It only added to your pleasure and without any warning you suddenly came on Bucky's cock with a small scream.
"Oh fuck." Bucky hissed as he pulled his face back from Steve's length, "That's it baby fuck, good girl."
When he'd worked you through your orgasm he pulled out slowly, watching as your pussy clenched at the cool air trying to suck him back in.
He nodded to Steve who carefully shifted you onto your side and slid down behind you, bracing and arm around your waist as he peppered kisses to your shoulders.
"You ready for me?" He whispered and you could only nod in response as you came down from your first orgasm.
Steve slowly pressed his cock to your opening with a groan and dropped his forehead to your neck.
He pushed in slowly, relishing in the new feeling.
"Feel good?" Bucky asked as he got on the bed, laying on his side to face you.
"So good." Steve groaned as he continued pushing in, "So soft, so wet."
Bucky slipped his hand along your jaw and pressed his thumb along your lip. You spread your lips, allowing him to press his thumb onto your tongue as Steve finally bottomed out behind you and you found yourself full again.
Steve's palm slid up to your breast and he began caressing it gently as he began slowly pushing and pulling his cock into you, testing out the angles that made you gasp and groan around Bucky's thumb.
Bucky stared at you with his mouth agape, unable to believe this was finally happening, he finally had you.
When Steve's confidence grew and his thrusts began getting more frantic, hitting exactly the right spots that had another orgasm building, Bucky removed his thumb from your mouth and stroked his palm along your side and down your hip.
When he reached your knee he tugged your leg over his hip and you could feel his cock against your clit.
Bucky began grinding his cock over your clit, making your writhe and moan. He pressed the head against your entrance and your eyes widened at him in shock.
"You trust me?" He asked softly, clutching your thigh against his hip.
You nodded slowly.
"Deep breaths." Steve murmured from behind you as he stilled.
Bucky slowly pushed his tip in your entrance alongside Steve's cock and all three of you let out a lewd moan at the feeling.
The stretch was like nothing you could have ever imagined as Bucky continued to push his way in, until his cock fit snugly in your cunt alongside Steve's and he too stilled as you all panted and adjusted to the feeling.
"Feels so good." Steve moaned behind you. "Need to move."
"You ready?" Bucky asked and you nodded once more, unable to form any words as your brain emptied.
What came next was the sounds of slapping and loud moans and groans as both men began thrusting their cocks into you as one, both enjoying the feeling of you clenching around them whilst their cocks rubbed against each other.
Your moans mixed together until you weren't even sure who's was who's.
Within minutes you were cumming around them, eyes rolling and mouth parting.
Your cunt clamping down encouraged them both to assault your pussy faster as they chased their own highs and finally they came together, coating your insides in a mixture of both of their cum.
You all came down together with a series of gentle hands and pants as the men slipped from inside you and whispered sweet things into your ear.
They peppered you in sweet kisses on every piece of exposed skin they could reach until they finally encouraged you onto your back, both taking their place at either side of you with an arm around your waist.
"So..." You began nervously, biting your lip as you glanced between the two, "I guess we need to talk about what happens now."
"Whatever you want baby, we'll do whatever you want." Steve whispered as he clutched you tightly.
"What he said." Bucky sighed, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, "You're our priority, we're yours."
Everything Tag - @late-to-the-party-81 @the-wandering-wonder
