#barbed wire divider by benkeibear

[ctrl-alt-bucky]

♡ Release ♡

Simon Riley x Female Reader [Requested prompt!]

The team finally has time to rest after months of hard work. Pent up, you and Ghost find a good outlet for release— each other.

Heed the warning below! There isn't much kink to this one tbh, just a mild hint of public play. If you want a spicier fic, check out the last one I wrote in this mini series. Ao3 and everything is in the notes at the end.

Enjoy! ;)

Word count: 3,479 | Chapters: 1 | Tags: Fempov, missionary, slow build, risky

Long, sleepless nights weren't an uncommon occurrence for you. It wasn't often you got respite during times of high tensions and potential war. Echoes of gunfire tarnished your dreams; stains of blood penetrating your body bone-deep, even when it's scrubbed clean of any signs; a reminder that you were forever marked by death.

As for Simon, he knew the experience all too well.

Words were hardly exchanged, just knowing looks and observations. You tightly wrapped in a blanket, sitting on the edge of a couch in the common room, the digital clock mocking you with the ungodly hour. Simon, his tired eyes and partially masked face, standing by the counter waiting for the coffee pot to start bubbling.

It started a few months after you got assigned to taskforce 141. You piece together from Ghost's slow acceptance of your presence that he's done this a while now— snuck out of the barracks in the middle of the night to make coffee or simply sit in the silent, empty room. But it wasn't empty for long. You'd make it to the room after him, often times. At first, you wouldn't acknowledge him, assuming Simon wanted it that way. But then that turned into small nods of greeting, then to sharing a pot of coffee while you two leaned with your backs to the counter, and then, somewhere in the mix, a bond grew.

It wasn't an every night occurrence. While deployed, your relationship with him was business as usual, and when you weren't shipped off to God knows where— well, it took days to recover. Days spent alone and half-asleep in a dark room with stashed weapons for all of the ‘what ifs’ your mind could conjure.

Dark circles sag under your eyes, matching Simon's. The team had been stationed here for a week now, and it was only just tonight that you decided it wasn't worth tossing and turning until daybreak.

A steaming mug of weak coffee sits on the counter. You greet Simon with a barely-there smile of appreciation and wrap your hand around the ceramic curve, your fingers curling over the handle. It has a marines logo on the front, faded and stained from time. Amusing, to say the least.

Simon is sitting down at the small fold-up table with his own mug, the liquid half gone. Something about him seems… off. He's more jittery than usual, and that's not the caffeine speaking. His eyes bore into the tabletop, his eyebrows pulling together; tense. The lower half of his face is covered by a black mask, missing its iconic skull design. It makes it hard to tell what he's thinking or feeling. You suppose that's the point.

“Price mentioned an intel mission earlier. Looks pretty secure, if we can get it in time.” You murmur quietly, breaking the tense silence.

Ghost nods his head, but doesn't look up from the table. He makes a small “mmn” noise in agreement and you figure he's not talkative tonight. No big deal. He usually isn't one for talking during these late nights anyway. You usually aren't either, but you're worried. You can't help it.

Sipping from your mug, you approach the small couch facing away from the table. There's a small, old tv in front of it, balanced on top of four crates with a board laid across them. There isn't enough funding distribution for a tv stand or good mattresses, but there's an endless shipment of coffee to keep your team functioning. Go figures. You're not one to complain though; You're lucky you even get entertainment in this place.

The tv is set to low, playing a random movie from the 80’s. You spot a VHS tape in one of the crates and wonder who the hell brought that along for a set up like this. While the intro to a murder mystery plays, you hear footsteps behind you, and Simon appears in the corner of your eye.

His gaze is on the tv, reading the title screen that flashes in bright colors and a font that’s distinctly from that era. You shuffle over to provide more room, and he hesitates before taking a seat, one arm staying propped on a small couch cushion wedged into the corner. He's man-spreading, but you don't mention it. The way your knees just barely brush against each other— it's the closest you've gotten to him outside of the occasional encouraging pat on the shoulder before a mission.

It's been ages since you've last felt someone's touch.

You curl your legs in so that they're tucked underneath you, your cold hands keeping the mug steady. Simon’s watching you from the corner of his eyes. It makes your heartbeat quicken.

Fifteen minutes go by. When you next bring the mug to your lips, you realize it's empty, having disappeared while you idly drank and stared in the general direction of the tv. You couldn't bother paying attention right now.

"Do you need help?" You ask quietly.

Ghost looks at you. He blinks.

“You look jittery.”

“I’m not jittery.” Ghost grumbles.

You raise a brow and he lets out a defeated sigh and looks up at the ceiling. After a few moments of silence, he puffs out a soft breath, calm and controlled, and shakes his head like he’s shaking himself free of the endless turmoil bubbling inside his head.

“Whaddya have in mind?”

✩⋆---⭑✧⭑---⋆✩

It starts out with cards.

Poker; Cribbage; Go Fish. Ghost has an unfair advantage with poker because of the mask, but he refuses to take it off when you point it out to him, so he ends up switching the game before you two even start.

Holding your set of cards like a fan, you peer over them as Ghost stares at the tabletop with an intense look of concentration.

Slowly, he reaches for a card in his own little pile (you expected him to be neat with his own cards, but he’s not. It’s chaotic. Nevertheless, it suits him)— and he glances up at you, his voice gruff when he asks, “Any queens?”

You pretend to study your deck. You know you have none, but you still take your time. Something in you doesn’t want this to end; To go back to your bunks, exhausted and alone, and wait until the next time the universe grants you both a respite.

Sighing, you can’t help but smile as you finally answer, “Go fish.”

Ghost draws from the deck, but you reach your hand out before it’s fully across the table. The touch is electric, and it causes Ghost’s eyes to flick up to meet yours. You realize just how brown they are. A deep brown, with hints of hazel. They stand out amongst the black of his mask— even more so when he’s got black paint smudged around his sockets out on the battlefield. You never really noticed it until now. Goosebumps rise on your arms, hidden beneath the sleeves of your sweater.

You were meant to say something, anything, but you can’t find the words.

Ghost finds them for you.

“You’re bored.” He says it like a statement, not a question.

You nod, slowly.

Ghost makes a humming noise of agreement and nods too. Then he brushes his thumb over the back of your hand, his gaze idly watching your fingers slightly twitch. The air feels charged and heavy and tinged with uncertainty. You find it difficult to properly breathe, your chest tight and body tense; your mind a race of he’s touching me, he’s touching me and I can’t handle it, he’s touching me and I can’t remember the last time I felt this— have I ever felt this?— would it even matter?—

You haven’t a clue what’s going through Ghost’s head, but you can see that something is affecting him. His chest rises and falls faster, those broad shoulders taught with a newfound tension you hardly recognize. Preparing himself. Ghost isn’t like this unless he’s looking down the sights of his rifle. All poise and concentration, he tightens his grasp like he’s pulling a trigger and he’s dragging you out of nowhere, guiding your upper half across the short table under you’re leaned over and inches away from his face.

You say nothing. Hell, what could you say? Stop? Don’t?

You want this.

Fuck, you need this.

You use your free hand to tug his mask under his chin and you kiss him.

It’s firm yet hesitant, and your mind races with all the ways this could backfire. But Ghost is warm and his stubble is rough, scratching against your chin and lips as he leans into it, pressing into you as though he’s giving himself permission to allow this.

The kiss breaks when you run out of breath. You pant as you try to catch up, your eyes blinking open to find Ghost’s half-lidded gaze searching your face with a sense of desperation. Realization has set in: the floodgates have opened, and there’s no going back now.

You lead this time around, scooting yourself out of the shitty metal chair and rounding the table to him. Ghost stands, his eyes never leaving you once, and he’s tall and broad, towering over you, even as he bends his head down to meet your lips with a feverish kiss. You taste the coffee on his breath and the warmth from his tongue as it glides against yours clumsily. His hands grip your hips and suddenly you’re pulled upward like you weigh nothing and set down onto the tabletop with your legs spread. Ghost fits himself between your knees, his hands trailing down to grip your thighs, squeezing the flesh.

A rush of heat fills your body. You can feel a blush on your cheeks, heat prickling the back of your neck. The space between you and his chest is hot as well, practically radiating off of his body— the body that keeps you trapped against it with your legs locked and hands scrabbling at its shoulders; the body that’s firm and muscular and alive under your touch, reacting to each grind of your hips as you desperately rock against him.

“Fuck.” Ghost murmurs against your lips, low and breathy.

You can’t help the chuckle that escapes. You’re giddy with the feelings knotted inside your chest. This is happening. Holy shit. And you can’t come to terms with this, that’s it’s taken so long to happen. The tension wasn’t not there. Subtle glances and lingering looks were just the start, not to mention the jokes Soap, Gaz, and even Price made about you two— about how similar you were; quiet and brutal and deadly, two lone wolves watching their pack’s back.

Even so, Ghost has more resilience than this. You thought you had more— hell, if your self control was hanging by a thread during the last mission, then it’s practically been snapped now, and by your own two hands.

You’re tired of feeling tired. And Ghost is more than eager to quell the chaotic energy inside of you both.

His teeth catch your bottom lip as you tilt your head and grasp for the back of his neck. You flinch, the pain incredibly brief, and he makes a low groaning noise that sends a bolt of heat straight between your legs. Your thighs clench around him, and he soothes the nip with his tongue as an apology, but all it does is make you whine with need.

Lips tingling, you break the kiss to the sound of a zipper. Ghost bites his bottom lip and follows your eyes down to where your hips lay flush together. His boxers are exposed, belt flayed open, and he’s hard and he’s big too. Bigger than you anticipated— and you haven’t even properly seen it yet.

You slide a hand down his chest and palm the bulge with deft fingers. Ghost groans again, and it’s right then that you decide you want to hear more of that noise.

It takes some maneuvering, but your cargos find the floor in no time. The tabletop is cold against the backs of your thighs, but Ghost's hands are burning hot against your skin. His eyes remain between you, looking down at the (frankly embarrassing) pink panties you're wearing. There's a hint of amusement in Ghost's gaze, like he's tempted to make a comment on it, but instead he just presses his thumb to the front of the fabric and rubs, slow and precise.

For all of the training you've had— the long night's waiting hours in the cold for the perfect moment to strike; the torture that you stayed resilient through; the second-hand nature of your brain thinking logically over what you actually wanted— seemed to be all in vain in this one moment.

Whether it was a long time coming or not, you struggle to even stay still as Ghost’s thumb presses harder, seeking out the shaky breaths leaving your parted lips. It sinks even lower, to a forming wet patch on the thin fabric, and Ghost practically rumbles when he sees the evidence of your desperation.

He wastes no time in pulling the fabric to the side and adjusting your position, pulling your thighs up until you're resting on your lower back with your legs bent and bowed out. Ghost murmurs something that sounds like praise, but you're too caught up in the sound of your heartbeat thumping away in your ears.

First, it's just a finger that enters you. Ghost’s hand trembles so slightly you almost miss it, and he pumps the digit in and out a few times before eagerly adding another. You aren't quite prepared for it. The burn of a stretch would otherwise deter you, but now— now, all it does is drive you up the fucking wall.

“Ghost.” You whine, voice warbly.

Ghost curls his fingers and your head tips back, eyes squeezing shut.

“Simon—”

Now that causes Ghost to falter.

You open your eyes and glance down your body to see his reaction, afraid you might've crossed a line. If his eyes were any indicator, you have a feeling you just skirted the line. You also realize he shed his own cargos at some point and pulled down the hem of his briefs to his mid-thigh, exposing the long, hard curve of his cock. It reaches his navel, the tip wet and catching the dim sterile light of the room.

“Simon.” You repeat carefully.

Ghost pulls his fingers out, grabs under your hips, and drags you even closer to the edge of the table. You yelp, but it's no deterrent. He's feral in a way you've never seen— desperation and nerves and frustration all coiled into his determined expression, truly like a wild animal. It isn't often you get to see under the mask. What doesn't make sense is why he's letting you while he's vulnerable like this.

Your eyes meet as he lines up and rubs the tip against you, hot and slick.

And then he pushes in, and your eyes close once more as every feeling in your body narrows down to just this. This stretch, this heat— everything. The way Ghost’s chest vibrates as he groans, how he feels inside, thick and real; it's so much to handle, all you can do is lay back and try to catch your breath until he reaches the hilt.

Buried deep inside, Ghost grinds his hips and grunts when you whimper in response. His hands are gripping under your thighs, right below the bend of your knees, and he's using the contact as an anchor to drive himself in and out like he has no time to waste. And with how you've been treated lately, there really is no time to waste. God knows how late into the night it's gotten, but the thrill of what if—

And oh god. What if.

*What if someone comes in?*

The windows are foggy with condensation, the frames coated with dust and grime and who knows what; But you can see the beginnings of a washed yellow peeking through the thick trees outside, right past Ghost's shoulder. You catch a subtle reflection from the overhead light bouncing off the glass pane, transfixed by his rippling muscles as they bunch and strain while he practically pounds into you with all his might.

Arching your back, you dig your heels into his lower back and shudder when the angle changes, his cock brushing past the sensitive bundle of nerves buried inside of you. Ghost notices that you're distracted, but it's clear he doesn't know why. You can't tell if he's irritated by it or curious, but the worry doesn't stick around very long— he presses his thumb to your clit before you have the chance to regroup yourself, and that's all the stimulation it takes to stoke the fire burning in your gut. It's all you need to stop caring about the risk of you two getting caught. You both deserve this— surely, the team would understand.

You feel yourself pulse around Ghost's cock, an orgasm so treacherously close you can feel your thighs shaking with the force of its foundation.

They'd better understand.

You might die from this feeling. Forget the trenches, there's nothing that makes you shake, cry, and beg so easily.

“That's it,” Ghost grunts. The words, among the first he's spoken almost all night, prod at a part of your brain you thought was long shut down by now. And he keeps doing it, encouraging you with low, growly breaths and strained words; a mixture that makes your head spin— beyond the fact that you're nearly upside down with how high your back is arched, your temple nearly pressed to the tabletop.

Ghost bends over you to get a better hold, and then he's rapidly thrusting like a fucking rabbit, and oh God, you can feel it— it's too much, too quick and too overstimulating, but he doesn't stop, he doesn't slow down, and suddenly Ghost's hand is covering your mouth as you practically wail your release. It crashes over you like a tidal wave, all-encompassing and fueled by years of restraint.

Your pussy spasms around him, walls uncontrollably rippling, even fighting to push him back out. But Ghost only drives in deeper, and in one, two, three thrusts, he seats himself fully to the hilt and groans against the sweat-slick skin of your neck as a warm, dirty feeling floods your insides.

✩⋆---⭑✧⭑---⋆✩

It takes you a while to catch your breath. Ghost is right with you, propping himself up on his palms, hands on either side of your trembling body, as his cock pulses the last ropes of cum inside. He slowly pulls his hips back until there's a rush of hot liquid gushing out onto the tabletop.

Your thighs are a mess— hell, your whole body looks more run through than some of the exercise regimes you and the team are forced to do every couple of weeks. You definitely feel a lot sweatier, though the lack of mud, blood, and grime in general is a plus.

Your face burns with a sense of embarrassment as you look between your legs and notice the mess he left behind. Ghost's cock is still half-hard, but he carefully smears the tip along your inner thigh (and holy shit that imagery will never leave your mind from now on) and stuffs it back into his briefs, then zips up his jeans before adjusting the belt, each movement precise.

You half expect him to just leave you there, but Ghost's hands are gentle when they grab ahold of your arms and pull you up into a seated position. Knees bent, your legs hang off the table, feet a foot or so from the cold floor. Ghost says nothing as he quickly snags the blanket you dragged in from off the back of the couch and wraps it around your shoulders. He helps you shuffle side to side so you can adjust your panties until they're properly on again, and he even goes the full mile to help guide your feet into the pant legs of your cargos until they're on as well. Not like you can wear these again, considering how stained they'll be in the next few minutes.

“Feel better?”

It's the only thing you manage to come up with to break this weird, tense silence. Your voice is hoarse, but with a little more coffee, it'll repair itself in no time.

Ghost's eyes crinkle slightly, and something tells you that he's far more amused than the faux annoyed huff he gives to your little question. It eases the knot in your chest, and you can't help but smile as you help him adjust his face mask.

“Yes,” Ghost admits anyway, his fingers brushing yours gently, “Feelin’ better. Now come on, up you get. We've got some work to do.”

I'm so down bad chat. As soon as I finished writing this, I thought of a follow-up shower scene I might write next if y'all want it 🫣 Ao3 link is here! (I crosspost over there) Requests/prompts are currently: open! Thanks for reading :] And thank you Jax for the prompt!! ♡♡♡

[chosofied]

𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬 𝑩𝑳𝑶𝑶𝑫 𝑻𝑶𝑶 𝑴𝑼𝑪𝑯,

𝑩𝑼𝑻 𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝑰 𝑫𝑶.

INE. TWENTIES. SHE-THEY. S-NSFW.

MATURE AND DARK CONTENT AHEAD. 18+ ONLY — NOT SUITABLE FOR MINORS. NO SPAM-LIKES (3+). AGE MUST BE VISIBLE TO FOLLOW AND INTERACT.

RULES. JJK MASTERLIST. WHB MASTERLIST.

TAG INDEX. ANILIST.

[webby-after-dark]

panophilia

[pt: panophilia /end pt]

a paraphilic attraction to armor

could be considered a subtype of clothing fetishism

pano- comes from the greek word πανοπλία (panoplía) meaning "armor"

dérmapanophilia / metapanophilia

[pt: dermápanophilia / metapanophilia /end pt]

subtypes of panophilia specifically related to leather armor and metal armor specifically.

dermá- comes from the greek word δέρμα (dérma) meaning leather, and meta- comes from metal

divider by @/benkeibear

tagging @mogaigonewild

[panophilia flag id: a rectangular pride flag with 11 chevron stripes. the 2nd, 4th, 6th, 8th and 10th stripes are wider while the 3rd, 5th, 7th and 9th are thinner, and the 1st and 11th stripes fill in the rest of the space around the others. the colors from the top down are dark grey, dark brown, light blueish grey, light brown, pale blue-grey, light blueish grey, desaturated brown, grey, dark desaturated brown, dark grey and dark brown. /end id]

[dermápanophilia flag id: same as the previous flag, but in the center is a large geometric icon of leather armor that is light brown with a darker brown outline. /end id]

[metapanophilia flag id: same as the previous flag, but in the center is a large geometric icon of a chestplate that is silver with a dark grey outline. /end id]

[divider id: white barbed wire divider /end id]

[banner id: a black banner with a white outline on a transparent background with black text with white outlines. large text on top reads "THIS BLOG IS NSFW" and underneath in smaller text it reads "MINORS CAUGHT INTERACTING WILL BE BLOCKED". to the left is the Cahara actor from Dungeon Nights edited to have darker skin, hair and breastplate. /end id]

[thesandsofelsweyr]

Hi there! 👋🏻 Thanks for the warm welcome to Tumblr. You can call me Sands. I am back writing again after a 5+ year hiatus and wanted a place to share my fics with the Tumblr community. My mailbox is always open so please don't hesitate to drop me a message!

About Me

She/Her

Millennial

AO3: SandsOfElsweyr (currently only used for publishing. I kudos & comment from another account.)

About My Writing ✍🏻

I write slower than GRRM 😅 None of my stuff is ever abandoned but the updates will be sporadic.

Arkhamverse Jason Todd is my muse! I delight in hurting (and comforting) the poor kid 😈

My stuff tends to be on the darker side. Angsty, whumpy manpain is my specialty but you may see some smut here and there. I'm also a sucker for Hurt/Comfort (Arkhamverse Jason needs all the love he can get 💗)

Since my first reader insert fic was well-received (🥰) I plan to write more of those as well.

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My Fics

Hollowed Out (ao3)

Good Boys Should Know Better (ao3)

Remember Jason Todd? (ao3)

Misery and Ecstasy (ao3)

The Climb (ao3)

His (ao3)

The Sus Boy Next Door (ao3)

Arkham's Final Victim (ao3)

Touch (ao3)

Cocoon (ao3)

An Apple A Day (ao3)

The Final Testament of Jason Peter Todd (ao3)

Boy Toy (ao3)

Recent Scribbles

A Good Soldier (Bruce & AK Jay angst)

Cuddlefuck (⚤ Female Reader x AK Jay)

Intimacy Issues (GN Reader x AK Jay)

A Smile in the Dark (AK Jay angst/fluff)

Tea Time (AK Jay fluff)

Self-Care (GN Reader x AK Jay)

Knightmare (AK Jay whump)

Well-Trained (AK Jay whump)

The Arkham Knight's Plaything (GN Reader x AK Jay)

Giving Up Control (⚤ Female Reader x AK Jay)

Stolen Future (AK Jay whump)

...or else it gets the hose again (AK Jay whump)

🎀 (⚤ Female Reader x Jay)

Home (AK Jay whump)

Night Terror (AK Jay angst)

A Friend in Arkham (AK Jay whump)

Pyramid Song (AK Jay angst)

Rescued AU (AK Jay and Bruce)

Torture Poll 😱 (AK Jay meta)

Favorite Scars (⚤ Female Reader x AK Jay)

Cockwarming (⚤ Female Reader x AK Jay)

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Please let me know if you want something tagged. I'll update this post as tags are added—still organizing things around here 🧹

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my arkhamverse - tag for My Arkhamverse series of fics (I'll come up with a clever title eventually 😅)

series: ruined - tag for my Ruined series of fics

dead dove: do not eat - dead dove: do not eat (my darker things will get this tag)

smutty sands - nsfw writings for 18+ readers

songs for ak jay - music that reminds me of my #1 boy

my headcanons / my meta / my imagines / my wips / my panels / my screenshots

Longfics: fic: his / fic: hollowed out / fic: the climb / fic: the sus boy next door / fic: misery and ecstasy

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[ademonsselfindulgence]

✧𝕴𝖓𝖋𝖔 𝕮𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗✧

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[bigkurosmash]

Slasher blog from the POV of a killer monster. Rated 18+ for blood/gore, nudity, and occasional smut. Minors and ageless/blank blogs will be blocked for this reason.

Name: Unknown Alias: Killer Kuro/Kuro Age: Unknown Kill Count: Unknown Species: Demon Background: Once a human serial killer, now a demon continuing their thrilling work even after 'death'. Somehow got caught up with other Slashers and might share a 'meal'.

How to find shit:

💀 #Killer Kuro: All posts with Kuro 💀 #[Slasher name/fandom]: All posts with that specific slasher/fandom 💀 #Have a bite: Askbox responses 💀 #Anxiety: Slasher buddy 💀 #Kuro history: Kuro lore posts 💀 #Let me fucking ramble <3: Media Reviews/Breakdowns 💀 #lemon: Thirsty posts

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[jplupine]

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[ctrl-alt-bucky]

If The Winter Soldier was in Task force 141 — Headcannons

(Aka: can somebody teach these dramatic bitches some communication skills)

Be warned, this has a lot more words than I was aiming for (around ~739). Feel free to send me an ask if you want me to expand on certain scenarios, or send a prompt with these two and I might make a oneshot/drabble!

Contains a brief mention of SoapGhost. This version of Bucky is post Endgame. SFW.

♡ Headcannons below the cut ♡

Nicky Fury, the therapist— and most importantly, the government— come to an agreement with the former Winter Soldier: with the Avengers fizzled out, the world needs heroes now more than ever. And so, finding an excuse to use Bucky's highly trained skills, they stick him in with Task 141, hoping the structure and team bonding will help aid his fractured mind, and hopefully dampen his grief in the process.

Ghost isn't keen on a new recruit. He doesn't like extra men to babysit, and he especially doesn't like being unsure of the rookie's capabilities. It doesn't take long for a silent feud to form between him and the newbie, who refers to himself as "Winter" for a call sign or just "Bucky" if he favors you.

Bucky, on the other hand, admires the leadership and protectiveness Ghost shows to his team. But despite that, he's just as cautious of his abilities— and more specifically: where his trust lies, between Bucky, who hasn't entirely yet merged himself with the team, and between the rest of 141, who share a rich history with the Sergeant.

In the first couple missions, Bucky finds himself frustrated with Ghost's orders. He's held the Sergeant title too, once— Hell, climbing the ranks practically required acting on command without any question. That is, until he was able to make his own decisions again. But Bucky had become accustomed to leading himself, or often following behind Steve (who knew more than anybody that telling him what to do didn't guarantee anything), not to mention the mess of Hydra and everything he did to detach himself from that life— So, he struggles with Ghost's authority, and begins to learn very quickly that challenging the non-red, skull-faced fucker is a bad idea.

On one particular morning, just a few days after their last big mission, Bucky wakes up with no arm. Fortunately for him, it's a familiar feeling of emptiness on one side. He later finds it on a shelf in the common room, displayed like a mantelpiece alongside various weapons, with a little skull etched into the bicep with black grease paint. The worst part? Ghost is the first person to sneak past him in decades. Dramatic motherfucker.

After that, Bucky finds a balance of respect and displeasure for Ghost, and works alongside him in unison. The rest of the team doesn't question his sudden change in attitude: some of them, too, had to get over that barrier, after all.

They bond over a share of books. Bucky spent a lot of his downtime before and after the army reading, and likewise with Ghost. Bucky owned a first edition of The Hobbit before he became a pawn for the Soviets, and Ghost is secretly jealous of it, having lost himself in fictional stories all the time growing up.

They also bond over their shared magnet for idiots. Specifically, idiot teammates with a tendency for causing trouble. Bucky ribs him for not making any moves on Soap, whereas Ghost defends himself with a quiet grunt and often changes the subject to something else.

The biggest thing they oppose on, however, is the subject of masks. Ghost is never seen without his, but Bucky almost never has it on unless they're on a mission, and even then, he occasionally opts out, mostly to blend in when necessary (and to help keep his memories at bay, not that he'd ever say it).

Typically, their favorite past time is sparring. Bucky has never found a non-human that can almost match him strength for strength, and Ghost likes knowing he can throw his all at Bucky without having to worry about the damage it could cause. It's the best training for the both of them; allowing their energy to drain, their skills to improve, and their banter to escalate until one of them is on top of the other, holding them down until a forfeit is called.

More than once, Bucky has been the one on the ground with his arms pinned. He claims he only admitted defeat to, "boost Ghost's ego so the miserable bastard can smile for once," but they both know it's not quite the truth.

They work as a good team and even better rivals. And though Bucky would never admit it out loud, after everything he's lost, he enjoys having an equal again. And Ghost, well... Ghost wouldn't mind keeping him around for a while, that's for sure.

That's all I've got for now! I have a NSFW headcannons draft for these two soldiers' x reader. Lemme know if that's something I should post ;D