Would you mind doing a scenario with some members of the Astral Express with a teen!reader who’s got really powerful abilities, but they use it for the most mundane things?
Like, they can make a void that absorbs just about anything as they please, but they use it exclusively to suck the dirt of dishes/floors or pull things to them when they don’t feel like standing up.
Or they can create portals, but they use the rift that they travel through to store whatever random items they take interest in.
Overall, just some fun mundane utility with a hint of chaos because we can never have enough if that :p
“Why Walk When You Can Warp?”
Summary: You’re a teen trailblazer on the Astral Express with reality-warping powers—portals, voids, spatial manipulation—you name it. But instead of saving galaxies or rewriting fate, you use your powers for one thing: laziness. Whether it's vacuuming crumbs into a mini black hole or using pocket portals to hoard plushies and snacks, your casually chaotic antics keep the crew baffled, mildly stressed, and secretly impressed. Who needs god-tier combat when you can clean dishes with interdimensional space?
Tags: Astral Express Crew x Reader, Teen!Reader, Reader with Powers, Overpowered Reader, Comedy/Crack, Fluff, Found Family, Domestic Chaos, Mundane Use of Godlike Abilities, Lazy but Powerful Reader, Slice of Life, Reader is the embodiment of “Why stand up when I can bend reality?”.
Warnings: Mild language, Slight chaotic behavior (Reader breaks the laws of physics for snacks), Off-screen interdimensional storage of potentially dangerous items, Light comedic destruction implied (but nothing harmful), Dangerously casual handling of cosmic artifacts.
The air on the Astral Express was unusually calm, punctuated only by the quiet clink of dishes and March 7th’s dramatic groan as she slumped over the table.
"I'm telling you, cleaning up after this many people should be illegal," March whined, face smushed into the table.
“Then maybe,” Dan Heng said, pointedly not looking up from his book, “you should stop using seven different mugs for one cup of tea.”
March lifted a finger in protest, “Okay, rude, but also—fair.”
Just then, you waltzed in, munching on a snack you definitely hadn’t paid for, wearing your signature smug grin. In one lazy motion, you flicked your hand toward the stack of dirty dishes. A dark, swirling void popped into existence in mid-air and sucked them in with a dramatic slurp.
Everyone stared.
“…Did you just banish our dishes to the abyss?” Welt asked slowly, adjusting his glasses.
You shrugged. “Nah, just the grease and crumbs. Void only takes what I tell it to. They’re clean now.”
A beat of silence.
Then March jumped up. “Wait, you can do that?! I’ve been scrubbing pans with my hands like a chump!”
“They were crusted with egg yolk!” you added cheerfully. “Don’t worry, the Void loves protein.”
Dan Heng blinked. “…Is that… safe?”
“Define safe,” you said, tossing your now-empty snack wrapper toward the trash bin—and completely missing. “Ugh, whatever.” You lazily waved your hand again, and another swirling vortex opened, pulling the wrapper in and dropping it cleanly into the bin.
March gasped. “You’re like... some kind of domestic god.”
You winked. “A god of dish soap and not getting up.”
Later that day, Himeko was doing inventory when she opened the storage room and nearly fainted.
“Why are there… sixteen plush foxes, three watermelons, a tire swing, and—are those live pigeons—in here?!”
You popped your head in with a grin. “Oh, hey, Himeko! That’s my portal storage. It’s not a mess; it’s curated chaos.”
“…There’s a portal in the storage room?”
“Yup! Portable rift space. I dump all the neat stuff I find while trailblazing. Look!” You reached into a seemingly empty pocket and pulled out a bright, flashing, definitely-dangerous relic that should be in a containment chamber. “I call this guy Sparky.”
Welt appeared behind her, visibly distressed. “That’s a Planetary Core Fragment—why do you have it?”
You blinked innocently. “It was shiny and it matched my coat.”
Dan Heng sighed from down the hallway, still reading. “You’re going to accidentally destroy a planet because you liked the aesthetic.”
One quiet evening, the crew sat in the observation car, watching the stars. It was almost peaceful… until the snack bag March had been reaching for flew across the room into your lap without you moving an inch.
“Okay, that’s it!” March snapped. “You literally control the fabric of space! Why are you using it to steal chips?!”
You stared at her, mid-chew. “Because they were on the other table.”
Himeko, pinching the bridge of her nose: “You could be a galactic legend, you know.”
Dan Heng: “You could collapse black holes.”
Welt: “You could revolutionize interstellar transport.”
You: “Yeah, but have you ever used a portal to avoid walking to the bathroom in the middle of the night?”
March: “…okay yeah that does sound kind of awesome.”
Closing Note from Pom-Pom (left on your door):
Official Notice from Conductor Pom-Pom
To: [Name]
Please stop vacuuming crumbs into the void near the Astral Engine panel. You nearly erased the throttle control yesterday.
Also, whoever stored a full set of kitchen knives in subspace and labeled it “Emergency Snack Cutlery” — please reclaim it or face the Nameless detention.
Author's note: if you like this little sample of the fanfic idea, kraven x reader. Interact with the story, so I can see if I continue or not. this chapter includes mature content. minors do not interact!!!
Summary: You are secretly Dmitri Smerdyakov's bodyguard, though over time, you've developed a friendship with him. However, you share a complicated past with his brother, Sergei Kravinoff. Now that Sergei is back in town, who knows where this will lead you?
PREVIEW TWO
ONE (+18)
Sergei removes his shirt as you begin cleaning his wounds, ensuring they don’t get infected. His pained groans are like a beautiful melody to your ears.
"What brought you here? Aside from your undeniable talent for dragging your brother into trouble," you ask, noticing several bullet fragments lodged in his back.
Reaching for a specialized medical tweezer, you start extracting the shards. Sergei tenses, his body twitching under the sharp pain.
"Believe it or not, I came because I missed Dmitri," he mutters through gritted teeth, his voice strained yet oddly sincere. You can't see Sergei's face, but you can feel that he's hiding something. You know him too well to believe otherwise.
"No lies, Kravinoff. Tell me the real reason you're here, or I'll make you regret it," you say while pulling another bullet fragment from his back. He suddenly turns, catching your wrist in his grip. His touch is firm but not forceful.
"I missed the old times," Sergei murmurs, his hand sliding down your thigh before traveling up to your waist, pulling you closer.
"You’re trying to distract me so I’ll forget what I really want to know. That doesn’t work anymore," you reply, even as you find yourself leaning into his touch.
Sergei watches you with a smirk, clearly enjoying your attempt to resist. "Doesn’t seem like it’s not working," he whispers, his lips grazing your neck as his fingers toy with the fabric of your clothe near your neckline.
Your eyes meet his and is like fire meeting gasoline. His hands press against your chest with deliberate firmness, drawing a sharp gasp from you. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to regain control, but his touch burns through the fabric of your clothes, unraveling whatever resolve you had left.
His lips press against your neck, deep and deliberate, his teeth nearly grazing your skin. You grip his back tightly, your nails digging into his flesh, drawing a low groan from him. You can feel the warmth of his blood on your fingertips—your nails must have broken skin—but if Sergei is still the same, you know he’s reveling in the pain. His body has always been too resilient, turning him into someone who finds pleasure in just a little bit of suffering.
"Sergei, why are you here?" you murmur, pulling him closer, an insatiable urge building inside you—a craving to taste his lips.
"If I tell you," he breathes, trailing kisses upward, his mouth dangerously close to yours, "you’ll want to kill me."
You grip his face, your nails digging into his skin as you force him to look at you. "Does this have anything to do with your brother?" you growl, your teeth nearly grazing his cheek.
"I'm hunting someone—someone who had the nerve to use Dmitri to provoke me. I came to make sure he stays safe," Sergei admits, his tone carrying that infuriating certainty, as if he knew this would enrage you.
Your hand slides down to his throat, squeezing tightly. "You son of a bitch," you snarl. Sergei tilts his head back, his breath hitching—but not in fear. If anything, he seems to enjoy the pressure of your fingers around his neck. His hands grip your waist, yanking you onto his lap, pressing your bodies together. You could kill him. You should kill him. But instead, you release his throat, letting him gasp for air.
"I would never put my little brother in danger," Sergei rasps as soon as he can speak. Your hand flies toward his face, ready to slap him, but he catches your wrist mid-swing. Before you can react, he tugs you forward, his grip firm on the back of your neck. His lips crash against yours in a heated, desperate kiss—as if he’s trying to silence your fury, or maybe just redirect it.
As you are consuming each other in a fiery kiss, you take Sergei's hand and puts it over your panties. You press his fingers against your panties making it clear how wet you are. "I want you to feel how this night could have ended if you were a better man, but you're still the same pathetic guy who only thinks about himself," you say looking into Sergei's eyes as you abruptly move away from him. He seems immersed in your scent and your touch as he tries to understand what mistakes he keeps making.
You storm out of Dmitri’s apartment, leaving Sergei behind. You almost lost yourself again, entangled in his grasp, but you refuse to make the same mistake twice. Gritting your teeth, you get into your car and speed toward the venue where Dmitri should be finishing his performance.
There are security guards stationed at the entrance, but you’re too focused to acknowledge them. Your priority is making sure Dmitri is safe. As soon as you step inside, your eyes find him on stage, his presence radiant, as if the entire room brightens around him. He’s singing Fly Me to the Moon—the same song that was playing when you first met him.
"And now, this special song is for my favorite person," he announces, his voice filled with warmth as he plays the piano. He looks happy, at peace.
But then, you notice a disturbance near the stage. Something feels off. And of course, your weapon is still at Dmitri’s apartment. You’ll have to make do.
Your eyes scan the room quickly, and you spot a couple dining nearby. Without hesitation, you snatch the knife from the man’s hand and bolt toward the first suspect, driving the blade into his throat. Chaos erupts. Smoke fills the venue as screams echo around you.
People panic, scattering in all directions, but you keep your focus on Dmitri. He’s searching for you with wide, worried eyes, pushing through the confusion.
“Y/N!” Dmitri shouts, trying to reach you. But you don’t have time for distractions. Two more attackers rush toward you, and you brace yourself.
“Dmitri, get down!” you yell, dodging the first strike and countering with a swift move that takes out one of the assailants.
The smoke obscures your vision, making it harder to predict the next attack. When you finally reach Dmitri, he suddenly calls out— “Behind you!”
You react instantly, spinning around and using a defensive maneuver to block and counter. The force of the impact sends you crashing onto one of the tables. Your attacker lunges at you, but you wrap your legs around his torso, using the leverage to land a series of sharp, precise blows to his face. His movements grow sluggish under the assault.
As soon as he falters, you release your grip, shifting your weight to land a powerful kick to his legs, forcing him to his knees. Without hesitation, you grab hold of his head and snap his neck with a sharp, decisive motion.
The body drops. The room is silent. You turn to Dmitri—only to find him staring at you, frozen in shock. His face is pale, his expression unreadable. But his eyes, once filled with warmth, now hold something else entirely.
"Who are you?" Dmitri breathes, his voice barely above a whisper, as he looks at you like a stranger.
Summary: Yelena talks Bob down from a spiral in the wake of your kiss and confessions. Sometimes healing means debating names for guinea pigs.
TW: mentions of abuse and trauma, talk of depression and self hatred
If you haven’t read the first part of this series Silhouette I highly recommend doing that!
Masterlist
Part 1 ❀ Part 2 ❀ Part 3 ❀ Part 4 ❀ Part 5 ❀Part 6❀
●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●
The Tower is quiet at night.
Not silent—not quite. The HVAC hums through the vents like a distant tide, and the low buzz of fluorescent light seeps through the cracks in the hall, but it’s the kind of quiet that stretches. That settles into your bones.
Bob sits beside your bed, legs drawn up, arms braced against his knees. The shadows in the corners feel thinner now, less like teeth. The weight on his chest lighter, but still there. Still watching.
You’re asleep, or close to it. Breathing steady, body curled slightly toward him beneath the blankets. Your face is soft in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever seen before—unguarded. Peaceful, if only for a little while. It makes his chest ache.
He should go. Let you rest. But his legs don’t move. His hands don’t stop tracing invisible circles along the seam of his jeans.
And his eyes… well. His eyes never really leave you.
That kiss—
God, that kiss.
He’s replayed it a hundred times since you drifted off. The warmth of your breath when you said please. The tremble in your hands as they cupped his face. The way your forehead pressed to his like it was a promise. As first kisses go it definitely could have been worse.
He should feel weightless.
Instead, all he feels is the gravity of it.
Because now he knows.
Knows what it would cost him to lose you. Knows what it means to love someone like this—with the quiet, patient kind of love that roots itself in the everyday. In shared coffee mugs and movie nights and the way you always fall asleep during the second act. In fear. In awe.
It’s not the love that Valentina promised he would receive as a hero of the people. Not the love that is dependent on his deeds or worth.
It’s not the angry exhausting love that’s an obligation like the way his parents loved.
His fingers twitch like they want to reach for yours again, just to make sure you’re still real.
A memory flits behind his eyes: you laughing over burned pancakes. Your knee bumping his under the table. The way you offered him a fork with mock seriousness and said, “You like your food with the taste of fire and regret, right?”
He’d fallen in love right there.
No it was even before that. Maybe it was when you shielded him from a storm of bullets, or even before that when you nearly tore yourself in half trying to catch him from falling down the elevator shaft. He doesn’t know when he fell in love but he knows what it took to realize it.
Nearly loosing you? It left him raw and ragged, like someone had reached in and bent each of his ribs the wrong way. Like his heart was forced up into his throat to sit there and choke the light out of him.
He can’t imagine what he would be if you weren’t here. The comfortable laundry days, quiet mornings with coffee and books. The laughter when pranking the other members of the team, like wind chimes in his soul.
He can’t lose that.
He won’t.
Outside, the sky is just beginning to shift. A bruised purple bleeding toward gold. Dawn is coming.
And he’s terrified of what the morning will bring.
Bob’s eyes stay fixed on your hand, limp where it rests beside you. Just earlier, that same hand was woven into his hair.
You kissed him.
And the worst part—the part that turns his insides to ash—is that it felt like hope. Real hope. Like the world didn’t end in a fireball. Like maybe he could have this. Maybe he could be this—someone good. Someone safe.
But the thought curdles almost as quickly as it blooms.
Because he knows what comes after the high.
He always knows.
The crash is never gentle. Not for him. Not for the people around him. And now… there’s more at stake than ever.
His fingers twitch in his lap, suddenly too aware of the pulse of power under his skin—the golden hum that never fully sleeps. Most days he can ignore it, smother it under routines and deep breathing and good intentions. But sometimes… sometimes it wakes up.
Sometimes it likes the way his heart races when the panic creeps in.
He swallows hard, eyes flicking to your sleeping face. Peaceful. Trusting.
Too trusting.
What if I break this?
What if I break her?
He was never fully diagnosed, never saw a doctor properly. Just self medicated with whatever he could get his hands on. He knows the words: manic, depressive, mixed episodes, rapid cycling. It reads like a list of ghosts.
He knows how he gets.
The highs are giddy, electric—too bright and too fast. Like flying too close to the sun. He talks too much. Doesn’t sleep. Feels like maybe this time, he could fix everything. Save everyone. Sometimes he tries.
Then the lows. God, the lows.
The kind where getting out of bed feels like a battle. Where the mirror is a weapon. Where silence tastes like rot and every shadow whispers the same thing: You’re a danger. You’re a burden. You’ll hurt them.
You’ll hurt her.
His breath stutters, chest tightening with the weight of it. One hand drifts toward yours, stops just short of touching.
How is he supposed to love you—this good thing, this light in his fractured little world—when he can’t even trust himself?
He wants to be better. Wants it so badly it feels like it might split him open. But wanting doesn’t stop the dark from curling up beneath his ribs. It doesn’t erase the memory of what he’s done. What he’s become.
Sentry. The Void. The boy who cried in his attic, his insecurities and trauma laid bare.
You stir, just faintly, and he freezes. Watching. Waiting. Not breathing.
But you settle again, deeper into sleep.
And Bob—he sits back, hands clenched tight in his lap.
He won’t wake you.
He won’t lose you either.
He needs to figure this out so he can be the man you deserve.
There's footsteps outside the door before it clicks open softly.
Bob startles, blinking hard as he yanks himself out of the spiral. He swipes a hand under his eyes, but not fast enough.
Yelena pauses in the doorway, a takeout cup of coffee in one hand and a raised eyebrow on her face. She glances at you—still peacefully asleep—then at Bob. Her expression shifts.
Not annoyed. Not nosy.
Just… understanding.
She steps inside, softer than usual, like she doesn’t want to startle a wounded animal.
“You look like someone just told you they don’t like puppies,” she says quietly, leaning against the wall.
Bob tries to laugh, but it comes out wrong. Tight. He stands abruptly, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, head ducked like a reprimanded schoolkid.
“I—she’s asleep,” he mutters, stating the obvious.
Yelena studies him for a long moment. Her eyes, sharp as razors in a fight, are gentler now. Still observant. Still cutting—but kinder.
“You confessed.”
It’s not a question.
Bob flinches. “How—how’d you—?”
“You’re acting like someone who either got rejected,” she says, stepping forward to nudge his shoulder lightly with her knuckles, “or is terrified he’s about to be.”
He looks away, jaw tight. “I—I didn’t actually. It was Seven she…just said it.”
“And?” she prompts.
Bob swallows hard. “And she thought she was going to be the one to mess it up. That she was going to make whatever we had weird. And then she just said “oh” like everything clicked into place just then…and we kissed.” His voice trembles at the memory of your lips on his.
Yelena hums. “So why do you look so worried? If she feels the same then why do you look like she said she hates you?”
Bob huffs a frustrated sigh and runs a hand through his hair “because what if she’s wrong? What if what she’s feeling is pity for a broken thing that’s too much of a disaster to leave alone?”
His outbursts actually startles Yelena for a moment before she fully grasps the problem. “Ah. So you kissed the girl who’s half shadow monster and half traumatic childhood nightmares and you think you’re the one who’s too much?”
Bob looks up at her, startled.
She grins, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Come on. You need pancakes. And a distraction before you implode.”
He hesitates. “I should stay here. In case she—”
“She’s still breathing. You’re still spiraling. If she didn’t wake up at that little outburst she won’t anytime soon. Come help me make breakfast or I will drag you into the kitchen by your stupid flannel.”
Bob blinks. “I’m not wearing flannel.”
“Yes. But you give off flannel energy.”
And somehow, it works. He follows with a shake of his head and an incredulous chuckle.
~
The kitchen is familiar and grounding, the counters reflecting the warm golden hue of the sun rising with each passing moment.
Yelena hands Bob a bowl and a box of pancake mix. No words. Just quiet steps and clinking utensils. A shared rhythm.
It helps.
The normalcy. The simplicity. Stirring instead of spiraling.
They move around each other with ease, two people used to kitchens filled with other people’s chaos. Eventually, Yelena starts slicing strawberries. Bob flips a pancake. The smell fills the room—warm, nostalgic.
She breaks the silence first.
“You know,” she says, “every one of us has our own void.”
He glances up.
“I don’t mean like your Void,” she adds, smirking. “Yours has capital letters. Scary voice. Big drama. But the rest of us—we’ve got shadows too.”
She points the knife vaguely. “Bucky with all his guilt and loss. Ava is still fighting the fact that her body is constantly in an unstable rhythm of phasing in and out of existence. John, even—he acts like an ass but we’ve all seen how fast he shuts down when he thinks someone’s disappointed in him or family is mentioned.”
She stirs the fruit into a bowl. “The rooms. The ones that pulled all that out of us? They didn’t have to dig very deep. We live with that stuff. Every day.”
She meets his eyes.
“And Seven? She knows monsters. But she also knows you. She’s not confused about what you are. Not what you are to her or who you are as a person. You’re a good man Bob”
Bob’s voice is barely a whisper. “But what if I hurt her? Not like physically —but just… being me. Being too much.”
Yelena sighs, crossing to him and placing a hand over his on the counter. “You don’t scare her, Bob. You don’t scare any of us.”
He doesn’t respond.
“She’ll be scared for you sometimes, yes. Because she loves hard and fast and all at once. She will probably be scared of herself the same way you are of yourself.”
He breathes out slowly. Something trembles under his ribs, loosening just a little.
“I bet you more than anything I will be having this conversation with her as soon as we are alone.” She presses further, playful grin on her lips.
He laughs—really laughs—and it’s the first time it doesn’t sound like a crack trying to hold in water.
They finish the pancakes in peace.
~
When your eyes open, the first thing you register is light—soft, gold-edged morning light filtering through the curtains and painting quiet stripes across your blanket.
The second thing is absence.
You blink slowly, breath catching when you realize Bob isn’t next to you. The hand that had been wrapped around yours for what felt like days is now just a warm ghostprint. You sit up a little too fast, body protesting, and a flicker of worry coils sharp beneath your ribs.
But before panic can bloom—
The door swings open.
“—I think Cucumber is a perfect name for our tiny friend,” Yelena’s voice chirps, smug and unbothered.
A more nervous voice follows, mortified: “You named your guinea pig to mock me for almost dropping us a mile down an elevator shaft—”
“That wasn’t you. That was John, remember?”
They round the corner into your room mid-bicker, a tray balanced carefully between them, stacked with pancakes, scrambled eggs, and juice. Yelena has her hair tied up in a spiked ponytail, and Bob’s hoodie sleeves are still damp, like he tried to dry his hands on the way up and failed.
You snort. The sound hurts—but in a good way. Something in your chest loosens.
They freeze.
And then both their faces light up like someone flipped a switch.
“There she is,” Yelena grins, striding forward like she hadn’t been caught giving her rodent a passive-aggressive name. “About time, Котёнок.”
Bob’s eyes go wide with something too big for relief. He makes it to your side in three steps, barely resisting the urge to drop the tray and just hold you. “Hey,” he says softly, like the word’s a secret. “You’re awake.”
“Unfortunately,” you rasp, your voice scratchy from disuse.
Yelena drops the tray on your bedside table and flops onto the bed, cross-legged like she owns the place. “Don’t worry. You didn’t miss much. Bob was being dramatic so I pulled him into making us yummy food.”
Bob flushes. “I wasn’t—okay, maybe a little dramatic.”
You tilt your head. “Little?”
“Listen okay it was stressful being left here and I might have rearranged every book in the tower and then you came back but—” he admits sheepishly. “Yelena said if I didn’t sleep, she’d sedate me.”
“She still might,” Yelena mutters.
You laugh—just a puff of air, really—but it’s real. And then Bob sits beside you again, right where he belongs, his hand slipping into yours like nothing ever changed. Like everything did.
And for a while, that’s all you need.
Warm pancakes. Dumb stories. A hand in yours. The feeling of being home.
You’ve barely taken a bite of pancake before Yelena leans in conspiratorially, chin propped on her hand, eyes gleaming.
“So,” she begins with faux casualness. “Do you want to know how Cucumber came to be?”
Bob groans quietly beside you. “I already know this story ends with my humiliation.”
You glance between them, amused and confused. “Okay, wait—Cucumber is real? I thought you were joking.”
“I never joke about small rodents,” Yelena says solemnly. “Especially not heroic ones.”
Bob puts his face in his hands. “Please don’t.”
Yelena ignores him entirely. “So. Malaysia. Months ago. Mission to wipe one of the last Sentry-adjacent labs Valentina was still pretending didn’t exist.”
Your fork pauses midair. “You blew up a lab?”
“She blew up the lab,” Bob mutters from behind his hands.
You recall the lab that you all were in for your final fight with the Void. You look at Yelena, eyebrows raised, “you did say you had been there before…”
Yelena shrugs, like it was Tuesday. “Valentina was already trying to get rid of all the evidence. I just… accelerated it.”
You stare at her, incredulous. “And you found a guinea pig?”
“Actually, in the same room from Bob’s memory,” she nods. “Poor thing was stuck in a maze-like enclosure next to busted cabinets and a bunch of broken vials. He was squeaking so loud I thought he was a distress alarm.”
You try not to laugh, but fail. “So naturally, you rescued him.”
“I extracted him,” she says with a smug grin. “Heroically. From fire and explosions.”
Bob mumbles, “I remember that little guy actually.”
“He is impossible to forget,” she adds.
You raise an eyebrow. “And you named him… Cucumber?”
“After Bob,” she says, perfectly straight-faced.
Your face twists. “Why Cucumber?”
“Because,” she says, slapping Bob’s arm playfully, “you remember! Cucumber cucumber! Sneeze repellent!”
Bob gasps. “It didn’t even work!”
Yelena snorts. “No but we had a group of trained killers yelling cucumber. It was very fun.”
You’re wheezing now, the sound cracking through your sore chest like sunlight through stormclouds. Bob looks vaguely betrayed, but even he’s fighting back a smile.
“Cucumber…” he mutters, sliding your juice closer. “He’s a good guinea pig. Skittish. Judgmental. But good.”
“Just like you,” Yelena teases.
“Great,” Bob deadpans.
“You know…” you start, picking absently at your nails as you lean back into the pillows, “I didn’t know what a guinea pig was before living here.”
Yelena blinks. “What do you mean, didn’t know?”
You shrug, smile a little sheepishly. “No exposure to, uh… animal education in the lab. You’d be surprised how low animal enrichment is on the Hydra curriculum.”
Bob snorts beside you, and Yelena throws an arm around your shoulder like she’s trying to shield you from the shame of it all. “Unacceptable. That’s abuse. Every child should know about the sacred Potato Rat.”
“I’m serious!” You laugh now, cheeks warm. “When Bucky told me we were going to have a cat and a guinea pig, I thought he meant like… an actual pig. Like a miniature swine. I had this vivid image of you walking one on a leash around the compound.”
Yelena lights up. “You thought we had a swine for a pet? I wish!” She elbows Bob. “Bob, we need a pig.”
Bob looks up from the tray of food, bewildered. “I—what? No. I—Cucumber already poops enough, we are not getting a pig.”
“They’re actually really smart,” you offer, teasing.
“And surprisingly clean,” Yelena adds.
“I’m not arguing their intelligence,” Bob defends, laughing. “I’m just saying the Tower is not zoned for a petting zoo.”
“Oh my god,” you deadpan, pointing your fork at him. “Is that… Is that the first time I’ve ever heard you be the responsible one?”
“Someone has to be,” he replies, mock offended. “You two are chaos incarnate.”
Yelena beams proudly. “Thank you.”
“You’re not wrong,” you admit, nudging Bob’s knee under the blanket. “But still. I think I’d be a great pig mom.”
Bob leans closer, voice dropping into something soft and teasing. “You’d name it something ridiculous like Nacho.”
You raise a brow. “Better than Cucumber!”
“Cucumber is dignified!” Yelena huffs. “It’s the name of a warrior. A survivor.”
There’s a beat of silence before you and Bob simultaneously burst out laughing. You clutch your ribs and wipe away a tear, while Bob wheezes beside you.
Yelena glares at both of you like she’s personally offended. “Fine. When I get him a tiny sword and cape and he saves the world, you’ll both be sorry.”
“You’ve been planning the cape, haven’t you?” you ask through your grin.
“…No,” she lies, already pulling her phone out to find patterns for guinea pig armor.
Bob just shakes his head, the corners of his mouth lifting in that soft, helpless way he always gets when the three of you are like this—warm and tangled and a little ridiculous.
For a moment, things are light. Whole. The shadows don’t press in so tightly. You forget the heaviness in your chest, the scar beneath your bandages. You forget, just for a breath, how close the darkness came to swallowing you whole.
Just the warmth of people who made it through the dark and still found time to laugh on the other side.
~
A few days pass, slow and but peaceful.
You’re still sore, muscles tight from disuse and strain, but you’re up—finally allowed to walk a few laps through the hallway. Supervised, of course. You don’t complain. Not with Bob shadowing your every step like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if you step wrong. You’re not sure he’s wrong.
You’re not exactly sure how badly you were hurt, only that you might not have woken up at all. That Nine had buried his blade sharp claws deep enough that the doctors had stopped hoping after the second night. The wound is stitched and salved and sealed now, but you still feel it—a throb beneath your ribs like a reminder. Like a warning. Your body fights to knit itself back together while the Umbra hums faintly under your skin, trying to help. Trying to keep you here.
Bob hasn’t left your side. Not really. He’s there through the worst of it—when the pain spikes unexpectedly, when the nightmares drag you back into memory’s teeth, when you wake gasping and tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. He doesn’t hover (well, not always), but he’s close. Soothing. Present.
So are the others.
Yelena brings snacks and steady hands, teasing you with sarcastic nicknames but brushing your hair back when you’re too tired to move. Ava smuggles in herbal tea with a look that says she’ll kill anyone who tries to take it from you. Even John stops by, awkward as ever, hovering in the doorway like a grumpy uncle until Bob waves him in. Alexei arrives with contraband vodka and an anecdote about how he once wrestled a bear in Siberia “with a stab wound twice as bad, you know.”
You’re fairly certain he’s lying. You pretend to drink the liquor while sneaking the cup for Bob to toss.
The days blur into each other—softness wrapped in sterile sheets, recovery tucked inside jokes and careful glances. Bob is always there, walking slow with you down the hall when your legs tremble, ready to catch you if you falter. You lean on him sometimes, not out of necessity, but because it feels safe.
The others notice. How close he walks. How his hand hovers an inch from your lower back, always touching you somewhere sharing that physical intimacy. How your fingers linger together a little too long when passing cups or remotes. How your eyes search for him first whenever you enter a room. They all see it—but no one teases. Not yet. This thing between you and Bob is still too fragile. Still too new.
A week later, you’re finally cleared to sit in on the next briefing.
You’re stable, healing, still wrapped in layers of bandages beneath your shirt—but upright and lucid enough to contribute. The walk to the briefing room leaves your limbs aching, but Bob stays close, hand gently guiding you by the elbow as if you’re made of silk and glass.
Everyone’s already there when you arrive—Bucky standing at the head of the table, arms crossed; Yelena lounging with her boots up, flipping through a tablet; John and Ava quietly bickering over how much caffeine counts as “too much.”
The room quiets when they see you.
You offer a thin smile and settle into the chair between Bob and Yelena. Bob helps you sit without even thinking. His hand lingers for a second longer than necessary on your shoulder.
No one says a word about it.
You clear your throat. “I’m here to talk about Nine.”
They let you speak without interruption. You keep your tone clinical, your words clean—just the facts. How he was your brother. How you thought he died. How you watched him get shot in the head and still walked away from it. You mention Three and Fifteen, their names numbers now like they were then, and the room dips into silence.
There’s weight in every word, but it doesn’t hurt the way it did when you first told Bob. Not as sharp. Not as raw. Just… heavy. Like ash clinging to the roof of your mouth.
You end with a weak laugh. “That’s twice now I’ve watched someone I love get shot in the head and survive. Starting to feel like I’m cursed.”
Bob, bless him, immediately flushes. His face goes red to the tips of his ears and he mutters something that sounds like, “Well to be fair it wasn’t just my head.”
Yelena elbows him lightly, smirking. “She’s just lucky you’ve got a thick skull.”
“Yeah or that I’m just impossible to get rid of,” he mumbles, eyes flicking toward you.
“Are we not going to address that she just said she loves Bobby?!” John’s voice incredulous. Seems like you two weren’t the only ones who didn’t know your feelings for each other.
“Walker you’re dense as hell” Ava chirps not even looking his way and John just looks between you and Bob baffled.
Bless that idiot Walker.
You don’t say anything, but your gaze flicks over to Bob and lingers there a second too long. Enough for Yelena to notice. Enough for Ava to glance between you with a raised brow.
The moment passes. But the warmth stays.
You sit back in your chair, letting the rest of the briefing wash over you. There’s talk of tracking Nine, of triangulating potential hideouts, of sweeping the other old Silhouette sites. But for the first time in days, you don’t feel like you’re drowning in guilt. Not entirely.
Because there’s a hand brushing yours beneath the table. A gentle pressure.
You don’t pull away.
Instead you lace your fingers with his, feeling a thumb brush over your knuckles you can breathe easier.
You’re not going to tackle this alone.
●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍● ❃°•°❀°🤍°❀°•°❃●❍°•°•°○°•°•°❍●
Next Chapter
A/N: Bob is anxious and I love that for him. Next chapter is going to be FLUFF a call before the storm if you will. Maybe even smooches and smut?? We will see how it plays out while I write it. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and as always thank you so much for reading.
A/N: For @buckyshelves Merry Christmas, I hope you enjoy this and have a great festive holiday <3
To @bucky-smiles for organising this secret Santa gift exchange, you’re awesome and so, so kind <3
Also... thank you to my friend Haz who beta read this for me. You are always so supportive of my writing and I love you <3
Summary: You’re inappropriate, sassy, have snazzy powers, and now you’re an Avenger-in-training. Not everyone appreciates your blasé attitude, and when a surveillance mission goes south you’re thrown together with one hot brooding super soldier. It doesn’t help that you can’t stop ogling his bum.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader w/ powers
Word Count: 7k. I actually feel bad that it’s so long.
Warnings: Violence, gun violence, Bucky kills people, mentions of blood and injury, bad language (which is a given for me), some sexual tension (light) but mostly just reader is an asshat XD
The Avengers compound is not like you imagined it. Or maybe it is but you haven’t found any of the secret stuff yet. Hidden jet hangers under the basketball court, labs in the basement, glass cases full of superhero suits. Wait. That’s the freakin’ X-Men.
Still, it’s nothing like you hoped. The conference rooms are boring, obviously, because meetings are the epitome of dull. The communal lounge and kitchen are both boring; there’s no espresso machine that doubles as a drone, no fridge that transforms into sentry bot, there isn’t even a SodaStream. Yawn! You don’t even need to see the fitness suite to know that it’s not a place you want to visit, and you’re not allowed below the ground floor yet. Talk about not trusting the noob.
Your room is a vision of extreme lacklustre, but you only moved in yesterday, so, no redecorating just yet, save for the peace lily your brother gave you.
Congrats on your new job and home by the way, here’s a half-dead plant I had but couldn’t be bothered to look after. Now it’s yours. Enjoy!
Your super power is definitely not green thumbs, nurturing life, healing, or anything even a tiny bit supportive. You can’t fly, don’t have super strength, speed, or a crazy-good aim. There’s not a green rage-monster just below the surface waiting to erupt and smash things. Well, if someone steals your cookies you might have to choke a bitch but hey, rainbows are cool, right? Super distracting, like oh hey, what’s all this shiny shit flashing around? Oh dayum, I totally didn’t see that badass super warrior coming to kick my ass.
You swallow hard. The small conference room feels like an interrogation room despite the polished wood table and plush leather chairs. Of four sets of eyes that are currently watching you, only one pair is encouraging.
Tony Stark. The guy who recruited you. Took you from a life of selling hotdogs on street corners in the City and apartment sharing with a crazy cat lady called Angie who you found on Craigslist. You had nothing against crazy cat ladies, per se, but you would prefer it if the pissy smell was optional. Angie had opted in, hence why you jumped at the chance to opt out. Ugh.
“Rainbows?” The scowly but buff brunette with the dreamy blue eyes and robotic arm, scoffs mockingly. “You project rainbows?”
The equally buff blonde who you suspect might be Captain America (or maybe his stunt double) snickers, his head lowered to hide his amusement. Does Captain America have a stunt double, for like, TV appearances and meetings with officials, and stuff? You’ll ask later. Right now, you’re annoyed.
“Oh, I’m sorry, fist-of-victory!” You snap your fingers like the queen you are. “Am I too snazzy for you? Do my rainbows ruin the whole Neanderthal vibe you got going on there?”
Loud snorts and chuckles pull you back. The redheaded vixen you know already as Black Widow is pinching her nose to stifle her laughter, and Tony is looking to the heavens in askance but emotional stability is not forthcoming.
“Wow.” The brunette says flatly.
“Fist of victory.” Tony ponders, eyes twinkling. “I like that.” He levels an amused gaze at you, rolling his next words around in his mouth. “Manchurian candidate is a little out-dated, wouldn’t you say, Barnes? Ready for an upgrade?”
Oh shit! Your eyes get big. The brunette is none other than the infamous Winter Soldier. You should have known by the arm. Show no weakness! Your brain screams.
“What’s the official title for that skill, you have?” Steve Rogers has gotten his face to cooperate, now there’s no trace of a smirk. “Light manipulation?”
“Walking disco ball.” You put on the light show again, manipulating the effects so the lights are dancing across the, now stormy grey, eyes of one Sergeant Barnes.
“It’s definitely distracting.” Natasha says objectively. “Could be useful.”
“See! That’s what I said!” You punch the air, sending the lights into a frenzy.
“I have a theory.” Tony is playing his cards close to his chest still. “That’s why y/n is here. She’s agreed to work with us, and at the very least she can be a supportive member of the team.”
“Team, frickin’, playahhh!” You holler, earning a concerned look from Rogers and a downright obnoxious groan from Barnes. “What? What you complaining at? You fucking love me already!”
The truth was that you didn’t know how your ability worked. You could feel it when you did your thang, like the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end and the air in your hand felt stiff and substantial.
Better not talk about hands full of substantial stiff things around grandad Tony, he might kick the bucket.
You could manipulate the amount of reflections in your light show by making the air heavier, make them move, dance, even adjust the size of them a little. Agreeing to work with The Avengers had been a no brainer; you get paid, get a place to stay that isn’t full of the stench of sadness and cat piss, and you get to find out more about your ability. Win, win, win.
+++ A couple of weeks later +++
“You really expect me to take Rainbow Brite on this mission?” Barnes has his arms crossed across his chest, refusal crinkling his brown and pursing his lips into a thin line. The guy looks hot in tac gear. One bicep straining against the material, the other is obviously free and oh-so-fucking-awesome. Thighs tight under those black tac pants, thigh holster accenting the flex of muscle as he shifts his weight. Wait-what!?
“Wait a fucking minute!” You squawk. “Rainbow Brite? Oh, hell no!” You march up to him, similarly decked out in black gear that makes you look like some tiny recruit in ill-fitting body armour instead of badass like him.
There’s a smirk on his perfect mouth now, dusky pink lips lop-sided with amusement, and the twinkle in his eyes is more than a little alluring. What the fuck?
“Huh.” You stop your tirade, blinking, baffled. He’s playing with you. Trying to get you pissed so you’ll refuse to go, or maybe he wants you to go so you’ll make a fool of yourself and Tony will see you’re not useful. Too many mind-games already, you don’t have the patience for this shit, so you go with an insult instead. “If I’m Rainbow fucking Brite then that makes you Twink. Dink!”
“Well, he does epitomise my sparkling personality.” Sardonic, deadpan. It’s classic brooding Barnes and you’re almost proud that he got an 80’s pop culture reference. Almost.
“And they did rename him Mr fucking Glitters back in 2014.” You pout, adopting his stance, arms crossed.
“Perfect!” Tony pops m&ms into his mouth, turning away dismissively. “Rainbow Brite and Mr Glitters it is. Head to the carpool, there’s a vehicle waiting for you both.”
There was no getting away from this mission. You’d grumbled, griped, whined, and begged Tony to send you with anyone but Broody Barnes but the Iron Man was true to his alter ego, he did not budge.
You are about to take a few pot shots at him in the insults department when Barnes’s voice comes over the earpiece you have already been fitted with.
“Earth to disco ball. Get in the damn car already.”
“It’s disco diva to you, giant cocksicle.”
He laughs at that and is still grinning when you slide into the passenger seat beside him.
“You’ve got some mouth on you, kid.” Was that acceptance? Admiration? Whatever it was it looked good on him.
“Yeah, you know you want my mouth.” It sounded better in your head but now that it’s out it can’t be taken back. Barnes looks a little frowny but at least he’s got nothing to say so you can quietly die in peace.
Can someone cringe so much they die? You might find out.
The mission is surveillance. Low-key observations of a facility out in Nova Scotia that makes products for iGoddess, a beauty company owned and run by Gabrielle Porter, the niece of one Alexander Pearce, crime syndicate king-pin and scumbag extraordinaire.
You know the company; you buy their stuff. Well, you do now you can afford it and it’s not wasted under the scent of cat urine and bleach. How can a company so devoted to making women feel special and empowered be mixed up with drugs, weapons and human trafficking? Fucking bullshit, that’s what it is.
Bucky had ditched the car in the parking lot of a lake-side leisure and visitors centre about fifteen miles away, and with gaudy waterproof outerwear over your tac gear, you had begun the hike that would set you smack-bang in the middle of nowhere good. Posing as hikers had been Tony’s brief but you’re cold and bored, and your body aches from being on the solid ground.
You’re both lay just behind the crest of a hill a little way away from your target building. Bucky mutters his observations into his comms as you look through your own binoculars trying to see what he’s looking at. He’s talking guard numbers and movements, the weapons they carry, security features and people entering or leaving the facility. It’s no use, you’re not cut out for this. Surveillance is soul destroying. You’d rather be interred in Tony’s kitchen, at least there’s coffee there.
Not even an hour in and you’re itching to get up and move around. The hike had gotten your blood pumping but now you’re going stir-crazy, joints tingling with the need for motion.
Boring. Boring. But at least you can entertain yourself. Where there’s light there’s beauty and you tease the air through your gloves, finding that your skin doesn’t need to be bare for you to create the effect. Well whadd’ya know.
“There’s movement.” Bucky warns. “Looks like some of the guards are exiting the compound.”
You snort, they’re probably bored too.
“A Jeep and a couple of motorbikes, moving quickly.”
“Sounds like they’re going home.” You mumble, focused on the lights in your hand.
“They’re headed this way.” He curses. “Grab your- What the HELL are you doing?”
Bucky tackles you to the ground from where you were on your knees almost at the hill’s crest.
“Asshole!” You’re trying to get away from him but he pins you to the ground.
“I’m the asshole?” He complains as he rolls off you, sliding down the hill on his ass, shoving his gear unceremoniously into his backpack. “Mission compromised.”
“We were spotted.” At the bottom of the hill, Bucky starts picking a path through the rocks and small fissures hidden by the wild grass and heathers. A quick glance back tells him you’re not following; you’re caught.
“Uh, hi, guys.” You chuckle nervously as one of the guards levels an assault rifle at you. “Would you believe we’re winners of a free weekend iGoddess Spa?”
Bucky is livid. If it had just been him, he could have taken them out and escaped, but, no. Tony had to insist that he bring you, show you the ropes, look after you. Babysit you.
He snorts. You don’t need a minder you need to be put in a padded room where you can’t inflict any more of your weird bullshit on him. Fucking rainbows. What kind of skill is that, other than one that gets you caught?
Eight hours ago you were both doing great. There’d been some small-talk in the car, he’d opened up a little and you’d responded. Even on the hike over you’d been great, your filthy mouth was a source of much amusement for him, and you’d listened. His instructions were followed close enough to the letter, and he was happy. Everything was good.
Now it’s all fallen to shit and he’s locked up in a heavy-duty restraint chair that brings back memories of dark places and dark times for him. To his side, you’re slumped forward in a regular wooden chair, cable-ties binding your wrists and ankles to the wood, pulling at your skin, making your hands and feet turn blue. How the hell are you both supposed to get out of this?
He’s watching the movements of your chest that tell him you’re still breathing. The cut on your head has stopped bleeding but you’re drooling blood-tainted saliva down your grey rash-guard. Both of you had been stripped down to your undergarments and checked for hidden weapons. He was the first to be incapacitated as they’d used you as leverage, holding a gun to your head until he complied, stripped, and submitted to the chair. When they’d took away your gear you’d fought and Bucky had seen red; he’d strained against the chair until the butt of a gun to the head had put a stop to that. When he came to you were out cold, beaten and bloody. How hard had you fought?
Your feet and hands are turning purple now. The weight of your body pulling the restraints against your skin is making the plastic ties dig deep, cutting off the circulation.
“Y/n?” Bucky hisses, hoping the noise doesn’t prompt the guards to come back. “Y/n! Wake up!”
The room you’re in looks like an interview room. Two-way mirror, camera in the corner, reinforced door with heavy-duty locks that were strangely not engaged. It’s grey and cold, and the only things in the room are the two chairs and you two. The device Bucky is locked into is bolted into the floor; a permanent feature, like they expected him or maybe Steve. He tests the chair again. It creaks but doesn’t give. He’d have to really put some brute strength into it to break out, and that would create too much noise. He’d wait.
“Y/n!” A little louder now, and you stir.
He keeps talking to you, just bullshit words, what he wants for dinner, what film he’s going to watch when he’s home safe. Anything to help draw you back to consciousness.
“You wana watch a film with me, y/n?” He thought for sure you’d tell him to go fuck himself.
You moan, head lolling as you come back to him.
“Hey! Rainbow Brite!”
“Fuck you.” It’s a whisper but he’ll take it.
“There she is.” He allows himself a relieved smile. “C’mon, sweetheart. I need you to sit up for me. Take the weight off those ties before there’s any permanent damage.”
It takes a few more moments before you can shuffle yourself properly into the chair, then you’re flexing your hands and feet to get the blood moving again.
“Oh-god-it-hurts-so-fucking-bad!” You are practically wailing as the pins and needles sensation in your extremities reaches a peak. The slightest movement now sends a cacophony of intense pain into your limbs.
“It’ll be over soon.” Bucky sooths.
“Why are you being nice to me after I got us caught?” You eye him suspiciously, flapping your hands to rush the blood into your fingers. Rip the band aid off. “Is this some kind of prank? Ohhhhhhh! This is an initiation isn’t it? Oh, I see. Where’s Iron Doosh? Hey! Tony!”
“Would you shut up? This is real. We’re really captured.” Bucky hisses.
“Tony Stank, Skank, Spah-hank.” You sing-song as you struggle against your restraints, examining your bound feet through spread knees. “I hope this is one of the chairs from his good dining set.” You stand, leaning forward and centring your weight above your bent knees.
“What are you doing?”
“Just need to…” You shuffle over to the mirror.
“No, y/n, wait!” Bucky begs. “Don’t break the glass.” His frantic expression says the rest. Your feet are bare and you’ll shred yourself to ribbons.
“What? You’re crazy. Why would I do that?” You chuckle, amused that he’s so worried. “There’s no one in there.” You wink at him. “They’d be in here by now if there were.”
You shuffle a bit more and grunt as you throw yourself backward to the ground. The chair cracks but doesn’t break.
“Fuck!” You struggle some more, grunting and groaning like a butch female tennis player in a grand slam. One of the arms loosens and you fight against the wood until you get your left hand free, then you’re reaching into your hair for a bobby pin to jam into the clasp of the cable tie on your right arm.
Moments later, you’re free and rushing to Bucky who is fighting against his own restraints. There’s sweat beading on his bare chest and his hair is sticking to his forehead. A quick swipe of your hand clears his brow and he stills, watching you as you search the chair for whatever mechanism has him trapped.
“There’s a big red lever at the back.” You muse. “You think it’s an ejector seat?” A cheeky wink. “If I sit in your lap we can both go for a ride.” You don’t have time for giggling and flirtation, but you do it anyway.
“Y/n.” Bucky chastises lightly.
“What? This is every girl’s wet dream. Every, damn, girl.” You mumble as you grip the handle. “And I can’t even enjoy it.”
“Just pull the damn thing already. We don’t have time to mess around.”
“Pity.” You tug the lever and a loud hiss fills the room, pressure releasing from the chair.
Bucky is on his feet and at the door before you make three steps. He’s rubbing his right forearm where the metal clamps had bitten into his flesh, there’s blood there too, long ago dried.
“There’s movement out there.” He has his ear to the door. “I need a weapon, we need our gear, and we need a vehicle.”
“I need some chocolate and bottle of wine.”
“What?”
“Are we not making a shopping list?”
Bucky rolls his eyes and grabs your wrist. “C’mon.”
With the door cracked open, Bucky can see movement at the end of the corridor; there’s a security room which is promising for retrieving your gear, but not if you want to avoid being seen.
“Stay behind me.” He pushes you towards his back.
You look down at his bum. “No problem.” You sigh and then you’re moving, your hand on his bare back so you can feel where he’s moving next.
Bucky suddenly shoves you down into a squat, shushing you with a finger held against his lips. The way he moves is like water, smooth and forceful, carrying the momentum of his body towards a lone guard who has paused at the corner by the security room. How he hasn’t seen you is a miracle but the man doesn’t even hear Bucky until the his own knife is slipped from its sheath and into the his temple. There’s no sound, no gurgling, not even much blood. Bucky lowers the body to the floor and cleans the knife on the pants of the dead man.
Looking at him now, you can see why people fear him. His expression is cold, calculating, and focused. It’s necessary, the distance he puts between himself and the act of killing. Even when Bucky was him, there was always a distance; a gap between him and his orders. Now the killing is his choice and he has to live with that, there’s no excuse of mind control now. This is all him.
The security room has one guard inside who is overpowered moments after Bucky opens the door.
Fucking amateurs, you think. Does that room not have cameras that cover the door and surrounding corridors?
Turns out that it does and the reason the guard hadn’t seen you was because he was sexting his girlfriend.
“Sexting?”
“Yeah. Like sex role play and talking dirty over text.” You snort. “Jeez, you’re old.”
“What can I say? You’re broadening my horizons.” He winks then and it’s so out of place in this grim situation that you laugh nervously. “Sounds fun.”
“Well don’t take tips from this guy.” You wave his phone in the air loosely. “He’s fucking terrible at it.”
“What’s bad about it?”
You’re not sure if he means to ask that, he’s busy trying to get outside communication through the phones which seem to be keycode protected and also checking through the security feeds to see if he can find your gear and a way out of this for you both; he’s clearly distracted. At least he’s happy now that he has a pair of handguns and a pair of knives, no weapons for you because you haven’t completed your firearms training yet. But let’s face it, who would arm you anyway? You were a disaster waiting to happen.
“He’s a bit of a wham-bam-thankyou-ma’am kinda guy.” You chuckle. Bucky is going to regret starting you off down this line of conversation. “His poor woman has probably never experienced even mediocre sex with this schmuck if his sext skills are anything to go by.”
“Too eager to bury the bone?” Bucky sounds distant, but he is listening to you as he checks drawers for weapons, keys and anything else that might be useful. God knows your gear was nowhere to be found.
“Check it.” You hop up on the desk near him and scroll through the laughable chat. You feel slightly guilty reading this guy’s private shit but he’s dead so he isn’t going to care. Reading from the chat, you do fake voices. “So she’s like ‘hey baby, you free tonight? I got something for you.’ Peach emoji, cat emoji. And he’s like ‘you off your period? Can we bang?’ I mean, what the fuck dude?”
Bucky is smirking when you look at him. “What did she say?” He straps both thigh holsters to his almost naked body. It’s comical how he’s gearing up from salvaged stuff wearing only a pair of skin-tight spandex shorts that leave nothing to the imagination. Once Bucky is packing (in more ways than one, now) you have to force your eyes elsewhere.
“’Yeah, baby! I missed you so bad. Can’t wait to be in your arms again.’ She just wants lovin’ y’know?” You spoke the line in a soft, breathy voice. Fake, of course.
“And what did he say?” Bucky is checking the monitors one last time before he moves to the door.
“You like a bit of sexting? Huh, Barnes?” You smirk, eying him mischievously. “Living vicariously through the sexting chronicles of Captain Dick-Down over there?”
“Just looking to know what not to do if the opportunity for sexting ever arises.” It’s light-hearted and completely unlike the grumpy Bucky you’re used to. Maybe there was something in the air; sex pollen or something. That’s totally a thing. “C’mon.” He says after a moment, eyes twinkling with mirth, soft lips pulling up to the side in a cute smile. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
It’s comedy gold, the pair of you running the halls of an apparently secret part of the factory, him in his tight little shorts and you in your panties and spandex t-shirt over a sports bra that makes your rack look like a uni-boob. You awkwardly tug your rash-guard down over your ass whenever Bucky is behind you and you’re thankful you didn’t wear a thong though that would be better than skid marks. God, you hoped you’d not shat yourself when they beat you.
You barely encounter anyone until you’re almost at the warehouse; Bucky is so stealthy that even with you hindering him, he only has to subdue one foreman and drag you into a cleaning supply closet once, to avoid a pair of patrolling guards. Not that you’re complaining, being squashed up against an almost naked super soldier gave you endless thrills, even if he was all stiff and awkward about it.
Bucky stalls before the double doors that lead to the warehouse. There’s a heavy plastic strip curtain over the exit too, it’s almost opaque with age and hinders your view of what is beyond the meshed safety-glass of the door’s small windows.
“They know we’re coming.” He whispers to you, mere inches away. “There’s a lot of them out there and I can’t keep you safe if you disobey orders. So, please,” he begs, “please do as I tell you.”
He begs so sweetly, you think, blushing. But you’re not one for passing an opportunity for inappropriate comments.
“I’ll be a good girl, Daddy.” You bat your eyelashes, feigning innocent. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Really?” Bucky doesn’t know whether to blush or be annoyed. You never seem to take anything seriously; it’s always a joke, or something you can twist to your amusement. He gets doubly serious. “If you die, it’s on me. You think I haven’t lost enough people over the course of my very long life? You think I want to wash your blood off my skin later tonight? Bury you alongside all the other people lost to some fight or other in the name of SHIELD or the Avengers? I can’t save you if you don’t want to be saved.”
You watch him as he fervently tries to convey the dire nature of your situation, desperate to make you understand that he doesn’t want you to die here, he cares. His eyes are piercing and your heart is a ricocheting bullet in your chest. What if you don’t make it out ok? What if this is it for you? Both of you? Suddenly, you’re acutely aware that Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier, Fist of HYDRA come Fist of Victory, has cleared himself a little spot in your fucked-up soul, and is there to stay. You don’t want him to get killed because of you, but there’s nothing you can do, you’re not trained for this, or at all really.
You nod once, not trusting your voice in that moment. You could choke on your words or you could vomit all over yourself. It’s a lottery, so you say nothing.
“Good girl.” He gives your shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “Stay behind me. Be quick, keep low, don’t hesitate, and for Christ’s sake no disco ball.” There’s a small smile tempting the corners of his lips, like he’s saying he forgives you for getting you both into this mess. “Ok, sweetheart, lets go.”
Out in the warehouse there’s a whole host of guards and workers, patrolling and overseeing shipments being loaded into lorries. It look like it’s important, and probably why the majority of the facility is clear of security staff; the merchandise is being moved.
It’s a mad dash, crouching low as you ghost around the edge of the warehouse. The huge rows of stacks are packed full of boxes and crates, further obscuring your movement around the area. Bucky is silent, especially since he’s barefoot; he’s every bit the assassin he’s hyped to be, but you can’t take him seriously padding around almost naked with the top of his crack showing and his junk all jiggly in the front.
A radio crackles to life. Three personel down. Prisoners have escaped. Cameras last caught them headed your way.
They must have found the bodies.
“They’re in here somewhere.” A man says, loud and authoritative. “Search the rows, shoot to kill. They’re not low-life mob goons, they’re Avengers and can’t be allowed to live.”
Well that settles that, you think, gone are the chances of mere bodily harm. It’s death or death.
You watch in awe as Bucky scales a nearby stack to stalk one of the patrolling guards. When his opportunity arises he yanks the man up by the throat, snapping his neck in the process. You can’t help but admire that metal arm, so sleek and powerful. You groan, light and lusty, earning you a concerned look from the owner of said appendage.
Killing that guard has yielded an assault rifle, another knife and another handgun. You’d think Bucky would be too smart to arm you but apparently he’s not. Silently he points to his eye and then to the gun where he shows you how to turn off the safety, puts the gun in your hand and moves behind you to adjust your grip. He aims for you, pressing his chest against your back and you swear you can feel his junk against your ass. Once he’s satisfied that you aren’t going to injure yourself, he’s gone from behind you, crouching low at the end of the row.
He grabs another guard and drags him backward. The struggle is louder than he would have liked, and the man got out a partial shout before his throat was closed forever but Bucky is hopeful that he can thin the numbers down enough to make it possible to get you into a truck and away safely.
Bucky shoves the newest body under the nearest stack and beckons you to him. You both move like a two-carriage train, he’s the engine and you’re the caboose following in his wake. He only leaves you to commit murder but you feel lost when he’s gone, cold even. There’s something alluring about the way he uses his body and your mind drifts to other carnal things.
A hand on your shoulder makes you jump. There’s more of a commotion going on in the warehouse now, not just the sounds of men moving goods and silently searching for two prisoners. There are massive amounts of footfall, boots hitting the concrete at speed; bringing in reinforcements from outside.
Bucky is about to whisper in your ear when the squeal of a megaphone pierces the air; he stills with his lips almost touching your skin before pulling back with a frown.
“Sergeant Barnes?” Bucky knows that voice, he’d heard it for years, worked with it, even obeyed it on occasion. “Save the girl. Turn yourself in.”
You shake your head, panicked, urgent. Don’t leave me, your eyes are saying.
A noise nearby draws Bucky’s attention and he suddenly forces you to the ground under a stack where he slots himself immediately after; the security team are searching for you, stealthily stalking the rows. It’s cramped and dusty, the bottom shelf above you so close you can barely breathe without your back brushing the metal supports. How Bucky fits is beyond you, the man is a beefcake, all bulk and magnificently defined muscle. Thinking of him naked is the only thing that keeps you from succumbing to claustrophobia. Something brushes your hand and you jolt, eyes snapping to meet his. He grasps your hand properly and gives it a reassuring squeeze. In your chest, something gives. Maybe your permafrost heart is thawing, maybe you’re about to have a stroke, maybe you really like him.
When the coast is clear, Bucky pulls you free and you emerge into a different row, one with fewer boxes, one you’ll likely be spotted in. You can just see the massive doorway of the warehouse, double sliding doors like a hangar, several half loaded trucks and maybe forty men with body armour and guns. One guy in the middle is wearing a full-face helmet with a white skull etched across the features.
“Holy shit! Is that Punisher?” You hiss before Bucky can clamp his hand over your mouth, the warning look on his face is stern as he leans in to you.
“Crossbones.” He corrects you, barely audible despite the proximity. You still don’t know who that is but he’s totally not as cool as the Punisher, so it doesn’t matter.
His hand is still over your mouth but there’s no point in struggling, you couldn’t break free of him even if you tried, so you push your tongue out and squirm it against his palm, making him recoil in disgust. Your chuckle is silent and his frown turns to the ghost of a wry smile before his attention is fully back on the man he calls Crossbones.
Bucky is taciturn at the best of times but he’s in full diagnostic mode now, assessing the situation. His eyes flicker around the warehouse from yet another new position. It seems like he’s trying to get you closer to the trucks but you suspect that’s what Crossbones expects. There are more men closer to the trucks too and Bucky has already had to kill another two in the latest relocation. The missing men haven’t gone unnoticed and Crossbones is issuing orders, plugging the gaps so you can’t escape.
“I will find you Barnes.” Crossbone’s voice sounds wet through the megaphone, like he’s salivating with excitement at the prospect of getting his hands on you both again. “If you turn yourself in, maybe I’ll let the girl live.”
Bucky’s eyes are downcast, like he’s actually considering it, but the moment passes and Bucky’s resolve hardens. He drags you away towards the end of the row.
“The end of this row has a direct line of sight to the exit. I need a distraction. Can you do that for me?” He whispers.
You nod, lips set in determination. “One disco ball distraction coming right up.”
“On my mark.”
The fluorescent strip lights overhead create more than enough light for you to use. With your right hand flat against Bucky’s left shoulder blade and your left manipulating the air to create a huge show of dancing lights, you move in tandem. Bucky steps out of hiding, keeping you just behind him with his metal arm, he surges forward squeezing off four shots. The way his arm snaps to aim so quickly is astounding, like he has a targeting chip implanted in his brain. Who knows, maybe he does. Four men fall and remain still. Another three shots, then another two and he’s pulling you into another row at a crouching run to the opposite end as he discards the empty gun and pulls out another. He’s saving the assault rifle for Crossbones.
“Again.” He instructs gruffly. “Can you get their eyes?”
“It’s not an exact science this, you know?” You huff and he seems to know that you’re saying you’ll try your best. Of course you’d try, but you don’t know much about your power, even after the few months you’d been training with the team. If it meant you both got out of this alive, you’d flash your tits at the enemy for Christ’s sake.
You emerge again, him with the gun in his metal hand this time, stepping out with you at his back. This time they are ready for you and they start firing before Bucky gets off his first shots. He makes a dash for a fork-lift with a huge pallet of crates sat at floor level. He shoots his rounds in threes until the 9-round magazine is done. The gun is discarded as you both slide behind the cover of the pallets. Machine guns rattle, pummelling the crates with round after round. Bucky prays the crates don’t contain munitions.
“I make fourteen down. Twenty-two left.” His breathing smooth where your is ragged. You curse yourself for being so unfit that even a tiny bit of stress and exertion leaves you heaving air like a couch potato made to climb stairs. “Crossbones is a problem.”
“What do we do now?”
Bucky has two handguns, four knives and an assault rifle, you have one gun and your rainbows. This isn’t going to go well, you think.
“You’re going to hide over there and watch the rear.” He points to your left.
You smirk. Now isn’t’ the time for joking.
“I’m going to thin the crowd some more and, if I can, take Crossbones out.” He looks determined but ridiculous in his underpants, dusted with dirt and debris from the floor that’s stuck to the slightest bit of moisture on his skin. “This might not work. Run to the left, hide in the stacks again, stay down and don’t expose yourself.”
You nod and he readies himself to break cover. The shooting has stopped now and it sounds like the guards are changing positions again. His muscles clench, coiling ready to spring.
“Wait!” You stop him with a hand on his arm, the metal is unnervingly cool. Tension builds. “I wanna fuck you until you pass out.”
“Ummmm.” Bucky blinks, eyebrows raised in surprise but he’s smiling. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah, well, no, but, uhhhh.” You splutter, this hadn’t gone well at all. “I couldn’t let you go without telling you, you know, what Captain Dick Down said to his girl. You asked, for future reference, and all.”
“Oh. Right.” He frowns, turning away again. “Move when I do.” He orders stiffly, preparing to move.
Well, shit!
“Bucky, wait.” Your voice is softer this time, tears prickling your eyes. There’s a chance that neither of you will make it through this and it’s suddenly hit you that there’s something missing.
“What now?” He grumbles, turning to find you closer than he expected.
You surge forward, cupping his jaw in your hands as you capture his lips in a kiss that’s both urgent and needy. You don’t care if he doesn’t respond, you need to feel this before it’s too late. All this tension between you, the jibes and snarky banter, it’s unresolved and sexual in nature. You want him, and if this is all you can have then so be it. One stolen moment before it all slips through your fingers, and you both go to your graves.
You’re already pulling back when he snaps back to attention, quickly pulling you back for another kiss. His tongue delicately touches between the seal of your lips and you sigh with longing.
“You ready?” You pull away but he’s still clearing his head, trying to focus again.
On your feet you’re running out, pumping your legs as fast as you can, heading to the wrong place. Machine guns stutter to life and Bucky is on your heels a second later, fear contorting his features as he scoops you up in his metal arm and returns fire almost blindly. He’s shielding your body with his own and yips like a wounded pup when the bullets find him.
On your knees beneath the curved shield of his back you see the enemy are far closer than you thought. Everything in you yelled stop and you felt the pressure rise through your body and out, cascading off you like a roiling storm.
The bullets stop but the guns are still firing, muffled by the thickness of the air. Despite the pain in his lower back and hip, he turns to see what’s happening. Bullets sluggishly pushing through the air like flies in syrup, all but stopped and slightly redirected on a path that will take them away from a central focal point that is you. You’re doing this, shielding you both as if by some miracle, your power not only refracting the light causing rainbows but acting like a forcefield.
“As much as I have to break up this little party, I really can’t have you killing my friends.” The voice of Tony Stark is heard a second before the Iron Man himself and several of his Iron Legion appear and shoot each and every remaining guard with a taser disc, stunning them into unconsciousness.
Crossbones is a different matter and is somehow resistant to the zapping he just got. He levels a grenade launcher at the stacks near where you and Bucky are crouched and fires. No air shield will save you from all of that falling metal, but Bucky is still fast despite his wounds. There’s blood running down his leg in rivulets as he pulls you to safety, and shields you instinctively with his body once more while the sound of explosions and grinding metal fill the air.
“I did not know I could do that.” You praise yourself.
“I still got shot.”
“It’s just a flesh wound.” You snort. “Walk it off.”
“You’re a real ray of sunshine, you know that?”
“I must be something special if you took one in the ass for me.” You wink. “I hope it heals puckered, then you’ll have two rusty bullet holes.”
“STARK!” He shouts but pulls you closer to him. “Evac for one. She’s walking hom-owwww!” You pinch the skin on the inside of his thigh viciously enough that he shoves you out of his embrace.
You both stay close on the Quinjet home. Bucky had been confused as to how Stark had known to mount a rescue mission but when you produced Captain Dick Down’s phone from your uni-boob bra it all became apparent. All of the comms in the facility had been locked down but that was a personal device, one that probably wasn’t allowed to be carried. Good old Captain Dick Down.
The facility had been put to a far worse use than drugs and weapons trafficking. iGoddess was a front for human trafficking and also human experimentation. The restraint chair they had strapped Bucky into had been used to restrain test subjects; Alexander Pearce was trying to replicate the super serum that made Steve and Bucky what they were.
“So, this was a win for us.” Steve said in the debrief. “Our intel was lacking but it worked out in the end.”
“Says you who didn’t get shot in the ass cheek.” Bucky grumbled, shifting cautiously on the Mr Glitters cushion you’d given him as a joke.
“I got to see some wonderful scenery,” you grin brilliantly, “so I’m not complaining.”
There had been no further discussion about the kiss you and Bucky had shared when you thought you might die in that place, but that’s ok. Your daily thrills are made up of making him squirm, and since you two had become closer since your ordeal, you have had several of moments like those. There’s plenty of time and you’re prepared to play the long game, starting with your newest idea. You pull out your phone and casually write a text while Steve is rambling on about seized research and assets.
[I’m so turned on right now].
Bonus add-on for this work: Captain Dick Down - External link to AO3
Because apparently 7k words wasn’t enough and I just had to try my hand at a little text chat/social media piece. It’s more of an embellishment. Enjoy
And if you liked this story, why not try Good Ole Stuffing, a smutty follow on for the same reader/character.
Author’s note/summary: Ok so this is my first time writing a “x reader” piece, so I hope I did it okay! I normally don’t write this kind of fanfic but I figured why not. Though I probably won’t be doing much of this in the future, sorry! But anyways. Here ya go :)
959 Words
...
Ears ringing from the sudden explosion, Peter slowly lowers his arms from above his head, brushing the shattered pieces of brick out of his hair.
“Y/N?” he asks quietly, and you answer weakly from your position on the ground. Your head is throbbing with the beginnings of a migraine, and for some reason when Peter crouches beside you there are two of him next to you.
“Must be double vision,” you mumble out loud, and you see Peter strain to hear.
“Y/N?” he asks again, but you can’t respond. Your muscles are burning, and the grey at the edges of your vision is converging towards the center. “Hey. Hey!”
His voice is enough to snap you back to consciousness at least a little, and you try to focus on him. He is knelt beside you, looking slightly panicked, and he quickly presses a hand to your forehead before swearing softly.
“You’re burning up,” he bites his lip with worry. “That took way to much energy. You’re body’s exhausted, I don’t know how you’re still conscious.”
“Me either,” you try, and he laughs weakly, but the joke does little to lighten the mood.
“It’s okay, we’re okay, I can get us out of here,” Peter says firmly, and you try to nod but the dizziness spikes and you have to roll over quickly as you get sick on the ground. You feel Peter’s hand on your back, pulling your hair out of your face as you dry heave into the rubble. You cough, the horrible, throbbing pain in your skull presses harder against your brain.
“You’ll be okay,” he mutters, “we’ve been through this before, we’ll get to safety.”
“Okay,” you mumble, but you can feel what little energy you have left quickly leaving your body.
“We have to get out of here, as soon as we can,” Peter frowns, but when his eyes land on you he takes a deep breath, eyebrows scrunching together in concern.
“It’s okay, I can make it,” you manage, but you don’t know if you can even stay conscious for the next minute. If you hadn’t just thrown up all the food you had eaten today you are sure you would be sick again. Your head is pounding, and your vision is blurred and dizzy.
“Y/N, I don’t think you can,” he frowns, swallowing hard. You both know it is near zero chances that you can actually walk out of here, but there isn’t another good option. Even with his powers, you’re surrounded.
“We could call Tony,” you mutter, and Peter’s face brightens quickly, though the seriousness still remains.
“You’re right, I didn’t even think of that,” he nods, and reaches for his phone, quickly typing in Ton’s number. “Hey, Mr. Stark?”
Peter wanders a little way to talk to Tony, and suddenly you feel the sharp, tingling pains in your muscles that come with overuse of your powers. It hasn’t been this bad in a long while, and you just want to fall asleep, but Peter needs you awake.
“Y/N, he’s on his way, we need to meet him outside the building,” Peter reaches down to offer you his hand and you take it, gingerly standing on uneasy legs, but the second you are upright the ground churns like waves on a choppy sea, and even though you feel Peter’s hand on your back, you know you can’t fight it anymore. The last thing you hear is him frantically cry out your name as your knees buckle and the whole world winks out.
.
When you wake, you don’t open your eyes immediately. The light is bright with your eyes closed so you don’t move for a moment, letting yourself adjust. Your headache is fading, though the light makes the dull pain in your head a little sharper. You can feel the weakness of your limbs that you have grown accustomed to with overuse. That’s when you hear Peter’s voice.
“...be okay, I promise,” he is saying, presumable into the phone. “I was with her. She’ll be alright.” he pauses for a moment, listening. “I know. But she’s in good care right now. Yeah. Mr. Stark is taking care of her, she’ll be okay, I promise.” he pauses again. “Alright. Yeah, I’ll tell her. Bye.”
You smile involuntarily to yourself at the sound of his voice, and you hear him chuckle.
“Welcome back, Y/N,” he says softly, and you blink open your eyes to see him sitting in a chair next to your bed. It’s not a hospital bed, per se but you are clearly in Tony’s private medical wings in the Avengers Facility.
“Thanks,” you grin, your voice cracking with exhaustion.
“Not going to lie, you had me pretty worried back there,” he leans over so that his elbows are resting on his knees, staring into your eyes intensely.
“I know, I’m sorry, Peter,” you nod, but it makes your head pound and you wince.
He must notice, because he says, “Hey, take it easy,” his eyebrows contracting in the most adorable concerned way. “No reason to be sorry. You saved our asses back there. If you hadn’t blown up the top floors we have been caught and dragged in for interrogation.”
“You got us out though,” you smile softly.
“I just needed you to be safe,” he blushes, shrugging, but you reach out and grab the hand that is resting on the edge of your bed.
“Thank you, Peter,” you say sincerely, and his blush deepens.
“Yeah, yeah, of course, Y/N,” he nods back, grinning, cheeks still pink.
When you let go of his hand he turns away, and even though he says it quietly you can still hear him, though just barely, as he mumbles, “Anything for you,” softly under his breath.
You just wanted to live a normal life, damnit! Also, bonding with Tony.
I’m not sure how many chapters this thing is going to be, but I’m aiming for about 5.
Little bit angsty!
[Y/N] = Your Name
[Y/H/L] = Your hair length
[Y/H/C] = Your hair colour
"So..." you hummed, "Now what?"
------------
The answer to that was, apparently, move in with the Avengers.
Your new place was nice, sure. All your things had been moved and placed the way you liked them in your bedroom and living room. Stark "Call me Tony" had even gifted you with an amazing bookshelf after his first "welcome to the building" visit a week and a half ago.
You were a bit of a book hoarder, with no particular bias towards any one genre. You even had an "Engineering for dummies" that had sat gathering dust since you first discovered your powers. You'd reasoned, at the time, that you should probably know something about what you could do on instinct. You quickly gave up.
Mostly, though, you just had sci-fi and fantasy.
Either way, you'd never invested in buying a bookshelf yourself, preferring to just pile them up on any available space, a process you had brought over to your new place.
You'd been a little mortified when you realised he must have overseen the organisation of the enormous bookshelf himself (or maybe he just did it all, something that gave you nightmares). You were leaning towards the latter, especially when you realised all your, ahem, adult novels, had been organised by colour on the bottom shelf - and each was covered in post-its with winky faces on.
You were also pretty sure there were new ones added to the collection.
You were going to have to have a chat about boundaries.
The kitchen was downstairs in the community area, huge and always well stocked, seeing as it was a communal kitchen for the whole team.
Thankfully your rooms came with their own bathroom and it was to die for. Also huge, the bath could seat four, had a Jacuzzi setting and built in mood lighting. There was a T.V. in the wall opposite the bath, and the remote was built into the side of the tub. The shower was also within sight of the T.V. and had more settings than you knew what to do with.
Every room was tastefully decorated in your style and in your favourite colour. All in all, living in the base was pretty great.
There was only one, teeny, tiny, problem.
The place was crawling with Avengers.
They were always trying to get you involved in their group discussions, which Tony was always somehow absent for, and at first it seemed nice. Like they were trying to get to know you and make you comfortable. It became quickly apparent that wasn't the case. They spoke about super hero things you didn't understand or want to know about, and you were treated as though that was some kind of failure on your part.
The truth was you weren't interested in the newest work out or the latest weaponry. You didn't care about how their new outfits were so much better for field work compared to the old ones.
You didn't want to trade opinions about the state of this country or that country, and when would be the right time to interfere in this situation or that situation.
You didn't care about being an Avenger.
It was not a popular opinion.
"If you don't want to use your powers for good, then why have them at all?" Spat Wanda one day.
You'd made the mistake of comparing your situations - sure, you both had powers, but you didn't want to use them the way she did.
"Look," you sighed, pushing your half eaten bowl of cereal away, "I didn't choose this, ok? I didn't sign up, or volunteer, or whatever, for these powers. I wasn't soldier or a spy before I got them. I was a student. An English Literature student." You raised your brows, hoping that that would be enough to get the message across.
"But..." started Hawk.
"Look, no. Just no." you barked, standing, "I've been trying to play nice here why you all prodded and poked at me, trying to figure my powers out, but enough. Once your pals at SHEILD decide I can have my life back, that’s what I'm doing: Going back to my life. I fix things because my powers mean I can - and don't have to actually know anything about what I'm fixing."
" [Y/N] If you have the power to make a difference," intoned Steve, "Don't you think it's your responsibility to do something?"
"Tell me something Captain, do you think everyone who takes self defence, everyone who knows how to fire a gun, everyone who knows martial arts, do you think they should all join the army?" you snap.
"Of course not." he scoffs.
"Well? Why not? They have abilities, they can fight and look after themselves. How many times do I have to tell you? I am not a soldier. I was a librarian. Now apparently I'm the best, most ignorant mechanic alive. I do not want to be an Avenger. And no amount of whinging, complaining, or guilt trips, will change my mind." You tossed the last few sentences over your shoulder as you stormed out.
You'd never liked conflict. Sure, you'd sass your way in and out of all sorts of situations, and you'd throw a punch if you had to...but no. Conflict and arguments were not your forte.
Your feet seemed to know where to take you, even if your head wasn't caught up in the act, and you found yourself cautiously tapping at the glass doors of Tony's lab.
He grinned when he saw you, hopping over to open the door for you.
"Hey Sparky, been wondering when you'd take up my invitation to come play engineer." He laughed, turning back to his desk to tinker with a pile of circuit boards. On the surface, they made no sense to you, but when you closed your eyes and focused, you could feel the little guys humming with...something. That indefinable something that let you understand tech of all kinds.
"Hm." You grunted, flicking your eyes open and darting them across the lab. Every surface was littered with electrical gear, tools, wiring, pipes and god knows what else. Some walls had burn marks and others had chunks missing piles of dust and rubble scattered around them.
"Sparky?" You heard, twisting your head to look Tony in his concerned puppy eyes, standing much closer than he was a minute ago.
"You're shaking."
It wasn't until he said it that you realised he was right, a shiver had set in deep in your bones, wracking your body with minute quakes as you folded in on yourself.
"Ok, what's going on?" Tony asked, his voice concerned, but tinged with an underlying sharpness as he slowly reached out an arm to touch your shoulder.
"I just.." you sighed, grabbing fistfuls of your [Y/H/L] [Y/H/C] hair to brush it back off your forehead, dislodging Tony's hand as you did so, "I don't like conflict. Arguments, raised voices. And all everyone wants to talk about is if I'm going to be an Avenger."
You cursed silently as you realised your voice was shaking too, and your shivers were getting stronger as you started to get angry.
"And no matter how many times I tell them no, I'm not going to be, I don't want to be...they still just keep pushing. Trying to make me feel bad." Folding your arms across your chest, you looked at the ground, waiting for Tony to tell you that they were right. That you were being selfish, that you don't get to have a normal life because you're not normal anymore.
"Steve said that I have a responsibility to help people, cause I have these stupid powers. He made it sound like I don’t have a choice." Your voice was low and miserable as you hung your head.
You chanced a look at Tony, and couldn't help but flinch at the angry look you found there.
"Alright Sparks," he sighed, scratching at the back of his head, "Come take a seat."
You dawdled behind Tony as he led the way to a worse for wear leather sofa, and you couldn't help the way your lips twitched up as he threw all the gear strewn across it onto the floor. He fell back into the seat with a whumph, and sat staring straight ahead, waiting for you to sit down, but not trying to rush you.
You sat, curled in on yourself slightly as the shivers finally started to die down, though they didn't completely go away in the face of your assumption that Tony was about to start yelling too.
"Rogers seems to be forgetting that we picked you up to register you, not recruit you." He started, and you frowned as you turned to look at him, though he continued staring straight ahead, "See, he, and the others, have this thing about heroism. And the idea that some people don't want the lives they lead is...I dunno, they're a bunch of idiots that think they know best in all things to do with the safety of the planet. My point is," here he turned to look at you, "Any idiot could see you're not cut out for this life. I mean, they raise their voices and you turn into a shivering mess. No offence... and one of these days you're gonna tell me why that is. But for now, I'll talk to them. Try to get them to back off a little. In the mean time, you're welcome to come down here and talk shop with me, or just come down on your own, whenever you need a time out from them."
As he finished his little speech, your shivering finally stopped, and you watched with wide eyes as he looked up at the ceiling and told Friday to give you clearance to the lab, whilst making sure that everyone else on the team (with the exception of Bruce) couldn't enter without being let in by someone with authorisation.
The action reminded you of when you'd spoken briefly with Spider-Man, back when you first arrived, and he'd told you he didn't live with the others. He was still just a kid under the mask, went to school and lived with his aunt, and only Tony knew his real identity.
Spidey (He said you could call him that, he actually preferred it over "Kid", as Tony had taken to calling him in front of the team) said out of everyone, Tony seemed to understand wanting to balance a normal life with hero work the best. You were shocked when he told you it was Tony who tried to talk him out of being Spider-Man until he was done with school, and that Steve had actually tried to get him to move in with the Avengers, even though he'd said no.
You didn't think Steve, or the rest of the team, were bad guys...but they were starting to sound more and more like they wanted to collect powered people to defend the world. Whether they liked it or not.
"Thank you." You were in awe. You'd naturally gotten along with Tony from day one, well...after you’d exchanged a few snide comments about kidnapping and Stockholm syndrome, but you knew he was Iron Man, an original Avenger. And you'd thought he'd be on their side. But when you thought about it...
"Why did you even come back?" The words were out of your mouth before you could take them back, "I mean, never mind."
"No no, you wanna know why I'm still here, after everything that happened with the Accords?" he chirped, seemingly cheerful as he jumped up to continue his tinkering.
"Well, the world was in danger, yadda yadda yadda, same old same old. By the time the dust had cleared we'd all fallen back into our old roles and it just seemed like a waste of time to pick at healing wounds." His voice had grown harder as he pulled at a stubborn piece of machinery.
You knew a little of what had happened, and what you did know pointed towards most of the others turning on Tony for trying to do the right thing, ending with one of the team paralysed. You felt bad for picking at that particular wound, especially since, despite what Tony said, it didn't seem like it was healing all that well. Standing up and following him to the work bench, you peeked over his shoulder.
Focusing of the lump of metal in his hands, you asked it what was wrong.
"That bit."
"Huh?"
"You said to talk shop...so, um, it says that that bit is wiggled too far to the left and that it's disrupting the flow?" You glanced up at him sheepishly as he looked at you with raised eyebrows, before turning to glare at the contraption in his hand.
Passing him the small pair of tweezers by your hand, you giggled as he swore under his breath, trying to realign the wonky piece.
Sliding it into what you could only assume was some sort of software reader, data suddenly sprung up onto the nearby screen and Tony let out a shocked laugh.
"It told you?" He asked, a genuine smile in place as he glanced between you and the screen.
"Well, yeah? It's kinda how my power works, I guess I talk to the equipment."
"Really?" he asked, spinning to face you properly, "Well, what else is the stuff in the lab saying?"
You laughed, pleased to be of some use around here, and pleased to have taken his mind off of the darker aspects of your conversation, and spun in a slow circle with your eyes closed.
There was a lot of half finished stuff here, but mostly everything was singing happily. A smile wormed its way onto your face as you listened.
"There's a few things calling out for you to come finish fixing them but mostly.."
"Mostly what?"
"Mostly it's singing."
"Singing?" he asked sceptically.
"Well, what do you expect machines to do when they're happy and working perfectly?" you sassed, your tone indicating that this was a piece of obvious information.
"All right, all right, Sparky. Damn, wish I could hear that." The wistfulness in his voice made you twist your lips in sympathy, when a strange new voice in the song caught you attention.
"Well, now who are you?" You called over to the robot in the corner, whose “voice” told you it wanted to come say hi.
Pushing your power out, you stroked along its power base until it purred, rolling your way for more attention.
"That's Dum-E." said Tony, raising his eyebrows at the whizzing and churring coming from his robotic assistant.
"He's a sweetie!" you crooned, reaching to rub your hands under Dum-E's claw slash head, simultaneously continuing to stroke his electrical currents with your powers. Dum-E stretched his head out and twisted it to the side like a cat being fussed in just the right spot.
You stayed that way for a few minutes, allowing yourself to lose the days worries while you fussed over the sweet-natured machine. When you finally looked up, Tony was watching you fondly, a new piece of machinery to tinker with in his hands.
Author's note: if you like this little sample of the fanfic idea, kraven x reader. Interact with the story, so I can see if I continue or not.
Summary: You are secretly Dmitri Smerdyakov's bodyguard, though over time, you've developed a friendship with him. However, you share a complicated past with his brother, Sergei Kravinoff. Now that Sergei is back in town, who knows where this will lead you?
AO3 LINK ONE
PREVIEW
Dmitri is late, which is unusual for him. You, who have been not only his close friend for years but also his almost-secret protector, are on the verge of losing your mind trying to find him. He is not in his dressing room, where he usually gets ready. Growing more anxious by the second, you head to his apartment. He is not answering his phone, which only heightens your nerves.
A few years ago, Nikolai Kravinoff personally sought you out to ensure his son's safety. Before that, you had worked as a security officer in dangerous places that paid extremely well—one of them being an underground laboratory. There, they conducted experiments involving snakes, specifically black mambas, using human test subjects. You were one of them. Those were desperate times when you would take almost any job for money. Nikolai recruited you after you saved Dmitri from a thief during one of his performances. But Dmitri has no idea that you are his bodyguard. To him, you are a friend, a confidante, and his assistant.
When you finally reach Dmitri's apartment, your stomach tightens at the sight of blood trails on the floor. Without hesitation, you raise your weapon and shoot at the door handle—there is no time to knock. Kicking the door open, you step inside, weapon raised.
"Where I come from, breaking and entering is considered a crime," Sergei says, aiming a crossbow at you. That damned birthday gift he gave Dmitri some time ago. His eyes scan you from head to toe as you keep your gun trained on him.
"I could say the same. What are you doing here, Sergei?" you ask harshly, a flicker of anger in your gaze.
"Missed you, kitty," he says with a smirk. You have always hated when he calls you that, but it's the price you pay for sleeping with him once. One night. One mistake.
"Don't call me that unless you want to lose your claws," you reply, casting a glance around the apartment, deliberately ignoring the crossbow still aimed at you. At some point, Sergei lowers the weapon and steps closer, his scent filling your senses. Sweat mixed with blood.
"You're injured?" you ask while continuing your search, your eyes scanning the dimly lit space for any sign of Dmitri.
"What exactly are we looking for?" he murmurs near your ear, his voice low, almost teasing, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.
"Your brother, to be precise," you snap, turning to face him so he can see just how pissed you are at his stupidity. His expression remains unreadable, but there's a glint of amusement in his eyes, as if he enjoys pushing your buttons.
"He went out—to the pharmacy. Stocking up on supplies to patch me up," Sergei says casually, as if the sight of blood on the floor is nothing to be concerned about.
You exhale sharply, running a hand through your hair before tucking your weapon into the small compartment at your waistband. "And you let him go alone to get bandages for you? Brilliant. Truly, the best damn brother in the world," you say sarcastically while inspecting his injuries. Without hesitation, you start pulling at his clothes—not that it’s much of a challenge, considering he barely wears any to begin with.
Sergei watches you, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Trying to get your hands on me? If you want to touch me that badly, you’ll have to beg for it," he teases, a smug grin on his lips. You ignore him, finishing your assessment. He looks like he got hit by a damn truck.
"Would you give me the pleasure of having you in my bed like the good little feline you are?" you murmur, dragging your fingers over his chest, scratching lightly across his bruises. He lets out a low groan, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.
"You have no idea what I’d let you do to me," Sergei murmurs, stepping closer, his breath warm against your skin.
"I feel the need to make my presence known," Dmitri’s voice suddenly cuts through the tension, startling you both. Instinctively, you turn toward the doorway, where he stands watching with an unimpressed expression. "Because it seems like you two are about to start ripping each other’s clothes off."
"Dmitri!" you exclaim, rushing toward him. "You should have warned me about your brother. Your show starts in less than an hour." You gently touch his face, your concern evident.
He holds up two bags filled with bandages and medicine for Sergei. "He showed up looking like a stray cat that fell off a moving truck, and I had to help him. That’s what brothers do. We don’t abandon each other," Dmitri murmurs, a trace of melancholy in his voice. Sergei had left him behind with their authoritarian father years ago, making their relationship… complicated.
"I appreciate your help, brother, but if Lady Y/N doesn’t want me here, I’ll leave without protest," Sergei says smoothly as he approaches, his eyes soft as he looks at Dmitri. Manipulative down to his very last breath.
"My dear brother, there is no show more important to me than you. And my beloved friend here surely agrees," Dmitri responds warmly, his words making Sergei’s smirk widen in victory.
You exhale, trying to be reasonable. "Fine. Your driver should be here any minute. Perform as always, and remember, an important journalist is coming to see you tonight. I’ll take care of Sergei."
"I knew you’d save me in the end," Dmitri says with a knowing smile, handing you the bags before pressing a kiss to your cheek. He embraces Sergei briefly before heading out, leaving you alone with his ever-troublesome brother.
"Looks like it’s just you and me now, little snake," Sergei murmurs near your ear, his hands trailing lightly down your back in a slow caress.
"If that hand moves any lower, you’ll lose it," you warn, shoving him onto the couch. Not only were you Dmitri's bodyguard—now you were Sergei's damn nurse too.
Author's note: if you like this little sample of the fanfic idea, kraven x reader. Interact with the story, so I can see if I continue or not. this chapter includes mature content. minors do not interact!!!
Summary: You are secretly Dmitri Smerdyakov's bodyguard, though over time, you've developed a friendship with him. However, you share a complicated past with his brother, Sergei Kravinoff. Now that Sergei is back in town, who knows where this will lead you?
ONE THREE (+18)
TWO
“Dmitri!” you shout, chasing—yes, chasing—your best friend through the streets as he tries to flee from you. Ever since he witnessed you kill a man to protect him, it’s become painfully clear that you’re not just his best friend who happens to be a co-worker.
“I don’t want to hear your excuses—not now. If there’s even a way to justify what happened back there,” Dmitri replies breathlessly, his steps erratic as he stumbles through the empty street.
“I know it’s confusing, but I can explain,” you say, trying to catch up to him. That’s when you notice something wrong—two men moving toward Dmitri from opposite sides. He hasn’t noticed them yet, still too caught up in the spiral of panic.
Knowing how shaken he already is, you decide not to expose him to another violent scene—not if you can avoid it. It’ll have to be the hard way, but a safer one.
You grab his arm and swiftly pull him behind you, shielding him with your body. “What are you doing?” Dmitri asks, confused, but he doesn’t resist.
You glance toward the approaching men, then lean close to Dmitri’s neck. Your voice drops to a whisper. “I hope one day you’ll forgive me, мой дорогой друг,” you murmur against his skin—my dear friend.
Then, with practiced precision, you sink your fangs into his neck. A gift—or curse—of serpentine origin. The toxin you release isn’t lethal, but it’s strong enough to render him unconscious. Dmitri’s body goes limp in your arms, and you catch him before he hits the ground.
Carefully, you lay him down near the entrance of a closed café, propping him against the wall. The two men finally reach you. You rise to your feet slowly, gaze sharp, movements poised. They think you’re vulnerable, distracted by the body beside you. They have no idea who they’re dealing with. You ready yourself to strike.
One of them charges at you, attempting to knock you down. But the moment he touches you, your body reacts on instinct—inhuman, unyielding. You grab him with unnatural strength, delivering a swift punch, then another. He grunts, momentarily stunned, before lifting you off the ground and hurling you across the street. You brace yourself for the impact. But it never comes.
Instead, Sergei catches you mid-air, his body wrapping around yours like a heated shield in the dead of winter. His boots scrape against the pavement, the sheer strength of his frame absorbing the brunt of the force. It’s like colliding with steel wrapped in warmth.
“I’ll let you handle the one who threw you,” Sergei murmurs, his voice low, his smile more feral than reassuring. He’s clearly enjoying the chaos.
You nod, breathless but steady, and the two of you split, each charging at your assigned target. The men hesitate now. Maybe it’s Sergei’s predatory eyes, or the way his stance mirrors that of a lion about to feast.
“Come on, big guy,” you say, locking eyes with the one who tossed you. “I’ll go easy on you.” He rushes toward you again, this time armed with a dagger. He drives it into your abdomen—but when you don’t fall, don’t even flinch the way a human should, panic flashes across his face.
You slam your boot into his chest, sending him backward. Even with the blade lodged in your stomach, you advance. You yank it out, gritting your teeth at the pain—your wound bleeds, slower to heal than usual, but you're still standing. Without hesitation, you drive the dagger into his arm, forcing him to his knees with a scream. Then your fangs descend.
You sink them into his neck and inject your venom—silent, swift, and merciless. His body convulses violently, a tremor of agony before it stills. He collapses at your feet. You look up.
Sergei stands across from you, blood smeared across his mouth as he pulls his teeth from the neck of his own victim. The man falls to the ground with a dull thud, lifeless.
Your gazes meet across the carnage, both of you blood-soaked, breathing heavily. “Just like old times,” Sergei says with a bloodstained smile, his eyes gleaming like fire in the night.
You stare at Sergei in admiration—yes, just like the old days. The kind of chaos you two used to get into could fill volumes. And part of you aches to fall back into those familiar patterns, to celebrate survival the way you always did: tangled together, bodies hot from the thrill of the fight, blood still drying on your skin.
But the moment flickers away as you spot movement—fast, silent, and lethal. A third man appears behind Sergei, poised to strike.
“Sergei!” you shout, already moving. Without hesitation, you rip the dagger from the dead man’s arm and hurl it through the air. Sergei catches it with practiced ease and spins around, burying the blade deep into the attacker’s leg before the blow can land. The man stumbles with a cry, but Sergei is already on him.
A punch to the gut. Another to the head. The man crumples to the ground, groaning in pain. Sergei doesn’t even pause—he grabs him by the hair, yanking his head back so their eyes meet. His voice is thick, growling with menace as he demands, “Who sent you?”
The man’s lips tremble, his breathing ragged. “Aleksei Sytsevich… but you already knew that,” he sneers, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth.
Then, with a smirk twisted in pain, he hisses in Russian, “Все, кого ты любишь, умрут.” ("Everyone you love will die.") And just like that, the life fades from his eyes. He dies smiling.
You’re dying to argue with Sergei, but right now, your priority is getting Dmitri somewhere safe—he’s clearly in danger.
“Let’s go before someone else shows up,” you mutter, glancing at Sergei, who seems to notice the anger simmering beneath your expression.
“I’ll carry him,” Sergei says, picking Dmitri up from the ground and slinging him over his shoulder as if his brother weighed nothing at all.
You both head straight to the parking lot to grab your car and leave. The drive is tense, silent. You go directly to Dmitri’s apartment. Sergei lays him gently on the bed as the effects of your bite slowly begin to wear off.
You start packing some clothes into a bag for Dmitri, preparing to get him out of there as soon as possible. Meanwhile, Sergei helps himself to a glass of whiskey in the living room, as if none of this chaos just happened.
You sigh—three times, in fact—frustrated by how nonchalant he seems.
“You can go ahead, I’m ready to be judged,” Sergei says the moment you step out of the bedroom, the bag in hand.
You can’t help but laugh a little. It’s strange how no matter how much time passes, you two always fall back into the same roles. He screws things up, and you’re the one who has to clean up the mess.
“Do I really need to say it? That once again, Sergei Kravinoff, you’ve put your brother in danger over some selfish impulse of yours?” you ask, standing across from him, your voice cold and stern.
He takes another sip of his drink before his eyes land back on you, steady and intense.
“You don’t need to say it,” he replies calmly. “But I know you will. You’re always so quick to throw blame before I even get a chance to explain myself.”
There’s a quiet fury building in him. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, in how his eyes begin to lose their human warmth—something more feral starts to surface.
“It’s not worth starting this argument. You don’t change. You never will, in truth,” you state, moving across the room to get closer to Sergei. Confronting him won’t solve anything, but it might quiet the storm inside you, even if just a little.
He lets out a low growl as he downs another sip of whiskey, jaw clenched.
“You judge me like you're any different,” he mutters, voice coated in bitterness. “Look at us—we're standing in the same place we were years ago.”
“What are you talking about?” you ask, genuinely trying to make sense of what he’s implying.
“You’re trying to channel your anger at me for one mistake instead of facing the real problem,” Sergei says, his voice lower now, raspier, as if trying to maintain control—perhaps to win the argument by force of logic rather than rage. He points at you, not aggressively, but deliberately.
“You want someone to blame because it’s easier than admitting how bad things have gotten. But we don’t have time for that. Not with Aleksei moving like this.”
The tension between you two hangs heavy in the air, old wounds clashing with new threats. You can feel it—the danger isn't over, and neither is the history between you and Sergei.
“Aleksei is only making moves like this because you were incompetent enough to let him know he was being hunted,” you say, fully aware of how much Sergei despises being called incompetent—especially in two areas of his life: professional and sexual.
“Say that again,” he growls, his voice sharp, stepping closer with each word. You can already smell the whiskey on his breath, strong and intoxicating.
“You,” you say, stepping forward until there’s barely space between you. “Were utterly incompetent… letting the one you were meant to hunt become the beast stalking your every move.”
You hold his gaze, unflinching. “You failed, Sergei. And now we all bleed for it.”
His hand shoots out, wrapping firmly around your neck—not enough to hurt, but enough to show you just how serious this has become. Then he crashes his lips onto yours, kissing you with a hunger that burns like wildfire. You let yourself drown in it, in the heat of his mouth consuming yours as though tasting something forbidden and long craved. His tongue is fire—but you're more than ready to burn.
When his hands slide down to your waist and grip your ass with possessive force, you sink your teeth gently into his lower lip, drawing blood with a delicate precision. He pulls back abruptly, touching his lips and catching sight of the blood. He lets out a low hiss of pain—then returns to your lips with even more fervor, hungry, wild.
You take the opportunity to trail your nails down his chiseled chest, eliciting a low growl from deep within him. His hand grabs the back of your neck, pulling you tighter, and with one swift motion, he lifts you into his arms. Your legs wrap around his waist as he starts carrying you toward Dmitri’s guest room, lips never leaving yours.
“Sergei!” Dmitri’s voice suddenly cuts through the tension, calling out from the bedroom.
You and Sergei freeze, your breaths heavy, lips swollen, bodies still pressed together. You meet his eyes—neither of you really wanting to stop, but both knowing it’s best for now. “Go,” you whisper, pressing a softer kiss to his lips as he slowly lowers you to the ground. “I’ll finish packing his things.”
Sergei gives you a heated look, eyes still burning with unspoken promises. “You can be damn sure this isn’t over,” he murmurs against your lips, stealing one last kiss before heading off to Dmitri’s room.
