#but it was just said by the climbing comm

[sportsallover]

"Purple-kissed clouds in the background"

This is so sweet 🥹

[sunsburns]

the complete knock — bob reynolds

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

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

⟢ wc: 9.7k+

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

You were here strictly for business.

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

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

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

You never imagined you’d walk inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could practically hear Joaquín pouting through the comms.

“I just got them back.”

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

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

“And I won’t?”

“You’re better at smiling.”

“You’ve never seen me smile.”

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

A digital display behind the podium read:

WELCOME TO THE FUTURE.

MEET EARTH’S NEWEST MIGHTIEST HEROES.

Your stomach turned.

“You still with me?” Joaquín asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You calling me annoying?”

“Yeah.”

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

Right. Bucky Barnes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Bucky was one of them.

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

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

What was he thinking?

Why hadn’t he said anything?

Why wasn’t he here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See me?” you muttered.

“Yeah, I see you,” Joaquín replied.

“Still no sign of Barnes.”

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

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

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

Your dress caught suddenly.

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

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

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

You blinked, caught off guard.

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

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

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

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

You stood there for a second, staring after him.

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

You didn’t recognize him.

And you should have.

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

But not him.

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

Who the fuck was that?

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

John Walker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then someone stepped into your path.

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

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

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

You blinked. “I—uh, yeah.”

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

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

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

You knew that, but you didn’t know he’d be so... loud.

You took his hand, his grip warm and firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Alexei.”

“Kind. Very kind,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You remind me of my daughter! You have same fire in eyes. Around same age, too—you could be friends! Yelena is always looking for new friends.”

Yelena Belova. That name lit something up in the back of your mind. You’d seen the files. The attempted murder of Clint Barton. Her brief status as an independent threat before being absorbed, quietly and conveniently, into Valentina’s new game.

And suddenly, Alexei’s smile widened even more.

“Yelena!” he bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth as if you weren’t standing in the middle of a very public, very polished gala. “Come meet new friend!”

Several heads turned. Cameras flashed—bright, blinding. You winced against the burst of lights, regretting everything from your dress colour to your decision to show up at all.

But it was too late. He leaned in beside you, one arm suddenly draped over your shoulder like you were posing for a family Christmas card. “Smile!” he boomed, and before you could protest, he struck a dramatic flex, biceps pressing into your back like steel girders.

You caught a whiff of expensive cologne and vodka.

In the corner of your eye, a flash of short, bleached blonde hair was making its way through the crowd with frightening determination. Elegant, yes—but there was no mistaking the sharpness in Yelena Belova’s gaze. She wore a sleek black suit like it was made of knives, a funky eyeliner design, hair slicked back and every step carved with purpose. And beside her—

Your heart dipped.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Poised. Smirking. Watching everything.

“Be careful. Yelena is coming your way with Valentina.”

Thanks for the warning, Joaquín. Delayed. But thanks nevertheless.

You stood up straighter, willing your heartbeat to slow down even as Valentina’s eyes zeroed in on you like a predator clocking a foe.

Wonderful.

You leaned slightly toward Alexei, trying not to seem as panicked as you felt. “Can I ask you something? About Bucky Barnes?”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, cutting you off before you could finish the question. “Bucky! Yes, yes. The Winter Soldier. Very cool. Very handsome. Like Soviet James Dean.”

You blinked. “I mean—do you know where he is?”

But Alexei was already on another tangent. “We fought in Uzbekistan once, did you know this? I threw him through a door. He did not like that. But I like him. I like him very much. Quiet, serious type. You know he never answers my texts?”

“Right. Yeah. That tracks.”

And then—

“Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” said a voice sharp as champagne fizz and just as bitter. De Fontaine. She cut into the conversation with the smoothness of someone who was always in control, grinning like she knew a secret you didn’t. A glass of bubbly dangled between her fingers, catching the light just enough to draw attention. As if she needed help with that.

“I was just about to introduce you all,” she said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Yelena’s arm as the blonde finally joined your little nightmare circle.

“What is this?” Yelena asked flatly, eyes flicking between you and Valentina.

Valentina didn’t bother to answer—just gave a smug little hum and tugged Yelena closer, corralling her between you and Alexei. The four of you shifted automatically into position, an unspoken reflex in rooms like this.

You could feel the cameras turning like sharks in bloodied water.

Flashes burst across your vision. The moment was already captured—your stiff shoulders, your frozen smile. A picture-perfect lineup of cooperation.

And you could feel it: this wasn’t a coincidence.

This was intentional.

Valentina leaned in, voice cool and sugary against your ear as more bulbs burst. “I am so pleased to see you here,” she cooed, “considering how close you and Sam are.”

“I mean, I had to come congratulate you,” you said tightly, lips barely moving. “Recreating the Avengers. That’s… big.”

She beamed at the cameras, teeth white and wolfish. “Someone had to.”

“Of course.”

Another flash. Another frozen pose.

You winced. Sam is going to kill you.

Valentina fielded the sudden swarm of questions like she was born in front of a podium—deflecting, redirecting, charming. Every answer was deliberate, each word chosen like a chess move. Stability. Legacy. Global confidence. Alliances.

They lapped it up like champagne, snapping photos, nodding, laughing. You stood beside her, barely blinking, jaw tight behind your polite smile.

You weren’t meant to be part of this show. You were supposed to be on the outside looking in from the in the crowd.

When the flashes finally began to die down and the clamour shifted elsewhere, Valentina turned with that too-perfect, too-white grin. She glanced at Yelena and Alexei like she were dismissing children.

“Would you two mind?” she asked, breezy as ever. “I’d like to have a quick little chat.”

Yelena’s gaze flicked toward you. Not unkind. But cautious. Reading you like a live wire.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her brows subtly knitting.

“Oh, everything’s perfectly fine,” Valentina replied before you could speak, her hand already at your back. “Go fetch a drink. Mingle.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

You barely had time to glance back at Yelena—at the slight, suspicious narrowing of her eyes—before the crowd swallowed her and Alexei whole.

Your earpiece crackled to life. “She’s taking you to the balcony,” Joaquín said, voice low and taut. “There are no cameras there. I won’t be able to see, but I can still hear you.”

There was a pause, then: “I’ll keep looking for Bucky.”

You barely managed a breath of relief before Valentina cut in, sharp and smiling.

“Bucky’s not here tonight, if that’s really why you’re here.”

You stiffened mid-step.

Joaquín swore in your ear. Something heavy hit a surface—maybe his fist against a table—and you heard the scrape of a chair.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice light, falsely sweet. “I came to celebrate you.”

You crossed the threshold to the balcony.

It was quieter out here, eerily so. The muffled pulse of the gala was dulled by glass and distance. The cold kissed your skin through your dress. You could feel it biting at your exposed arms, but you welcomed the sting. It was honest.

Below, the city stretched like a glowing circuit board. Skyscrapers hummed with light. Traffic moved in golden veins. It was beautiful in the kind of way that felt removed. Untouchable.

Valentina’s heels clicked once against the stone floor, then stopped.

“Cut the bullshit,” she scoffed, voice low now. “We both know that’s not true.”

You turned your head, slow and steady. Her eyes were already on you. Unflinching.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked casually. “The little Mexican one?”

You flinched—just barely. Your jaw clenched tight.

Valentina smiled wider at that.

You opened your mouth to answer, to lie, to throw her off, to say something clever, but she leaned forward before you could, voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips were close to your collarbone, eyes locked on your chest. On the mic she couldn’t see.

“Hola, Joaquín,” she murmured, velvet-smooth. “¿Cómo estás? How’s the arm? Still broken?”

She pulled back with a grin full of satisfaction. Joaquín didn’t respond—not a breath. But you felt the burn of it in your gut. He heard her. She knew he was listening. And that was the whole point.

She got what she wanted. You could see it in the eyes, the tilt of her head, the calm sip from her glass, the curl of smugness just under her lipstick.

Valentina turned her back to the railing, facing you fully, her glass catching the amber light of the city. Her smile didn’t crack once.

“You know,” she began, like she was catching up with an old friend, her voice silked with charm, “you don’t have to keep playing both sides. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

You said nothing. Not because you didn’t have something to say, but because the words wouldn’t form. Your brain was too busy calculating exits, signals, whether Joaquín could hear any of this, or if he was already doing something stupid like storming into the gala uninvited.

“You show up with a wire,” she continued, waving her champagne flute like it weighed nothing, “a dress like that, pretending you’re just here to smile for the cameras.”

Her eyes dipped slowly, then back up.

“You do look stunning, by the way,” she added casually. “But we both know you’re not here for the press or to butter yourself up to me or my team. You’re listening. Recording. Digging...”

The flute met her lips again. Sip. Deliberate.

“Looking for Barnes,” she said. “Like he’s going to whisper some grand truth that’ll fix whatever little crisis your friends are having.”

You could feel your jaw tighten. Every word she spoke landed like pressure against a bruise you didn’t want to admit was there.

Valentina tilted her head, studying you with the kind of gaze that belonged in an interrogation room, not a rooftop party. “You’re sharp,” she said. “Good instincts. It’s why Sam keeps you close, right?”

Still, you stayed silent. Because anything you gave her, she’d twist. She already was.

“But let me ask you something,” she said, voice a shade lower, softer. “What’s loyalty really worth—if the people you serve are always the ones left bleeding in the dirt?”

A pulse of heat shot up your neck. You didn’t move, but she saw it.

Of course, she saw it.

“And for the record,” she added, twirling the stem of her glass, “I don’t have anything against Sam Wilson. Poor guy. I pity him, actually. The shit he’s put up with just for carrying that shield—God.”

She clicked her tongue with exaggerated sympathy.

“I’d kill to have Captain America on my team. The real one. Not Walker. That man is a pathetic as it gets. Hair-trigger temper, zero emotional intelligence—”

“Sam would never work with you,” you said, sharper than intended.

Valentina’s smile widened because you finally said something worthwhile. “Oh, I know,” she said, almost gleefully. “He’s a purist. One of the last. His morals are steel-tight. Fucking unshakable. A real Boy Scout. Steve Rogers made a good choice.”

And that was the part that hurt—the part that made you swallow back a flicker of doubt you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Where’s Bucky?” you asked, voice quieter now. “I just want to talk to him.”

She didn’t even hesitate.

“Bucky’s not missing or anything,” Valentina said. “He’s busy. Doing a job for me in Pennsylvania. Cleaning up some loose ends, you know the deal.”

You felt it before you could stop it—that tiny, invisible shift in your expression. Something cracked. Something gave her an answer you hadn’t meant to give.

“That supposed to scare me?” you asked, though it already kind of did.

“No,” she said. “It’s supposed to make you think. About options. About what someone like you could do with the right resources. With the right funding. Imagine it: you with your own team. Autonomy. Access. No more red tape. You make your own shots. We clean up whatever mess you leave behind. And, get this, you even get paid for it.”

You glanced toward the city, anything to avoid her eyes. Lights. Windows. Warmth. All of it felt so far away.

“And if I say no?”

“Then someone else says yes.”

She stepped back, brushing something from her blazer sleeve. “Just think about it,” she said, all silk and sugar again. “We could use someone like you. You belong in rooms like this, you know. Not chasing ghosts, or waiting for Wilson to approve your next move. You’re already breaking. I can see it. You wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t. I’m sure Captain America won’t be happy seeing your name in the headlines tomorrow morning: The Next Potenital Avenger.”

Her smile held, framed in the cold, glittering dark of the balcony. Then she turned and walked past you, the soft graze of her shoulder against yours more intimate than it had any right to be. A mockery of closeness.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said, already stepping back through the doors. “Tell Sam I said hi.”

The glass door shut behind her with a quiet click.

And the cold came in fast.

Not just the air, but the after. The silence. The wrongness of being left alone up here, the wind biting now that you weren’t so focused on not showing fear.

Your body finally remembered it was yours. Your fingers hurt from gripping the railing too hard. You eased your hands free, flexed them, saw the white draining slowly from your knuckles. You still couldn’t feel them.

Your mic hissed faintly to life, and Joaquín’s voice filtered through the static like someone calling out to you underwater.

“…you okay?” he asked, strained. Urgent.

You didn’t answer right away. Your mind was still racing through what Valentina had said, how easily she’d dodged your defences, how easy she was to turn your presence into a publicity stunt, how well she knew you—or at least thought she did.

She must be blackmailing Bucky. That must be it.

You kept staring out at the skyline like it might give you an answer. It didn’t. Just glass and steel and lights that blinked too slow to feel alive.

“No,” you finally muttered.

It didn’t come out strong. It came out cracked. Like the inside of your chest had gone hollow, and you were just now realizing it.

Joaquín exhaled through the comm, like he’d been holding his breath.

“I think legal action is our next step,” he said, tone snapping back into focus like a lifeline. “We can sue them for the name. Trademark it. Or maybe—maybe Sam tries to talk to Bucky again? We’ve still got options.”

You didn’t respond. Not yet.

The railing under your palm felt like ice. You blinked hard, fighting back the sudden sting in your eyes. Not from fear. From frustration. From the way every word she said still echoed in your head, sticky and sharp, leaving splinters behind.

You dragged in a breath.

“…that fucking bitch,” you scoffed.

“Yeah… I don’t like Valentina either.”

You jumped.

The voice came from somewhere behind you, softer, unsure. You spun around on instinct, stepping away from the railing.

That man.

The one who stepped on your dress earlier. He was sitting now, low in one of the patio couches near a sleek electric fireplace that flickered lazily against the dark. The flames glinted off the patio doors and caught the edge of his profile—brown hair, downturned mouth, eyes wide like he was the one who got caught.

You hadn’t noticed him when you came out here. And now that you really looked… you realized why.

He wasn’t trying to be seen.

He sat in the farthest corner of the couch, hunched slightly, knees close together, hands clutched like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like someone had planted him there and told him to wait. The firelight danced across his face, softening him. He didn’t look threatening. Just... startled. And oddly apologetic for existing.

He offered a small, nervous smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, like… scare you.”

There was genuine concern in his voice—concern for you, not about you. That was rare.

“It’s fine,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to say.

“Who’s that?” Joaquín's voice cracked through your earpiece.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes stayed on the stranger, and for a moment, you debated whether or not to even breathe too loud.

“I don’t know…” You muttered.

“Okay, uh… I’ll try to do a voice match or something—see if anything comes up. Keep them talking.”

The man must’ve noticed the way you were half-turned, the way your fingers brushed against your ear.

He shifted slightly. “Who’re… who’re you talking to?”

You froze. And then, with a wince: “Uh… just… myself. Thinking out loud.”

There was a pause.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I do that too. All the time, actually.”

You weren’t sure what to do with that. You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He looked different now compared to earlier. Still awkward, still nervous—but less like he was trying to shrink into himself and more like he was trying his best to meet you where you were. His eyes held yours this time. Not for long, though. They dropped to his hands and shoes after a while. But it was long enough to feel it.

You took a cautious step forward, angling yourself toward the fire, toward him, but still keeping a healthy distance.

“You um… You know Valentina?” you asked. Stupid. Of course, he did. Everyone at this party did.

“Uh… yeah. Something like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t like… eavesdropping or anything. It’s just—there’s a lot of people in there. And it’s… quieter out here.”

He hesitated, then added: “I’m Bob, by the way.”

His voice wavered, but not from dishonesty. He said his name like he wasn’t sure it would mean anything to you. Like he just told you his name to be kind.

You gave him a nod. Not a smile. But not cold either.

“Hi, Bob.”

A beat passed.

You debated telling him your name. Joaquín would probably advise against it. But you weren’t feeling tactical anymore—you were feeling tired. Bruised in a way you couldn’t name. And maybe you just needed to feel like a real person again. Like someone who wasn’t being puppeteered.

So, after a pause, you gave him your name.

Bob blinked. Then he offered a small, shy smile that cracked at the edges.

“Cool. Hi,” he said, breathless. His brows furrowed as his gaze dropped lower, his eyes catching on your waist, your hips. “Uh—sorry again, about your dress. I didn’t mean to step on it earlier. You looked like you were in a rush and I—well, I was definitely in your way.”

You felt your lips twitch. The barest curve, not sharp or defensive. A faint grin. Delicate. “It’s alright,” you said. “Bound to happen at places like these.”

His head tilted slightly, curious. “You come to stuff like this often?”

“Not often. Just sometimes.”

And it was only then that you realized you’d stepped closer.

Your arms had casually found their place against the back of the couch across from him, hands gripping the cool metal frame as your scarf drifted with the breeze behind you. You weren’t leaning in exactly, but the distance had shrunk.

When did that happen?

You tilted your head, letting your eyes linger a little longer now, more curious than guarded. You assessed him with a little more attention now.

“I’m guessing you don’t come to these events much?”

Bob immediately shook his head, a nervous, breathy laugh escaping his lips like it was running away from him. You could see the cloud of it in the cold night air, swirling and vanishing between you.

“God, no. This is my second one and it’s—it’s been a lot. I think I’m gonna ask to just stay in my room next time.” He gave a little shrug, slouching a bit. “It’s not like I do much anyway. I mean, I’m allowed to talk to people, and I like talking to people, but I’d rather not sometimes.”

That made you blink. Allowed?

The word snagged on something in your mind. There was something disarming about the way he said it, like he didn’t mean to offer that information but also didn’t think it was worth hiding. You couldn’t tell if he was joking, oversharing, or both. But it was too strange to ignore. Like it slipped past a filter that wasn’t built right. It made you hesitate, if only for a breath.

But he wasn’t watching your reaction. He was staring at the flicker of the fire, letting the silence sit between you like it belonged there.

You folded your arms gently across your chest, the smooth material of your dress whispering beneath your fingertips.

“You seem to be talking just fine with me,” you pointed out, softer now.

Bob looked down at his hands. Then back at you. Then away again.

“I… well…” he stammered, voice catching on another shy, almost embarrassed laugh.

And then you saw it.

The blush. A warm pink crawling up from the collar of his white shirt to the apples of his cheeks. Subtle, but not subtle enough to miss. Especially not in the glow of the firelight, which danced over his skin like it had a crush of its own.

“I… yeah, I... I don’t know. Some people are easier to talk to than others, I guess.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

“Yeah,” you said, “I’d say so.”

The smile that tugged at your lips came easier than you expected. Not just polite. Not guarded. Honest. Probably the first one you’d let slip all night.

Seriously, who the hell is this guy? And why did he make the night feel a little less awful?

He was cute. Not the kind of handsome that announces itself the second someone walks in the room, but the kind that sneaks up on you, quiet, awkward, totally unsure of how much space he takes up and trying not to be a bother. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at for too long and didn’t know where to put himself when he was.

You’d seen a lot of people in this world wear confidence like a costume. Bob didn’t even try. He wore uncertainty like a second skin, and somehow, it made him feel… real.

You liked the way he didn’t crowd you. Didn’t puff out his chest or pretend to have all the answers. He sat with his knees slightly knocked together, most of his hands swallowed by the sleeves of his jacket, like even they were too bold to leave out in the open. Maybe he was anxious. Maybe a little broken in the places that never healed right, but he felt safe. Your gut told you so.

And that made you more nervous than anything else tonight.

You caught yourself watching him again. The way he kept his hands mostly hidden in his sleeves, shoulders rounded forward. His suit was clearly tailored but still seemed a size too big, like someone had tried to wrap him in something expensive just to prove he belonged. And still, it worked.

His hair was brown and shaggy, a bit longer than most people would have it at these events, barely even styled, but you kind of liked it. It gave him a strange charm, even if the loose curls hid his eyes whenever he ducked his head.

You weren’t used to thoughts like this. Not ones this soft. Not ones that fluttered in your chest like nervous birds. Not often. Not like this. Not here. Not in places like these.

You came for Bucky. That was the plan. Show up, find him, talk. Clear the air. Maybe start patching things up with your broken little found family—cracks and all. But Bucky wasn’t here. Valentina played you like a fiddle, and now the whole night had soured. Tomorrow, you’d wake up to press statements and headlines, scrambling to explain why your name wouldn’t be on the next New Avengers roster. You’d spin it clean, of course. That’s what you did.

But none of that mattered yet.

In this strange little pocket of quiet, just outside the hum of power plays and champagne politics, you kind of just wanted something normal. Not mission normal. Not cover-identity normal. Real normal. A conversation that didn’t hinge on leverage or patriotism. A moment that wasn’t already weaponized.

Maybe you could stay for another half hour before you disappeared and joined Joaquín in the van downstairs, counting your losses.

And maybe it was the firelight, a flicker here, a flicker there, warmth and glow dancing in the night that influenced you. But you found yourself leaning forward a little more, walking around the couch, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. You straightened your spine, trying to will yourself into being brave.

“Would you...” You paused, “um. Do you wanna grab a drink with me?”

Bob blinked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He sat up straighter at the invitation, startled, like a puppy hearing its name for the first time. His lips parted. For a split second, you swore he looked excited. Maybe even hopeful.

But then he deflated.

His shoulders fell, his expression shifting to a quiet sort of apology as his eyes darted away. “I... I can’t. Sorry—”

“Oh.” You blinked, trying not to let your smile falter.

“I want to,” he rushed to say, almost stumbling over the words. “I do.”

“It’s okay—”

“No. No. I would. It’s just... I’m—I’m sober now.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry—” he added quickly, like he was terrified he’d ruined something.

But you shook your head, even stepping a little closer without realizing it.

“No. Don’t be sorry,” you said gently. “Seriously. Congratulations. That’s a big deal.”

He smiled at that, small and grateful. A little crooked and thin-lipped. It was cute.

“Thanks.”

You hesitated a moment, then tilted your head. “Can I ask how long?”

“Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking upward like he was counting the months with the stars. “I think about a year now. I’ve only really started keeping track since I moved here, so... maybe like, seven? Eight months?”

You smiled softly, your heart unexpectedly warm.

“That’s still a long time.”

He gave a sheepish shrug, and his cheeks pinked again, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your praise. Like no one gave it to him often enough for it to feel normal.

“Some days feel longer than others,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching at his own tease.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, quiet, but real.

“What are you…?”

Joaquín’s voice fizzled to life in your ear, cracking the quiet like a crowbar to glass.

“Are you flirting right now?”

You froze, the smile instantly tugging at your lips again despite yourself.

When you didn’t answer, he laughed.

“Oh my god, you’re totally flirting right now! It’s so bad, but you so are! Who even is this guy?”

You turned ever so slightly, subtle as you could manage, and pressed a knuckle into your ear to mute him. Your cheeks warmed in tandem with Bob’s.

Bob blinked. “Sorry… did I, um—was that weird?”

“No, no,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “That wasn’t you.”

He just nodded, like your word was more than enough. Like you could’ve told him the moon was fake, and he’d say, huh, never really thought about that before.

You moved to take a seat across from him, the fireplace crackling softly between you like a low, slow heartbeat. The warmth of the flames painted him in golds and ambers, the flickering light catching the softness in his eyes and the loose fall of his hair.

You fidgeted with your fingers out of instinct. And across the fire, he mirrored the motion—thumb twisting around his knuckle, pinky tapping rhythmically against the inside of his sleeve. There was something strangely reassuring in that shared nervousness, like you were both waiting for the same storm to pass.

You let out a quiet breath, tension easing from your shoulders. “You said you moved here? Like, New York?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. His shoulders dipped too, visibly relaxing just a touch, like your voice permitted him to breathe. “I… uh, I lived in Malyasha for a while. But I’m from Florida. Born and raised. Where—where are you from?”

You tilted your head slightly, watching how intently he tried to keep eye contact and how quickly he broke it again. “I flew in from Washington.”

“D.C.?” he asked, and you nodded.

His eyebrows lifted, eyes wide for a split second. “Wow. Do you work in the White House or something?”

You huffed a laugh, smiling into your words. “Sure. Something like that.”

His head bobbed along with the answer.

“So you’re like… a really important person here.”

You laughed again, this time wider. Your teeth showed. It surprised you how easily you let your guard down. “I wouldn’t say that.”

But he was smiling too, softer now. Less anxious.

“You are,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I saw the way people looked at you tonight. Not—not that I was watching you or anything… just, it’s hard not to. You’re, um…”

You saw the moment he lost his words, saw them spill and scatter like marbles across a floor. His blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks in a full, unmistakable deep red colour. He ducked his head, eyes falling to his shoes again, and you watched him fight a shy, apologetic smile.

“…I can see why they’d want your picture.”

And just like that, your heart softened.

You leaned in a little, elbows resting against your knees. “Thank you, Bob. You’re really sweet, you know that?”

Bob looked up again, startled by the compliment, his mouth parting slightly like he didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t sure if anyone had ever told him that before, and if they had, you could guess they didn’t mean it the way you did now.

He didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. Not with people like Valentina, not with cold smiles and polished lies. Not with mercenaries, politicians, and millionaires who hide behind their money. You could see it in the way he sat too stiffly on a velvet chair meant for lounging, in the way he tugged at his sleeves or tucked his hands away when he felt exposed.

“What’re you doing in a place like this, Bob?”

He blinked, tilting his head like he wasn’t sure what you meant.

You smiled, eyes squinting a little as you leaned forward more. “I mean, are you like, a sponsor? Investor?”

The words didn’t even sound right on your tongue, not when directed at him. The image of him swirling champagne and talking stocks was so laughably out of sync with the shy guy currently pressing himself into the couch cushions like he wanted to disappear.

“I don’t think you’re here for the politics,” you added, and there was a touch of something playful in your voice.

He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Me? Gosh, no. I don’t… I don’t do politics.” He scratched the back of his ear, sheepish again. “That’s Bucky’s thing. I’m here for my friends.”

And just like that, your whole world tilted.

Your smile dropped before you could stop it. A subtle shift, but you felt it everywhere: in your spine, in your lungs, in the weight of your hands resting suddenly still on your knees.

You straightened. Slowly.

“…You know Bucky?”

The question came quieter than you intended, and Bob must’ve heard the change, the sudden stillness in your voice. His smile faltered, and he went still, too, sensing the tension without understanding it. His posture shrank, as if unsure what he’d stepped into, as if trying not to take up more space than he already had to upset you.

He nodded, a cautious kind of affirmation. “Yeah. He’s my friend.”

That stunned silence stretched long between you.

“I… I know he’s your friend too,” Bob added quickly, the words spilling out like he was trying to fill the void before it grew too wide. His voice was quieter now, softer around the edges, almost apologetic. “I heard you talking about him to Val, I—I thought maybe…”

You weren’t sure why he kept talking. Maybe because you hadn’t said anything. Maybe because your smile had disappeared too fast, and he could feel the way the mood had shifted even if he didn’t know why. His nervous ramble wasn’t meant to hurt, you could tell that. But it did. It did because the moment he said Val, something in you knotted tight again.

The warm glow you’d felt around him moments ago started to dim, curling in on itself like a candle snuffed out mid-flicker. Your heart gave a small, stupid lurch—embarrassed at how quickly you’d let your guard down. Of course he knew Bucky. Of course he was close to Valentina. The pieces slid together too easily now, fitting into a picture you didn’t want to look at.

You tried to pull yourself back together, quickly and quietly. You reminded yourself this wasn’t supposed to be about comfort. It wasn’t about soft smiles or normal conversations or maybe asking someone out for a drink. You came here with a mission, no matter how personal it was. To find Bucky. To set the record straight. This—this moment of peace with a stranger who felt safe—wasn’t supposed to happen.

He called her Val. Like they were friends. Like they knew each other beyond just work. Like he wasn’t just some shy, nice guy who complimented you under his breath and blushed when you smiled at him. Jesus, were you that easy?

A strange bitterness bloomed in your mouth. Not anger, more like disappointment. At yourself, maybe. For forgetting, even just for a second, what kind of place this really was.

You stood up.

The decision was sudden, impulsive, a small motion made louder by the way Bob flinched. His eyes followed you, something tentative and uncertain flickering across his face.

You reached for your earpiece, thumb brushing over the button to unmute Joaquín.

But Bob stood, too. Slowly, almost clumsily, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow you or stay where he was.

“Did I—did I say something wrong?” he asked.

You froze. Your fingers stilled over the earpiece. You hadn’t expected that.

You turned, not quite facing him fully, but enough to catch the look on his face. His brows had drawn together, confusion etched faintly into his expression, and one of his hands was lifted just slightly, hovering in the air between you like he’d started to reach out and changed his mind halfway through. There were still several feet of space between you. The fire crackled low between you both, casting shadows across the expensive furniture and marble tiles.

“I’m sorry if I did,” he said, voice smaller now. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

That stopped you. “No… you didn’t…” You said, the words stumbling out, half-formed. You didn’t know why you tried to soothe him. Maybe it was the way his eyes had gone wide or the way he seemed to dread the thought of you walking away just when he was finally starting to settle into himself. It stirred something in you. Something that made your chest tighten.

You could’ve said never mind. You wanted to. Pretend his words hadn’t struck a nerve, hadn’t made your heart twist in your chest. But they did. It bothered you.

“You didn’t upset me,” you repeated, softer now. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

Bob blinked at you. “Oh,” he said, so gently it almost got carried off by the breeze.

A silence fell between you again. You wrapped your arms around yourself against the wind as you turned to look at him.

“Who are you, Bob?”

He straightened, caught off guard. “I’m... I’m Bob,” he said. “Just... just Bob.”

You tilted your head. “That’s it?”

He opened his mouth like he was about to say more, but nothing came out. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, the words retreating back into him like they were scared to be seen. He just shrugged helplessly. Like that’s all he had left.

And yet he kept looking at you like he was begging you not to go. Not yet.

You sighed, bringing your fingers up to your temple, pressing cold skin to your warm forehead. There was a pulse pounding there now, dull and insistent.

“I just…” You started, voice cracking faintly. “I came here looking for Bucky. I thought maybe I could get him to come home.”

“Home?” Bob asked carefully, his eyes soft.

“Yeah. With Sam. With us.” You hesitated, glancing through the tall windows behind him. The light inside spilled gold across the floor, where laughter echoed and people clinked glasses without a care in the world. Your eyes landed on the group you’d been avoiding all night—Bucky’s new team, huddled together with drinks, grinning like it was just another night to celebrate.

It made your chest hollow out.

“Ever since he joined Valentina’s little fuckass team or... whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the gala behind you, “everything’s just been so... shitty.”

You looked back at Bob, surprised to find that he’d stepped a little closer. Just enough that you could see the way his jaw twitched, like he was working through something he didn’t know how to say.

“Sorry,” you muttered, suddenly self-conscious. “Not to, like, dump all that on you.”

The cold bit into your arms. You rubbed them quickly, wishing you’d brought a coat.

“It’s not...” Bob started, and then, more firmly, “It’s not a fuckass team.”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“They saved me,” he said, voice trembling just a bit. “Lena. Bucky. The others. They’re my family. We... we take care of each other.”

You stared at him, something icy curling low in your stomach. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said again, earnest. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it from the outside, but... they gave me a chance when no one else would. They didn’t treat me like I was broken. They... saw me.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But it felt like trying to swallow glass.

“Right,” you muttered, too tired to argue. “I have to go.”

You turned, reaching for your earpiece.

“Wait,” Bob said suddenly, like he’d only just realized this was goodbye. “Will I... will I see you again?”

You paused, fingers still hovering near your ear. The balcony lights flickered faintly behind you, and the sound of the city buzzed low in the background, as if the world were holding its breath.

You didn’t turn around right away.

Part of you wanted to say no. Make it easy. Clean.

But when you finally looked back at him, at the boyish worry carved into his face, the way he stood there with his hands half-raised like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go, you felt that ache again. The one that whispered that maybe, despite everything, he meant what he said. That maybe there was still something worth salvaging in the strange, quiet warmth you’d felt earlier. Something real.

And you desperately wanted it to be real. You wanted it to mean something.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Bob swallowed. Nodded like he understood.

But his eyes lingered on you like he hoped the answer might change.

part two.

[romerona]

Ethera Operation!!

You're the government’s best hacker, but that doesn’t mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Awkward!Hacker! FemReader

Part II

You knew today was going to suck the second your alarm went off and you briefly, genuinely, considered faking your own death.

Not in a dramatic, movie-worthy kind of way. No, more like… vanish-into-a-data-breach, throw-your-phone-in-the-ocean, start-a-new-life-in-Finland sort of way.

But instead, you got up.

Because apparently, national security outranks your crippling fear of flight—not that it makes the simulator any less hellish, with its cold metal, stale coffee, and that faint chemical tang of fear.

You were strapped into the rear seat of a flight simulation pod, hands locked in your lap like they might betray you at any moment and start mashing random buttons. You exhaled slowly as your eyes flicked across the control panel. So many switches. So many lights. Half of them blinked like they were mocking you. The other half were labeled with words like “altitude” and “engine throttle” and “eject.”

Great.

You adjusted your headset as the technician’s voice crackled through. “Sim will start in thirty seconds, Doctor. We’ll be monitoring vitals and control input from the tower."

You forced a nod, even though your stomach was already trying to escape through your spine. Your breath fogged the inside of the visor. You clutched the tablet tethered to your vest like it was a stuffed animal and you were six years old again.

“Try not to scream this time,” came Cyclone’s voice through the comms, calm and flat like he was asking you to pass the salt.

You offered a shaky thumbs-up that somehow felt more like a surrender flag.

The sim operator spoke next, voice crackling through your headset once again. “Doctor, your objective is to remain conscious, keep your hands away from the panel, and activate the Ethera interface when prompted. We’ll simulate turbulence, evasive maneuvers, and mild G-force changes. Ready?”

No. Never.

“...Sure.”

The sim lurched forward with a roar, and your whole body snapped back into the seat. You let out a startled “whuff!”, eyes wide, heart in your throat. The room around you—walls disguised as sky—blurred as the machine banked hard to the left.

“OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGOD—”

There was no gentle start. No soft acceleration to get your bearings. Just a violent jolt forward, and then you were climbing—straight up, like gravity had been turned into a weapon and pointed directly at your lungs.

Pressure slammed into your chest. The world outside the cockpit blurred. You couldn’t hear anything except your own heartbeat.

“WHY ARE WE TILTING—”

“Initiating evasive pattern,” came the tech’s voice, calm as ever.

The sim jerked again, this time into a sharp roll. The world flipped sideways. Your ears popped. Something primal in your brain screamed: This is how you die.

Your ears were ringing. Your pulse thundered against your ribs. Somewhere beneath the pressure and panic, you could hear the tech’s voice cutting in again—calm, detached, and utterly unhelpful.

“Doctor, you need to deploy the program,” he said. “Fifty seconds. Starting now.”

Oh, shit, you couldn’t even see straight.

Your breath came in short, shallow gasps as the simulated jet banked hard to the right, pressing your spine into the seat like it wanted to keep it. The G-forces made your vision tunnel, your stomach lurching somewhere around your throat.

Your hand fumbled toward the tablet mount, fingers shaking so hard they were basically useless. You tapped the corner of the screen. Missed. Tapped again. The jet jolted. The tablet shifted. Your palm slammed into the side instead of the input.

Forty seconds.

The Ethera prompt blinked up at you—green, glowing, go—but it may as well have been a mirage. You squinted through the dizziness, swore under your breath in three languages, and tried again.

Thirty-five.

The turbulence kicked again, harder. Your chest seized. The tablet slipped slightly in its latch. You tapped the input.

Too late.

“Simulation failed,” the system announced flatly. “Target missed.”

Everything halted—the motion, the noise—everything except your pulse, which pounded on like it hadn't gotten the memo.

The sim pod cracked open with a sharp hiss, releasing a rush of cool air that hit your sweat-slicked skin like a slap to the face. You didn’t move. For a second too long, you just sat there, fingers clenched around the armrests like they were the only things keeping you from unraveling completely. The silence pressed in, thick with the weight of your own embarrassment, humiliation settling low and heavy in your gut like a stone.

Your fingers fumbled at the release on your helmet, hands still trembling from the G-forces and adrenaline. The inside of your mouth tasted like copper and failure. You tugged off the headset next, wires dragging like they were reluctant to let go. Everything felt too loud and too quiet at the same time.

Your boots scraped against the cold floor as you shakily swung your legs out, and there he was, Vice Admiral Beau Simpson, standing with arms crossed, expression carved from steel.

You wanted to disappear into the floor.

He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you. Not angry. Not even disappointed. Just… calculating. Like he was already assessing the cost of putting you on a real jet.

“I missed the mark,” you said first, because silence felt worse. “I know.”

Cyclone gave a short nod, like that much at least didn’t need explaining. “You froze.”

You exhaled slowly, willing your heart to stop trying to beat its way out of your ribs. “Yeah.”

His eyes didn’t waver. “You had a job. Not to fly. Not to fight. Just to stay calm. Deploy your program.”

“I know.”

“And you failed.”

You stood on legs that didn’t feel like they belonged to you, one hand gripping the edge of the simulator for balance, the other still clutching the edge of the tablet even though the prompt had long since vanished.

“If this had been real,” he continued, “that satellite would still be feeding your government false intelligence. That jet would’ve been intercepted. And you, Doctor, would’ve been dead, and so would've your pilot.”

You flinched. Not visibly—hopefully—but the words hit harder than they should have. You stared at the scuffed metal floor, heart thudding against your ribs.

“You’re not a soldier,” he said. “And you’re not trained for this. That’s clear.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to defend yourself—but he raised a hand, cutting you off with one sharp motion.

“That’s not an excuse,” he added, voice sharp. “It’s a reality. One you’ll have to overcome, and fast. I don’t expect perfection but I do expect progress. And I expect you to walk into that sim tomorrow knowing what you did wrong—and ready to fix it.”

You blinked hard, your pulse pounding in your ears. “Yes, sir.”

Cyclone gave you one last look—disappointed, but not hopeless—and then turned, then paused, glancing back.

“And see medical,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “You’re pale as hell.”

Then he walked away, boots echoing down the corridor, leaving you standing there with a spinning head, a shattered ego and the feeling of wanting to curl up and cry.

As you moved to make your way toward medical—because yes, apparently nausea, disorientation, and a near-death experience weren’t enough on their own— you skidded to a stop just short of slamming into a very broad chest.

Of course. Of course, it was him.

The handsome, mustached pilot. The one who’d handed you your tablet like it was a glass slipper, back in the briefing room. The one who hadn’t laughed when you dropped it, but definitely thought about it.

His hair was slightly mussed, curls pushed back from his forehead like he’d run a hand through them one too many times. He held two water bottles, one in each hand, like he wasn’t sure if he meant to stay—or if he’d just pretend this was a casual “what a surprise” moment if anyone asked.

You froze. He straightened.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than you expected. A lot softer than earlier. Less smirk, more... sincerity.

“Uh… hi,” you said finally. Nailed it. Pure elegance.

His expression didn’t change much, maybe just a flicker of amusement at the corners of his mouth. He held out one of the bottles. “You looked like you could use this.”

You hesitated—more from surprise than anything else—then took it. You took it, fingers brushing his as you did. His skin was warm—too warm for how cold you felt. You tried not to notice.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, unscrewing the cap with hands that still trembled, ever so slightly. The water was blissfully cold against your throat, but it did nothing for the embarrassment still curdling in your stomach.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice gentler than you expected.

You hesitated, then tilted your head in a noncommittal shrug. “Define okay.”

A ghost of a smile touched his face. “Not crying, not puking, not passed out? That’s the general baseline.”

You cracked a reluctant laugh. “Oh, sure, I’m totally thriving.”

He nodded once, and the silence settled again—less awkward now, more… charged. The kind of quiet that hummed between words. The kind that made your skin feel too tight.

He looked like he might leave, but then he didn’t.

Instead, he shifted his weight, adjusting his grip on the second water bottle like it was some kind of anchor or maybe just something to do with his hands while he said, “You weren’t terrible in there.”

Your stomach jolted—sharp, unexpected. Like missing a step on the stairs. Heat bloomed beneath your collar, crawling up your throat as your fingers tightened around the plastic water bottle.

“You…” Your voice cracked a little, and you cleared your throat. “You were watching?”

God. No.

Why did you ask that? Why would you ever want confirmation?

His expression shifted—just slightly. Not quite sheepish, not quite smug. Just something in the middle.

“I was passing by,” he said, entirely too casual.

You groaned softly, dragging a hand over your face. “Fantastic. I didn’t just humiliate myself in front of the brass. I also had an audience.”

“Don’t take it personally,” he said, his voice laced with something between amusement and sincerity. “We’ve all been there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “In a classified sim seat with national security riding on your ability to not pass out?”

He grinned wider. “Well. Maybe not exactly there.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you take another sip of the water.

“You’re not supposed to get it right the first time." He said, "No one does. You think the rest of us were born knowing how to pull 7 Gs without losing our lunch?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t believe him—maybe part of you even did—but because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure if it would come out as a laugh or a cry.

He noticed.

“You know, most people don’t get in the backseat of a fighter jet without years of prep. You? You've got a couple of days, a tech background, and a pulse. That’s it and you still got in. That counts for something.”

You stared at him. “Why do you even care if I mess this up?”

He looked at you then, long and quiet.

“You built something that could change the world,” he said with an easy shrug. “That kind of genius doesn’t come with an eject handle. So yeah. I care.”

You looked away fast, suddenly too aware of how warm your cheeks were.

He leaned back again, casual as ever. “Besides, if I'm the one you are gonna fly into enemy territory, I’d rather know you’re not gonna scream the whole time.”

You snorted. “I’ll scream quietly. Into my elbow. Like an adult.”

He chuckles and you looked at him. Really looked at him. Still in partial uniform, flight suit unzipped to the waist, sleeves tied and hanging loose around his hips. His shirt clung to his chest, slightly sweat-damp at the collar, and that damn mustache made him look both out-of-place and weirdly grounded at the same time.

He wasn’t just handsome. He was kind of infuriatingly steady.

“Can I—” You paused, surprised by your own voice. “Can I ask your name?”

His brows lifted, just slightly, like the question had caught him off guard. But then he shifted forward and extended a hand—open, easy, completely steady in a way that you most definitely weren’t.

“Bradley Bradshaw,” he said. “But most people around here call me Rooster.”

You blinked. “Rooster?”

A grin tugged at his mouth, soft and lopsided. “My call sign. It’s a long story.”

You hesitated for a beat, then reached out and slid your hand into his.

His palm was warm—really warm—and calloused in a way that made you feel every inch of the difference between your worlds. His grip was firm but not overwhelming, grounding. Like he knew exactly how much pressure to apply without overdoing it. His fingers curled around yours with quiet confidence, like this was nothing, like it didn’t send an unexpected little jolt of awareness all the way up your arm.

Your hand was smaller than his, your skin cooler, trembling just enough that you hoped he didn’t notice—but something in the way his thumb shifted, just the tiniest bit, made you think maybe he did.

You weren’t sure how long you held on. Long enough to register the strength in his hand, the steadiness, the solidness of someone who lived in the sky but was somehow more grounded than anyone you knew.

“Y/N L/N,” you said finally, your voice softer now. "But I guess you already knew that.”

He gave a small nod, his eyes not leaving yours. "You're hard to forget,"

You didn’t let go right away.

Neither did he.

Then, as if realizing the moment was hanging just a second too long, you both released at the same time—too quickly. Like a secret exchanged and immediately tucked away.

You took a half step back, pulse thrumming in your throat, fingers still tingling from the contact.

Bradley, however, didn’t step away immediately instead, he lingered for just a second longer, watching you with a look that wasn’t teasing or cocky or smug. Just something quiet and steady, then he smiled—small, crooked, the kind that didn’t feel all that teasing but still carried that glint of mischief behind it. The kind of smile that said he saw more than he let on.

“You’ll get it,” he said, voice softer now. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow.”

His eyes flicked to yours, and something about the way he looked at you—like he meant it, like he believed it, made your chest tighten.

“But you will.”

You opened your mouth, unsure what you were about to say—maybe thank you, maybe don’t say that unless you mean it—but the words never quite made it past your lips.

Because Bradley gave you one last look, a flick of something unreadable in his eyes, then turned down the corridor, water bottle still swinging lazily from his fingers while you stood there for a moment, then finally exhaled. “Okay,”

Days went faster than you were ready for.

You hadn’t slept much. Not from fear exactly, though there was plenty of that still hanging around like a ghost in your chest—but more from the afterglow of adrenaline. The kind that leaves your body tired but your mind racing.

You’d replayed Bradley's words a dozen times. You’ll get it. You weren’t sure if they’d stuck because you believed them… or because you wanted to.

But when you arrived at the simulator bay, you were expecting to meet with Cyclone, just like every other day, but he wasn't there waiting for you.

It was a new pilot.

She stood near the simulator controls, arms crossed loosely over her chest, already in her flight suit, her expression somewhere between mildly unimpressed and genuinely curious.

“You’re my new project, huh?” she said as you approached.

You blinked. “Um. I—guess so?”

“I’m your point of contact now,” Phoenix said, nodding toward the simulator. “Cyclone thought a different approach might help. And I volunteered.”

You tried not to look too relieved. But you were. God, you were. Cyclone, well, he was rough, for lack of better words, Rooster had been kind, yes, but his presence was a lot. Intense. Distracting.

Phoenix, on the other hand, had that kind of practical, no-nonsense confidence you could actually lean on. She didn’t feel like a storm waiting to happen. She felt like structure.

“I’m Lieutenant Natasha Trace,” she said, extending her hand. “Call sign’s Phoenix.”

You shook her hand, your grip steadier than yesterday—though your palm was still a little clammy, and you were pretty sure she noticed.

“Y/N,” you said, then added with a tired smile, “Doctor. Uh, the nervous one.”

Phoenix huffed out a short laugh, a glint of something sharp but not unkind in her eyes. “I read your file.”

She stepped back, folding her arms as she leaned one hip against the edge of the sim console. Her stance was relaxed, confident, comfortable in her own skin in the way only someone who’d already proven themselves a hundred times could be.

“I also watched your sims,” she added, voice casual.

You winced, your smile turning into a grimace. “Oof. That bad?”

She tilted her head, as if considering how honest she wanted to be. Then gave a light shrug, eyes steady on yours. “I’ve seen worse. A lot worse.”

You let out a low hum, arms crossing loosely over your chest in mock thought. “That’s… reassuring.”

“Isn’t it?” she said, with just enough of a smirk to make you feel like she was on your side. “You hadn't passed out nor puked. You followed instructions until your brain short-circuited. Classic first-timer move.”

You laughed under your breath, surprised at how easily it came.

She finally looked at you then—steady, knowing. “We’re not here to make you into a pilot, Doc. We just need you ready for the mission. The rest? We’ll cover you.”

Something in your chest loosened at that.

Support. No condescension. No sharp edges. Just a quiet kind of strength you could lean against.

“Thanks,” you said. “Really.”

Phoenix nodded once. “Let’s get you in the seat.”

Inside the simulator, everything felt smaller than you remembered.

Not physically—just heavier. Like the air had thickened, like the walls had learned your fears from yesterday and decided to lean in a little closer.

You sat in the back seat again, the tablet already secured to its mount beside your right leg. Your fingers hovered near it, not quite touching, like it might bite. You could already feel your heartbeat in your palms.

“Straps secured?” Phoenix’s voice crackled through the headset. Her tone was crisp, even, the kind that didn’t rise to meet panic—it smothered it before it started.

You exhaled and gave a tight nod, forgetting she couldn’t see it. “Y-Yeah. Good to go.”

“All right,” she said. “We’re starting slow. Just basic turbulence patterns. No evasive maneuvers, no tricks. You’re not here to impress anyone. You’re here to breathe, and press a single button when I tell you.”

You nodded again, this time speaking aloud. “Sure.”

The sim hummed to life around you, and your body tensed automatically—like it remembered what came next, even if you swore it wouldn’t be that bad.

“Relax your shoulders,” Phoenix said, as if she felt the stiffness from her end. “You’re holding tension like you’re about to punch the air.”

The screen in front of you blinked to life. The sim took you airborne, but the motion was slow this time—steady, like a calm climb on a commercial flight.

You forced yourself to breathe out slowly and unclenched your jaw, trying to follow her lead. The shaking wasn’t nearly as bad as the previous day's simulated madness. No rolls. No sharp drops. Just steady pressure. Unnerving, but survivable.

Your eyes flicked to the screen.

The prompt glowed softly. Ethera. Standing by. Timer: 02:00

“This is just a systems check,” Phoenix said. “You don’t have to engage. Just keep your eyes on it. Notice the screen, your pulse, your breath. You’ve got time."

The pod dipped gently into a banking curve. You swayed, stomach flipping. "Keep breathing, Doc."

You gripped the edge of the seat, fingers twitching. “This still counts as breathing, right?”

“As long as you’re not blue in the face, yeah.”

You smiled—barely—but it helped.

The Ethera interface activated on the mounted tablet in front of you. The same prompt, The countdown. You glanced at it and your heart gave one uneasy thud.

“Don’t rush,” Phoenix reminded you, voice even. “One thing at a time. Don’t try to win. Just try to finish.”

You nodded again, reaching out slowly—deliberately—and tapped the screen to begin the simulated deployment sequence. The code began to unfold, and the sim didn’t break into loops or chaos. It kept going. And you were still breathing.

Your hand trembled slightly, but you stayed focused, eyes on the sequence as it loaded in steady green waves. The turbulence passed. The sim steadied.

“Ten seconds,” Phoenix said. “You’ve got it. Keep it locked.”

You kept your hand on the panel. You didn’t blink. The screen counted down.

3… 2… 1…

Deployment successful.

The soft chime of success echoed in your headset.

“Target received,” the system confirmed.

You blinked, then blinked again. “I… I got it?”

“You got it,” Phoenix said, the faintest edge of pride in her voice. “Nice and clean.”

You slumped back in the seat, suddenly aware of just how hard your heart had been working. Your eyes stung—not from panic this time, but from sheer relief.

“Doctor,” Phoenix said after a beat. “That was not bad.”

You couldn’t help the grin that broke across your face, exhausted but real.

And when the pod finally powered down with a gentle thunk, and the hatch hissed open, you realized you’d done the whole thing without white-knuckling the seat.

You’d finally made it through.

Phoenix was waiting for you, arms crossed, leaning one hip against the console like she’d known all along you’d handle it.

You stepped out, legs a still stiff, but your head was clear.

“Not bad,” she said, and this time her smile wasn’t just professional. It was small, but real. “No ejections. No nausea. No hysterics.”

You let out a dry laugh, breath catching on the edge of it. “Just mild existential dread.”

She shrugged, cool as ever. “That’s standard issue.”

Then smiled—really smiled—for the first time since this whole classified, terrifying, completely-out-of-your-depth mission had begun. The kind of smile that pulled dimples you hadn’t felt in days.

“Thanks,” you said again, quieter this time. Not just for the training, but for not making you feel like a burden.

Phoenix nodded once, like she already understood all of that.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she said. “We need to move faster. Real evasive sequences. Simulated pressure. Maybe even some yelling.”

“Yours or mine?”

She smirked. “We’ll see who breaks first.”

You laughed again—easier this time—and for the first time, it didn’t feel like you were pretending.

By the time the week came to an end, you and Phoenix had become friends.

Not in the polite, nod-in-the-hallway kind of way—but the real kind. The kind built through shared silence in the simulator bay, through low chuckles after a successful run, through Phoenix’s calm voice in your headset, cutting through the static and the fear. She never coddled you. Never sugarcoated anything but she never made you feel less, either.

There were moments where fear absolutely took over—where your breath hitched too high in your chest or your fingers trembled too much to find the prompt in time and there were other moments, rarer but growing, where you managed. Where you pressed the button, where you kept your head above water.

Phoenix never made a spectacle of either.

When you panicked, she talked you down, when you succeeded, she just clapped you on the shoulder, tossed you a bottle of water, and said, “Told you. You’re getting it.”

And somehow, that meant more than any standing ovation ever could.

By Friday evening, you had survived four more simulations, logged two successful Ethera deployments, and stopped referring to the ejection lever as “that red death stick.”

Progress.

“You coming to the Hard Deck tonight?” Phoenix said casually, already slinging her duffel over one shoulder as you both headed toward the lockers.

You blinked at her, caught off guard. “What?”

She paused mid-step, turning just enough to glance back at you with that crooked grin she reserved for moments like this—half dare, half invitation.

“The Hard Deck,” she repeated, now walking backward toward the hangar doors. “Bar. Pool tables. Bad decisions. You in?”

You stared for a beat too long, processing.

The Hard Deck.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. You’d heard about the place in passing—mostly through muttered comments and laughing threats. It had sounded like a local haunt. Loud. Messy. Full of people who knew exactly what they were doing and didn’t care that you didn’t.

“Wait, is that—like, is that a thing?” you asked, trailing after her. “Do people… actually go?”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow like she wasn’t sure if you were messing with her. “Only the ones worth talking to.”

You hesitated.

She paused at the doorway and tossed the final hook. “You’ve survived a week of sims, didn’t puke on anyone, and haven’t cried once. That makes you officially less pathetic than half the new guys. You’ve earned a drink... So?

Your brain, naturally, tried to stall. A bar? With actual people? And more pilots? But your mouth moved faster.

“Uh—yeah, sure,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before your usual social panic could hit. “I could go for a drink.”

Phoenix gave a little nod, like she’d already known your answer. Like this was the inevitable next step in whatever strange, reluctant journey you’d found yourself on.

Then she jerked her chin toward the exit, already on the move.

You hesitated. “What now?”

She didn’t stop walking.

“You go back to wherever you’ve been hiding, put on something that doesn’t scream ‘high-stress lab goblin,’ and I’ll swing by in an hour.”

You blinked. “That specific, huh?”

Phoenix half-turned, walking backward again like she had a personal vendetta against stationary conversations. “It’s a bar, not a Senate hearing. No briefing, no simulations, no threat of fiery death. Just drinks. Loud music. Maybe pool. Probably bad flirting.”

And with that, she was gone—leaving you standing in the middle of the hangar, sweaty, slightly stunned, and suddenly very aware that you owned exactly one outfit that wasn’t issued or work-adjacent.

Oh no. Now you actually had to get ready.

A/N:

Heyyyyy, OMG the support for this story is wild, thank you all so so muchhh!! I honestly did not think it would get this much attention, my first draft was actually a Charlie's Angel reader lol, but I'm so happy you all enjoy this version. I did try to make it as realistic as possible, after all reader does not like to fly I can only imagine being put in her position, so she being frozen out of fear and not completing the mission feels real, at least to me.

And my apologies it took me so long to put it out. Part III is already in the works, so I think it will be out soon.

Thank you all so so much for the support and the comments and reblogs, really.

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[retiredteabag]

Chilled to the bone

When you were enlisted as a sidekick with The Genius Office agency, you had been hoping to work as a supporting hero for Best Jeanist, you were, in fact, not expecting to be sent into the mountainous wilderness to aid in the apprehension of a snow villain.

Even more so, you were certainly not expecting to be working alongside pro-hero Dynamight.

And yet here you were.

You had been assigned plenty of gear for the mission. The support team at TGO was renown as one of the most competitive in the country for UA support course students. That being said, they were incredibly cautious about the safety of their heroes. They had even provided an earpiece system so your communication through the torrential snowstorm wasn't so tedious.

Your pro counterpart on this mission, however, insisted on screaming over the wind, determined that he didn't "need that nonsense."

And anyway, It had been all for nothing, unfortunately. The mission had been a bust, the villain you were trailing had been apprehended by the time you had reached his hiding point on the mountain and it was fair to say Bakugou was pissed.

There were several expletives shouted into the wind before he eventually fizzled out. He ranted on and on about poor communication between agencies and regional hero work.

The comms between the agency and yourself had given way hours ago and Bakugou now trudged ahead in the snow. You felt as if your body was fighting against every element as the storm pushed you away from your destination.

No matter how often you clicked your ear piece to try to call for help, all you heard was the gentle *da-ding* before static resounded.

You were stuck. Wandering in a complete wasteland, and since the trip had been all for nothing, you couldn’t even feel content.

You had no idea how the lumbering man in front of you was able to pick up his steps so readily and march onward. Lucky as you were to (literally) follow in his steps (deeply planted in the icy snow) it was still difficult to not be discouraged by the blizzard ahead.

After what felt like hours, and a fully uphill climb, the sun finally began to set.

Your ham radio buzzed suddenly in your ear and you realized as it startled you how drowsy you were.

“Are ya still followin’? Ain’t got time to slow down.” Your vision was blurry, but you couldn’t tell if it was because of the snow, or another reason. Dynamight had his earpiece roughly grasped beside his head while he spoke to you.

“Copy. I’m here.” You say, and even just those words seem to take a lot out of you.

Dynamight hums gruffly, “Good. Cause we’ve got a ways to go before civilization.” And eventually, “God it’s cold.”

His words are a huge discouragement, you aren’t sure what to say, so you simply agree, “Yep. Freezin’ my balls off.”

He coughs out a single ‘ha!’ And continues onward. But with everything happening: the raging storm fighting against you, the icy cold frosting your bones, and the sun now beginning to fade, you’re starting to wobble where you stand.

Eventually you cannot even keep your head high enough to watch your partner, maintaining to follow his footprints, one step, then the next, then the next, over and over.

It’s strange, after a bit, it almost starts to get easy, to walk on, your cheeks and ears are starting to feel hot, and it’s as if your legs are floating as you stomp into the large shoe print left for you.

You start to tilt but catch yourself, making an embarrassing sound, luckily your comms weren’t on and Bakugou couldn’t have heard you over the wind.

You rip the covering from your face, the heat becoming uncomfortable now. When you lift your neck, you see the crux of the hill you had been climbing, but the motion thew you, and blood seemed to rush to your skull. It was as if one moment you had been marching onward and then next you were face up in the hard and icy snow.

Awe damn it…

You tried to click your comms, to connect with Bakugou and call for him but it was as if the snow had your arm caged where you had landed.

It didn’t take long for you to accept this position. Your body had never felt so weak. This was nowhere near your first mission, in fact, you were a colorfully decorated sidekick. Who would have known that a little snow would take you out. This was it…

Your head was pounding so you closed your eyes to help block it out. You were so sleepy… maybe it wasn’t so bad here.

You truly and no idea how long it had been but what felt to be all to quickly, you felt your eyes being forced open.

There was shouting, but you couldn’t understand the words.

Bakugou was before you, his hero costume was unbuttoned at his mouth as he yelled at you, condensation puffing out around his face.

He kept brushing you with his hand, he was doing it rather harshly as well.

“S-haap-“ was all you could get out, you made an effort to push him from you but it was fruitless. You were properly immobile.

A new sensation, a strong wave of nausea came over you as your world was thrown upside down. Quite literally, Bakugou had reached under your back and thrown you over his shoulder.

Blood rushed to your head once more as you stared at the back of his uniform. Sick grunts left you as his weight shifted quickly from foot to foot.

He heard none of it.

This time, when you fell asleep, it took much longer to wake you.

When you were finally roused, there was a crackling fire to your back and a broad black and orange chest directly in your face.

You pressed with as much strength as you could harness in your state and realized that it was real.

He was real.

“Huuuua?-“ you gasped, attempting to roll from him. Only to be met with a firm grip on your waist.

“Quit moving you idiot! First you try to freeze to death and now your want to go up in flames??!” You could feel him speaking aggressively into your hair.

There were a million things racing in your mind, but the first thing that escaped you was, “It’s hot…”

A tight hand was roughly making friction on your arms, Bakugou was aggressively petting you. “No, that’s your mind playing tricks on you.”

“Oh…”

Later you would look back on this and bang your head against the wall, throw a fit in your apartment, maybe even consider putting in your two weeks, but in this moment, you burrow your head into the large man’s chest.

“Th-e” you cough, your whole body shutters, “the villain-“

“It’s handled. No thanks to us. But they’re coming out to get us. Helicopter and everything. I’m gonna kill Jeanist.” He’s gnashing his teeth.

“Where are we?” You attempt to turn to the fire you know lies behind you. But a firm hand keeps you from turning.

“Made it to the town, apparently they were expecting us. Agency called once our comms gave out.” He grumbled. “Told ya it was useless.”

You just hum, successfully ignoring how insane it is to be sharing body heat with a top hero that you had previously shared so much as 10 words with.

But as your eyelids began to droop again, you felt his hand grace your cheek, sliding down your back and lifting you towards him once more and he leaned his head back and waited for the agency to retrieve its cold lost hero’s.

〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰

No, I don’t know where this came from, and no I didn’t edit it

[wroetolando]

𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍-𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜 | 𝙻𝙽𝟺

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where she's the only mechanic who truly understands his car, and he's the only driver who truly sees her

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: formula - labrinth

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The McLaren pit was a flurry of motion, a carefully choreographed chaos of engineers, mechanics, and pit crew members working in perfect harmony. The air reeked of oil and rubber, the sound of impact wrenches and radio traffic blending into the background cacophony that had long ago faded into background noise for you.

But in the noise, in the dozens of people who collaborated to make McLaren's car able to fight at the front, your attention was always on one person.

Lando Norris.

Not because he was the star driver. Not because his face was plastered on billboards or millions of supporters chanted his name every race weekend.

But because he was yours. Though neither of you ever said it out loud.

You'd been with McLaren's team for three years, rising from junior mechanic to become one of the lead engineers on Lando's vehicle. You knew that car inside and out like the back of your hand—every shudder, every subtle imbalance in the suspension, every adjustment that would make it hum through the corners just the way he liked it.

And Lando knew that too.

That's why, when something did not feel right, he relied on you to fix it.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Thursday – Media Day

The weekend was yet to start, but the paddock was already buzzing. Fans swirled around the entrance, cameras snapped as drivers came in, and reporters filled the media pen, waiting to get their soundbites.

You were concealed in the garage, reviewing the setup notes, your hands already smudged with grease despite the fact that it was early in the day.

You felt his presence before you saw him.

Lando had always possessed this energy—a presence that filled a room even when he had nothing to say. He strode into the garage in his McLaren polo, sunglasses perched on his head, and an effortless smirk on his lips.

"Look busy," he teased, resting against the workbench beside you.

"Unlike some people, I actually do work," you shot back, not looking up as you double-checked the tire pressures.

He clutched his chest in feigned indignation. "Excuse me, I do work extremely hard."

You finally looked at him, an eyebrow lifted. "Oh yeah? Sitting through media commitments and signing posters is exhausting, huh?"

"It's brutal," he theatrically sighed. "You wouldn't understand."

You rolled your eyes, but a little smile was playing on your lips. This was how it always was with Lando—teasing, banter, effortless back-and-forths that had started the moment you'd met.

But something was off today.

You noticed it in the way he lingered a moment longer. The way his fingers drummed against the table, a restless energy building in him.

"You good?" you asked, head tilting.

He hesitated.

It was only for a moment, but you caught it.

And then, in a flash, the smirk was back. "Always."

You didn't believe he meant it. But you let it go—for the moment.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Friday – Free Practice

Something was off with the car.

You knew it before Lando even said anything over the radio.

You watched the telemetry, how the speed traces weren't lining up properly, how he was losing time in the high-speed corners. Then his voice crackled over the comms.

"Yeah, something doesn't feel right. Rear's not stable through Turns 8 and 10."

You exchanged a glance with another of the engineers as you grabbed your tablet and walked towards the garage door. You were waiting there by the time Lando pulled in and climbed out of the car.

He ripped off his helmet, running a hand through his sweaty curls, and scanned the room looking for you immediately.

"Talk to me," you called out over the noise of the garage.

"Feels like the rear's stepping out more than usual. Can't get the rotation I need."

You nodded, already running through possible causes in your head. "Okay, let's check the suspension setup. Could be a balance issue."

Lando didn't argue. He never did with you.

Because he knew you'd get it right.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Saturday – Qualifying

Tension was palpable in the air.

This was what it had all been building toward. The entire garage was locked in, eyes fixed on the timing screens, heart rates rising with each lap.

Lando was on fire.

You were on the pit wall, headset on, fists gripped on your tablet as he stitched the track together immaculately. His sector times were improving. If he could keep this up, he'd be in the fight for pole.

Then—

"!"

His voice came over the radio as the car nipped at the exit of Turn 14.

Your heart missed a beat.

The McLaren wobbled, taking the slide, but it had lost him time. He crossed the line—P4.

Good, but not good enough.

You ripped off your headset, exhaling sharply. He could've been on the front row. That mistake had cost him.

As he climbed out of the car, his jaw was tight, annoyance clear in the way he tore off his gloves. But as soon as his eyes locked with yours, some of that tension eased.

You didn't say anything immediately. You just kept looking at him, unspoken comprehension between you.

Then, finally—

"We'll get them tomorrow," you whispered.

His shoulders relaxed. He nodded. "Yeah. We will."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Sunday – Race Day

The Monaco Grand Prix was ruthless.

Year after year, it was chaos. Crashes, strategy gambles, pit stop drama—it was never an easy race.

And today was no different.

You were on the pit wall, gripping the rail as Lando fought lap after lap, hanging onto P3 for dear life. His tires were going. The Ferrari behind him was closing in. Your heart was in your mouth each time he came through the tunnel.

Five laps to go.

Three.

Final lap.

He took the line—P3. Podium.

The garage erupted. Cheers, hugs, high-fives. But you barely heard any of them since you were already heading towards parc fermé.

By the time Lando emerged from the car, champagne still dripping from his suit, his eyes were only looking for one person.

You.

And once he saw you, he didn't waste any time.

Helmet off, curls wet with sweat, race suit undone at the top—he didn't care about the cameras, the thousands of people watching. He just walked right up to you and pulled you into his arms.

It was quick, barely a second, but the way he held on to you—his forehead against yours, his breathing rough with adrenaline—you knew.

"Thank you," he whispered, voice rough.

"For what?" you whispered in return.

He pulled back slightly, only enough to be able to look at you properly. His hand was still at your waist, fingers drawing along the fabric of your team uniform.

"For believing in me," he said simply.

Your heart missed a beat.

And in a moment, it did not matter that you were before the world. That the cameras were capturing this moment. That there were rules governing how close a driver and a mechanic could be.

Because this?

This was yours.

And nothing—not even Formula 1—could ever take that away.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

[diaryofavillainwhore]

— Don’t Make Me Pause 🎮

Tomura barely acknowledged you when you climbed into his lap. He had opened the button on his boxers and his cock stood, hard and heavy. Just adjusted the mic, leaned back a little. He let you sink down on him without a word, without looking.

“Make it quick,” he muttered, eyes still glued to the screen. “I’m mid-match.”

You didn’t. You moved slow. Your thighs flexed, pussy gripping tight as you rolled your hips, dragging out every inch like you had all the time in the fucking world. You could feel how hard he was clenching his controller, how tense his jaw was through the moans he was biting down.

“Yo, what’s that noise?” a voice crackled through his headset.

“Nothing,” Tomura grunted, fucking twitchy as hell. “Your mom, maybe.”

You smirked, dragging your nails down his chest, lifting just enough to make him hiss and then sinking back down again with a slick squelch that made him stutter in comms.

“You good, bro?”

“I said shut the fuck up.”

He gripped your hip with one hand, knuckles pale, but still didn’t look at you. Wouldn’t give you the satisfaction. You clenched around him deliberately, grinding down hard while you whispered filth into his ear.

“Don’t lose,” you teased. “Or I’ll stop moving.”

“You stop, and I’ll put you through the fucking floor.”

“Promises, promises.”

You rode him slow and cruel, rolling your hips just enough to keep him on the edge. Squeezing him tight and warm and wet, making it impossible to focus while the game screamed around him. When he came, it was with a choked grunt, one hand yanking the headset off mid-orgasm, the other crushing the controller to the floor.

“You little fucking brat,” he panted, grabbing you by the throat and hauling you down for a kiss that tasted like desperation and gamer rage. “Next time I am putting you on camera.”

You squealed in delight as he put you on all fours and drove into you. One hand covering your mouth, his eyes flicking to the screen and back to where he fucked into you.

[lazy-ahh]

YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE GOES GOOD WITH GAMING?

pairing mark grayson x male reader

you’ve waited weeks for him to return from his mission, and now he’s here, warm and insistent against you, while your ranked match blares ignored on the screen. the worst part? you don't mind losing. despite the weeks of hard work. you want his lips on yours, his weight pressing you into the chair, the way he murmurs "i missed you" between kisses like it’s a confession. but you’ve clawed your way to this rank-up game, and you never quit—even when mark’s tongue is lapping up the precome leaking from your tip and your fingers are trembling on the keyboard.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia

mark’s been gone for weeks—some off-world mission, because apparently, the universe can’t handle itself without him. not that you’d admit it, but you missed him. more than you should. more than you’d ever let him know. you caught yourself staring at your window too often, half-expecting to see his silhouette against the glass, that infuriatingly patient tap-tap-tap before you’d let him in. as if he didn’t know you left the damn thing unlocked for him every night. typical.

everything reminded you of him, which was unacceptable. so you buried yourself in distractions—school, homework, then straight to your pc, booting up marvel rivals before you could even think about how quiet the room felt without him. the game had been his idea, of course. he’d all but shoved it at you, that stupid, eager grin on his face as he said, "just try it. if you hate it, i’ll never bring it up again. but you won’t." as if he hadn’t already known you’d love it.

at first, he was the one explaining everything—mechanics, lore, all that useless trivia he’d absorbed like some kind of nerd-shaped sponge. "see, magik’s portals work like this—" or "no, don’t engage yet, strange’s cooldown is—" annoying. endearing. you’d never admit either out loud. but then you got better. faster. soon, you were the one calling shots, dragging his sorry ass through ranked matches while he laughed in your ear, loud and unguarded, every time you pulled off some insane play. "holy shit—did you just parry that ult?! that’s illegal. you’re actually cracked. YOU JUST SAVED MY LIFE OH BABY I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU-"

he never complained, even when you outclassed him. just watched you with that quiet, proud look, like he’d somehow won just by getting you to play. sometimes, when you were both too tired for another match but not tired enough to log off, he’d let his character idle beside yours in the lobby, humming some off-key tune while you fiddled with skins. "you’re keeping me up," you’d grumble. "then kick me out," he’d shoot back, knowing full well you wouldn’t.

now, with him gone, solo queue was a nightmare. you tried comms, but it was a coin toss—either decent teammates or the kind of toxic dps mains who threw matches the second things went south. you added a few tolerable players, grinding comp at set times, but most of your matches were still solo. and you’d climbed. platinum, after weeks of stubborn, teeth-gritted effort. you could already picture mark’s reaction—that mix of irritation (probably pretend) and admiration he got whenever you outdid him. not that you’d gloat. much.

the real problem would be playing together once you hit diamond. he was still stuck in gold, and you refused to smurf. so for now, you were stuck in elo hell—platinum I to diamond III, then back down again, in a cycle that felt like the universe mocking you. but you’d figure it out. you always did. and when he got back, you’d make sure he knew exactly how much ground he had to cover to keep up.

you were half-heartedly proofreading your essay, the queue timer ticking away in the corner of your screen, when your hand moved before your brain could stop it—grabbing your phone, unlocking it, immediately swiping to mark’s messages like muscle memory. it was a bad habit at this point. every idle moment, every second of downtime, your fingers betrayed you, pulling up his chat like some pathetic reflex. and there they were, still staring back at you: his last messages from weeks ago, before comms cut out and space swallowed him whole.

your thumb hovered over the screen, tracing the timestamp like you could will it to change. then—there. that stupid, stupid one-liner he’d sent right before losing signal: ‘try not to miss me too much!’ as if he hadn’t known exactly what he was doing. as if you weren’t already doing exactly that.

a quiet, involuntary laugh escaped you, sharp and fond all at once. "idiot," you muttered, but the word came out too soft, too warm, and you hated how easily he could drag that out of you. like you were some sappy romance protagonist instead of yourself. you tossed your phone back onto the desk, maybe a little harder than necessary, and forced your eyes back to your essay.

it didn’t work. the words blurred together, your focus already frayed, and you could feel the heat creeping up your neck. stupid. stupid markus sebastian grayson, turning you into this—some lovesick fool who couldn’t even function right without him around. worst of all? you knew he’d be grinning if he saw you like this. that smug, infuriating look he got when he realized he’d gotten under your skin.

you gritted your teeth and stabbed at your keyboard, queue be damned. you had an essay to finish. and not think about him.

and then—as if the universe itself was mocking you—tap-tap-tap.

your head snapped up so fast your neck protested. for a second, you wondered if you’d finally lost it, conjuring him up out of sheer, pathetic longing. but no. there he was, floating outside your window like some overgrown, dirt-streaked moth, his stupid grin brighter than the goddamn moon behind him.

mark looked wrecked—hair a mess, suit scuffed, one of his lenses cracked—but his smile was the same as always: crooked, too-wide, the kind that crinkled his eyes and made his stupid dimples pop. like he’d been waiting for this moment, like seeing you was the best part of his damn day.

and then—because you were a fool—you scrambled for the window like some desperate rom-com lead, fumbling with the latch like you hadn’t left it unlocked for him on purpose. your face burned. disgraceful.

mark’s expression flickered—confusion, then worry, his smile dropping as he darted forward. "baby? is everything alright?"

before you could even attempt to salvage your dignity, he was inside, his hands cradling your face like you were something fragile. his palms were rough, still warm from flight, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he searched for injuries. "you okay? you look—" he paused, studying your flushed face, the way you were very pointedly not meeting his eyes. then, slowly, his lips twitched. "…oh."

oh. like he’d just figured you out. like he knew.

you wanted to die. "shut up," you muttered, but it lacked any real bite—not when your traitorous heart was pounding loud enough for both of you to hear.

mark’s grin softened, something unbearably fond in his eyes as he leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. "missed me that much, huh?"

"no," you lied, immediately.

he laughed, quiet and warm, and you hated how it made your chest ache. "liar."

and then—because he was the worst—he kissed your stupid, burning cheeks, one after the other, like he was savoring the way you squirmed. "it’s okay," he murmured, lips brushing your skin. "i missed you too."

you were never living this down.

and then—because he was the absolute worst—he kissed your stupid, burning cheeks, one after the other, lingering just to feel the way you tensed under his touch. "it’s okay," he murmured, lips brushing your skin like he was savoring every second of your embarrassment. "i missed you too."

you were never living this down.

just as you opened your mouth to snap something—anything—to wipe that smug look off his face, your pc chimed. the two of you turned in unison, and there it was, flashing bright and mocking on your screen: match found.

"shit," you hissed, scrambling back toward your desk. "i forgot to fucking cancel queue—"

mark barked out a laugh, loud and delighted. "no way. you’ve been grinding rivals this whole time?" he was already following you, leaning over your shoulder with that infuriating grin. "aw, baby. did you miss me or the game more?"

you elbowed him hard enough to make him oof, but he didn’t budge, just hooked his chin over your shoulder as you frantically clicked to lock in your character. "shut up. i was bored."

"uh-huh," he drawled, eyes scanning the screen. then—"holy shit." his fingers dug into your shoulders. "you’re one game from diamond?!"

you could feel the grin in his voice before you even saw it—that stupid, contagious excitement thrumming through him like a live wire. it was unbearable. worse, it was working, that familiar warmth pooling in your chest despite your best efforts to stomp it out. pathetic. since when did you let him sway you so easily?

"took you long enough to notice," you muttered, aiming for derision but landing somewhere dangerously close to fond. your chest tightened traitorously when he let out that low, impressed whistle—the same one he used when you pulled off something reckless in the field. like you’d impressed him.

"damn. guess i’ve gotta step up my game." his lips brushed your temple, lingering just long enough to make your fingers twitch on the keyboard. you jerked your shoulder up to shove him off, but he just laughed, the vibration of it rattling through your ribs. "carry me when i’m back in gold, yeah?"

"in your fucking dreams," you snarled, but the bite dissolved the second his laugh vibrated through your shoulder—warm and familiar and alive, filling up the hollow spaces his absence had carved into your room for weeks. your traitorous heartbeat steadied against your ribs, and you didn’t shove him off when his chin dug into your shoulder. pathetic.

you’d never admit it out loud—would rather chew glass than acknowledge how much you’d missed this—but his presence at your back, solid and warm and breathing, made your fingers stutter over the character select screen.

then mark, the insufferable bastard, decided words weren’t enough.

his lips found the hinge of your jaw first—soft, teasing—then the corner of your mouth when you tilted your head automatically. "distracting me on purpose?" you muttered, but the protest cracked when his teeth grazed your bottom lip.

"is it working?" he murmured against your mouth, all smugness, and you hated how easily your body betrayed you, leaning towards him with a scoff that turned into a sharp inhale when his tongue swept over yours.

his hands cradled your face like you were something precious, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as he kissed you slow and deep, the way he knew unraveled you. your fingers curled around his wrist—anchoring, needing—while your other hand slid up to cup his jaw.

when you finally pulled back to breathe (because unlike him, you were human, damn it), mark didn’t go far. his forehead stayed pressed to yours, lips swollen and curved into that stupid, satisfied smile, his breaths just as uneven as yours. his eyes were half-lidded, dark with something unbearably fond as they traced your face—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your fingers still clung to him like you’d die if he let go.

"missed you," he whispered, like it was a secret.

you swallowed the i missed you more threatening to spill out. "shut up. i’m trying to rank up." you shoved at his chest, but your fingers curled into his suit instead of pushing him away—another pathetic betrayal your body refused to stop committing.

mark’s grin turned wicked, eyes flashing with that infuriating knowing look as he chased your lips before you could even think to turn back to the screen. his hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he kissed you again, deeper this time, hungrier. his tongue swept against yours, slow and teasing, then insistent when you made a noise embarrassingly close to a whimper.

you could feel his smirk against your mouth, the way his free hand gripped your thigh to pull you closer, his body pressing yours back into the chair until you were arching up into him without thought. his teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging just enough to make your stomach flip, and when you gasped, he took advantage, licking into your mouth like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.

your hands were everywhere—one fisted in his hair, the other clutching at his shoulder, nails digging in when he nipped at your tongue. his breath hitched, and the sound went straight to your already-fogged head. you could feel his heartbeat where your thumb brushed his pulse point, wild and alive, and it made something possessive curl in your chest.

then—

the sudden blare of the match-starting music ripped through the haze.

you jerked back, breath ragged, lips swollen and wet, just in time to see your character standing idle on-screen, the round start timer already counting down.

"fuck," you hissed through gritted teeth, fingers scrambling across the keyboard with desperate precision. mark blinked, dumbfounded as he processed your sudden panic before chuckling, that infuriatingly warm puff of air hitting your pulse point. "seriously?" his arms tightened around your shoulders in protest, nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck like some overgrown cat refusing to move from its favorite spot.

"you're really playing right now?" he murmured, lips forming the words against your skin in a way that made your fingers stutter on the WASD keys. the amusement in his voice was unbearable, especially when you could feel his smirk pressed into your shoulder.

"one game away from diamond," you muttered, the words coming out flatter than you intended. the forced casualness did nothing to mask the frustrated and disappointed edge underneath. "if i leave now, i lose twenty fucking points."

mark sighed dramatically, the full weight of his disappointment radiating through his entire body before he finally—reluctantly—peeled himself away. the sudden absence of his warmth against your back felt criminal, and it took every ounce of your pitiful self-control not to spin your chair around and drag him back by his sinfully narrow waist. "fine, fine," he conceded, stretching with exaggerated resignation. "I'll go shower. but you owe me," he added, pausing just long enough to press one last kiss to the top of your head—chaste but loaded with promise—before sauntering toward the bathroom with that infuriatingly perfect sway to his hips.

you waited until the bathroom door clicked shut before allowing yourself one single, shaky exhale, your fingers finally steadying on the mouse as you looked at your character. the screen blurred for just a second before you violently blinked it back into focus. damn this stupid game. damn mark for being so distracting. and damn you most of all for caring about either.

the match loads in with that familiar chime, and suddenly the world narrows to the glow of your monitor—every neuron firing, every muscle coiled tight with precision. your fingers dance across the keyboard in practiced patterns, movements sharp and lethal despite the phantom heat still burning where mark's lips had been moments ago. focus. you need to focus.

the numbers don't lie—48% ult charge, one teammate already flaming in chat, the enemy hawkeye picking your supports like fucking target practice. your teeth grind together hard enough to hurt. stupid. you never should've filled as support. if you'd locked in iron fist from the start, this match would've been over already.

when the third round starts with another pathetic stagger, you snap. "swap with me," you speak into voice chat, voice steady and determined, already selecting iron fist before the whiny psylocke main can protest. the second the lock-in confirmation pings, your shoulders drop half an inch—better. this you can work with. this you can carry.

your crosshair finds the enemy healer's skull just as—

warm fingers skate up your inner thigh, slow and deliberate. mark's palm presses flush against your leg, his thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric of your sweats.

your entire body jerks so hard your knee slams into the desk—mark's suddenly between your legs like some fucking phantom, all sharp teeth and wicked gleam in his eyes as he looks up at you. "what the fuck," you snarl, but he just presses a single finger to his lips, the bastard, like this is some goddamn library and not your room.

"don't let me distract you," he murmurs, voice dripping with false innocence—and then his clever fingers are sliding your sweats down with agonizing slowness. you should shove him off. you should. but your hands stay frozen over the keyboard even as your pulse jackrabbits in your throat.

then his mouth—fuck—his mouth is on you, and the world narrows to the wet heat of his tongue dragging up your cock in one long, filthy lick, from base to tip, slow enough to make your thighs tremble. he lingers at the head, swirling the flat of his tongue over the slit just to hear the choked noise it punches from your throat. bastard.

he does it again—slower this time, savoring the way your hips jerk up, your fingers flexing like you can’t decide whether to shove him off or pull him closer. but mark just hums, amused, and pins you down with one broad hand splayed across your stomach, his grip firm enough to keep you in place but gentle enough that you could break free if you really wanted to. (you don’t.)

then he sinks down, taking you into his mouth inch by inch, his lips stretched tight around you, his tongue pressing up against the underside in a way that makes your vision blur. he pulls off just as slow, dragging his teeth just shy of too much, before diving back down like he’s got all the time in the world. like he wants to ruin you.

and the worst part? he’s watching you the whole time—eyes dark, lashes low, his gaze locked onto your face like he’s memorizing every twitch of your expression, every bitten-off curse. like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

it’s unbearable.

your character dodges a stun on pure muscle memory because christ—the way mark hollows his cheeks, lips stretched obscenely around you, the wet slick sounds filling the room every time he pulls up just to plunge back down. his eyelashes flutter against flushed skin when your thighs instinctively squeeze around his head, and your mouse creaks under your death grip, sweat rolling down your temples as you choke back a moan that's been building in your throat for minutes.

"m-mark—" you hiss through clenched teeth, but he just hums around you, the vibration shooting straight to your spine. your foot kicks out involuntarily, knocking against a wall as he picks up the pace, lips red and slick with spit, watching you unravel above him. the match is chaos—your team screams comms in voice chat, frantic calls to focus the enemy tank, but all you hear is the filthy slide of his mouth and your own ragged breathing.

you're so fucked.

mark's tongue drags along the underside of your cock with practiced precision, swirling around the head before sinking down until your hips twitch against the chair. his throat works around you, warm and tight, and you barely register the kill feed flashing on-screen as your healer dies, leaving you alone on point with the overtime bar bleeding out. for one delirious second, you think there goes my rank-up game—but your hands move anyway, your body reacting on pure instinct as you somehow, somehow clutch the round.

"p-please—" the word tears out of you like a surrender, raw and desperate in a way that would’ve had you recoiling if your brain wasn’t reduced to static. your fingers twist in mark’s hair—pulling? pushing?—as your hips stutter helplessly. "mark, please, go—ah—go easy—" it’s pathetic, how your voice cracks on the last syllable, how your thighs tremble under his palms like you’re some inexperienced kid instead of—

mark listens, but not the way you wanted. he pulls off with a filthy, wet pop, your cock twitching against your stomach, flushed and glistening under the low light. the bastard has the audacity to grin, lips slick and swollen, breath coming in quick puffs against your overheated skin. "that good, huh?" he rasps, dragging his tongue along your length in one torturously slow stripe, savoring the way your abs clench violently.

you barely have time to gasp before he’s mouthing at the head, pressing wet, open kisses along the vein underneath—teasing, always teasing—his breath scorching where you’re oversensitive and throbbing. then—just as the enemy team respawns, just as your team’s frantic pings flood the screen—he swallows you back down in one smooth slide, deep, until his nose brushes your stomach and he stays, throat working around you in slow, deliberate pulses.

your hips jerk instinctively, chasing friction, but mark just digs his fingers into your thighs, pinning you to the chair with infuriating ease. the contrast is maddening—the game’s frantic audio in your headphones, your team’s character voice lines of getting hurt, the enemy pushing point—while mark’s mouth is nothing but molten stillness, his tongue pressing just there every time you twitch. sweat drips down your temple. your knuckles whiten on the mouse. you can’t tell if the choked noise that escapes you is from the hawkeye headshot that just wiped your backline or the way mark breathes through his nose, content to let you unravel in his grip.

his eyes flick up to yours through his lashes—dark, amused, the bastard—lips stretched obscenely around you as he watches your screen with detached interest. like this is just another game to him. like he knows you’re two seconds from either throwing the match or throwing your dignity out the window to fuck into his throat.

somehow—through the haze of sweat and mark’s fucking teeth grazing you on an upstroke, through the way your thighs tremble around his shoulders—you clutch. iron fist’s ult meter hits 100% with a deafening chime. your muscles coil, every fiber taut with tension, and mark’s grip tightens on your hips in warning, nails biting into skin. but you launch yourself into the backline anyway, the kill feed exploding in a burst of color. triple. quad. your team’s hysterical screaming in voice chat drowns out the wet, obscene sound of mark finally moving, sucking you down to the root just as "victory" flashes across the screen in blinding gold.

your team continues to scream—cheering, cracking jokes, their earlier hostility forgotten in the adrenaline rush. you would've thought this was a beautiful moment if you weren't currently being sucked off by your boyfriend. you mutter a breathless "gg" into the mic, lips twitching at the chorus of "holy shit, w fucking iron fist!" before you’re cutting them off with a sharp click of your mouse. the headset hits the desk with a clatter.

you don’t even get to savor the win. mark’s hands are on your hips now, dragging you to the edge of the chair with a roughness that makes your stomach flip. his nose presses into your stomach, lips sealed tight as he swallows around you with a filthy, shuddering groan—like he’s been waiting this whole fucking match to ruin you properly. your back arches off the chair, fingers tangling in his hair hard enough to hurt, but he just moans around you, eyes fluttering shut like this is exactly where he wants to be. like he’d happily die here, between your thighs.

"f-fuck—mark—" you whimper, but it’s too late. he’s not stopping this time.

his tongue drags along the underside of your cock in a slow, filthy stripe before he takes you deep again, one hand sliding up your chest to thumb at your nipple through your shirt. the dual sensation punches a ragged noise from your throat, your hips jerking involuntarily. mark hums in approval, the vibration rippling through you like a live wire. his free hand slips under your thigh, hiking your leg over his shoulder to press you even closer, until you can feel every hitched breath he takes through your skin.

he pulls off just to mouth at the head, tongue circling the slit with agonizing precision, and you whine, high and desperate. his eyes flick up to yours, dark with something unbearably fond even as his lips glisten with spit. "love you like this," he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked. "all mine. fucking perfect. i missed you so much baby, you don't even know the half of it—"

then he’s sinking down again, taking you until his throat flutters around the tip, and you’re gone—fingers tightening in his hair as you spill down his throat with a broken cry. mark swallows every drop, lips staying locked around you until you’re twitching from oversensitivity, until your grip on his hair loosens to cradle his face instead.

when he finally pulls away, his lips are swollen, his cheeks flushed. he rests his forehead against your thigh, breathing hard, and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh—soft, reverent. like you’re something sacred.

"welcome home," you mutter, voice hoarse.

mark's grin is worth every goddamn second of the wait—all bright-eyed and breathless, his lips kiss-swollen from where you'd bitten them. you're still coming down from your high, chest heaving, fingers trembling against the keyboard where you'd gripped it too tight. you should shove him off. you would shove him off. any second now.

"baby," mark murmurs, and fuck, the way your stupid traitorous heart lurches at that tone—all soft and reverent, like you're something precious instead of a mess of sweat and frustration and arousal. his fingers trail down your stomach, feather-light, and you hate how your body arches into the touch before your brain catches up.

"don't—" you start, but it comes out hoarse, ruined. mark just smiles, that dorky, infuriating smile that makes your chest ache, and presses a kiss to your shoulder while his other hand navigates your mouse with infuriating ease.

"c'mon, diamond boy," he teases, clicking queue with one hand while the other slips lower, fingers tracing your rim in slow, maddening circles. "wouldn't want you to lose your hard-earned rank, would we?"

you choke on air when his fingers slide past your lips—calloused and tasting faintly of salt—pressing down on your tongue with deliberate pressure. "suck," mark murmurs, and your traitorous mouth obeys before your pride can protest, hollowing your cheeks as you work his fingers wet. his breath hitches when your teeth graze his knuckles, his other hand fisting his own cock through his pants at the sight of you—lips stretched, lashes fluttering, teary-eyed, that fucked-out daze already clouding your expression just from this.

then those slick fingers are dragging down your stomach, pushing past your thighs, and—"fuck—" your hips jerk when one curls inside you, crooking just right. "you're insufferable," you spit, but it loses all bite when your hands scramble uselessly between the desk and his wrist, torn between shoving him away and grinding down onto his hand.

mark laughs against your pulse point, the vibration rattling through your ribs as he adds a second finger with that same unbearable patience, stretching you slow. "keep playing," he breathes into your ear, twisting his wrist to drag a broken noise from your throat. "i wanna see you try to focus when i'm fucking you full of my cock."

the match loads in with that obnoxiously bright chime, but the sound barely registers—not when mark’s fingers crook just right, scissoring deep and dragging a broken moan from your throat. your vision whites out for a second, hips jerking uselessly against his hand as he adds a third finger, stretching you with that infuriating, practiced ease.

"fuck, you’re tight," mark murmurs against the shell of your ear, his free hand sliding up to palm your chest, thumb brushing over your nipple. "when was the last time you touched yourself, baby?"

you choke on a gasp when his fingers press deeper, hitting that spot that makes your thighs tremble. "few—fuck—few weeks ago," you manage, voice ragged. "didn’t— didn’t do shit. couldn’t—"

his teeth graze your earlobe, sharp and teasing. "couldn’t what?"

you hate how breathless you sound. "couldn’t reach deep enough. wasn’t—hnng—wasn’t you."

mark groans, low and filthy, his fingers stilling inside you just to feel how you clench around them. "christ, you’re gonna kill me," he mutters, but he’s grinning when he nips at your jaw. "lucky for you, i’m real good at reaching where you need me, huh?"

you scoff, the immersion breaking for a second as you look at him unimpressed, "did you really just say that—ahh—" and then he curls his fingers just so, and you’re pretty sure the entire universe short-circuits.

mark withdraws his fingers with a slick sound, and the emptiness is agony. your head drops forward, teary eyes staring down at yourself—flushed, trembling, needy—and you hate how pathetic you look. how wrecked he’s made you already. his cock twitches in his pants at the sight, and the groan he lets out is filthy. "look at you," he murmurs, voice rough. "all desperate for me."

before you can snap something defensive, his hands are on your hips, hauling you up with that stupid superhuman strength of his. you stumble, legs shaky, but he steadies you effortlessly—then drops into your chair, pulling you down onto his lap in one smooth motion. the heat of him sears through his clothes, and you feel him, hard and eager beneath his boxers, the fabric damp where he’s been leaking for you.

"there," mark murmurs, his breath hot against your ear as his hands slide up your thighs, pushing your legs apart wider. you can hear the smirk in his voice when he adds, "better view, yeah?" his fingers make quick work of his own pants, shoving them down just enough to free his cock—already hard and leaking against your back. "still gotta pick, baby," he teases, nipping at your earlobe when you hesitate on the character select screen. "unless you wanna dodge? though, i don't think you can dodge in this game."

you scoff, locking in iron fist with more force than necessary. "shut up."

the game loads in a blur of colors and sound, but all you can focus on is mark's teeth sinking into your shoulder as you guide your character toward the point. his hands roam your chest, pinching and teasing until you're squirming in your seat. "f-focus on the fucking game," you mutter, even as your hips push back against him.

mark just laughs, low and dark, before licking a stripe up your neck. "giving yourself pep-talk? how cute."

"i swear to god, markus sebastian grayson, if you say one more cheesy thing i will throw you out of my room."

when the enemy team finally pushes in, bullets and abilities flying across your screen, mark chooses that exact moment to shove two fingers past your lips. "suck," he orders, and you do—tongue swirling around his digits, moaning when he curls them just right. he pulls them out slick with your spit, trailing them down your stomach before reaching between your legs.

"f-fuck—" you choke out as his spit-slick fingers circle your rim, teasing before one pushes in to the second knuckle. your back arches off the chair, thighs spreading wider despite the game still raging onscreen. "mark—!"

"that’s it," he growls, his free hand groping your chest as he works you open again—first one finger, then two, scissoring slow until you’re panting, your neglected cock dripping onto your stomach. his own erection grinds against your lower back, leaking precome onto your skin. "still gonna carry, or am i too distracting?" he taunts, curling his fingers just so until you see white.

you barely register the starlord that flanks your team from behind you, killing your punisher as mark withdraws his fingers, leaving you clenching around nothing. "look at you," he murmurs, lining up his cock—thick and flushed and yours—against your hole. "already fucking yourself back on my fingers like you’re starving for it." he pushes in slow, just the tip at first, and the stretch burns so good your toes curl. "shit—" he groans, hips stuttering when you clench around him. "still so tight, even after i loosened you up. fucking perfect."

he pulls out until just the head remains, those shallow, teasing thrusts making your nails scrape against the keyboard. "more—" you demand, voice cracking, but mark just laughs—bright and smug—keeping the pace agonizingly slow.

"beg prettier," he murmurs against your ear, and you’re going to fucking murder him later.

the thought evaporates when your character dies on screen, a sharp "fuck!" tearing from your throat as your head thuds back against his shoulder. mark’s chuckle vibrates through your spine. "distracted, baby?"

"shut the fuck up," you groan, but your hips twitch back against him instinctively, seeking friction. his hands tighten around your waist, holding you still.

"uh-uh. you wanted to play." his teeth graze your earlobe. "so play."

then your character respawns, and you barely have time to register the 30 SECONDS OF OVERTIME warning before mark slams up into you in one brutal thrust, filling you completely. your back arches as you come with a choked gasp, vision whiting out around the edges—

"that’s it, sweetheart," mark praises, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to bruise before soothing it with his tongue. his arms cage you against the desk, his cock twitching inside you as he murmurs nonsense into your skin: "so good for me, taking me so well—fuck, look at you."

you’re trembling, oversensitive, but the game’s still going. with a shaky breath, you force your hands back onto the keyboard, your movements sluggish as you try to focus past the haze. mark hums approvingly, resting his chin on your shoulder to watch the screen, his cock still buried deep. every slight shift of his hips—every lazy pulse inside you—has your fingers stuttering on the keys.

"c'mon, baby," mark murmurs against your jaw, his breath warm as his fingers trail higher up your thigh. "carry us." his other hand slips around your waist, pulling you back flush against his chest—solid and familiar and home after weeks of empty space and staticky comms. "missed watching you play," he admits quietly, lips brushing your earlobe. "missed watching you win."

you're going to strangle him. after you win.

his nose nuzzles into the space behind your ear, inhaling deeply like he's memorizing your scent. "god, missed you," he continues, voice going rough around the edges. "mission was hell without your voice in my ear. kept thinking about how you'd chew me out for taking stupid risks." a soft laugh vibrates through his chest and into yours. "missed that too."

your fingers hesitate on the keyboard for half a second before you tilt your head just enough to press a grudging kiss to his jaw—the closest part of him you can reach without twisting your entire body. "i missed you too, beloved," you mutter, the endearment slipping out despite yourself. "but right now, i'm trying to focus."

mark makes a wounded noise at the nickname, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "say that again," he demands against your throat, lips dragging wet and insistent over your pulse. "c’mon, sweetheart, just once more—" his hips shift minutely, and fuck, you feel it—the way his cock twitches inside you, already so hard it makes your breath stutter. your grip on the mouse tightens reflexively, knuckles going white around it as you try to focus on the flickering screen instead of the heat of him buried to the hilt.

"later," you rasp, securing a kill and kicking away through sheer muscle memory. "if you can fucking behave."

mark groans like you’ve wounded him, but he mostly stills—except for the way his fingers keep tracing absent, possessive circles low on your stomach, except for the way his lips keep finding patches of skin to suck bruises into between ragged breaths. "better win fast then," he murmurs, teeth scraping your shoulder in warning. "cause i missed all of you, [y/n]."

your eyes flick down instinctively—and there, just below your navel, the faintest swell where the tip of him presses up inside you. the sight punches a shaky noise from your throat, your body clenching around him before you can stop yourself.

"f-fuck—" mark’s whimper is wrecked, his forehead dropping heavily between your shoulder blades as his hips jerk involuntarily. you can feel him throbbing, the slick drag of him as he accidentally pushes deeper. "christ, you’re gonna kill me," he grits out, fingers trembling where they splay across your stomach like he’s mapping the bulge.

you swallow hard, throat bobbing against the thick press of him inside you, forcing your attention back to the screen even as your thighs tremble on top of mark's. "then fucking stop moving," you snap, but your voice fractures halfway through, turning the command into something embarrassingly close to a plea. the kill feed lights up with your username in bold strokes but the victory does nothing to hide how wrecked you already sound, how your walls flutter around him when he chuckles darkly against your neck.

"you're doing so good, baby," mark murmurs, lips dragging along your pulse point as his hands slide up your chest. his thumbs brush over your nipples through your shirt, teasing just enough to make you jolt but not enough to truly distract—not when you're finally gaining ground, finally winning. "carrying this match and taking me so well..."

you bite back a whimper, fingers flying across the keyboard as you cap the point. eight minutes. eight agonizing minutes of mark's cock seated deep inside you, his hips making tiny, barely-there rolls whenever you did something particularly impressive—a well-timed ult, a perfect parry—until you were dripping around him, your sweat-slicked back sticking to his chest. you don't even remember when you (or mark) had taken your shirt off. the start had been a disaster, but after forcing that useless jeff to swap, after taking matters into your own hands, your team steamrolled through the enemy like they were nothing. just like you knew they would.

the victory screen flashes gold, the triumphant DING of your rank-up swallowed whole by the filthy, wet sound of mark’s cock driving into you—deep, too deep, the angle so brutal your vision whites out for a second. his hands lock around your waist, flipping you before you can even process it, and suddenly you’re straddling him, knees digging into your chair as he yanks you down onto him with a groan that rattles your bones.

"fuck, look at you," mark gasps, voice shredded. his fingers scramble over your hips, your stomach, your chest—like he can’t decide where to touch first, like he’s starving for all of you at once. his hips snap up, relentless, the thick drag of him punching a broken noise from your throat. "all mine. perfect for me."

his praise is molten, spilling between feverish kisses, between the slick clash of tongues as he licks into your mouth. you can taste your name on his lips, sweet and desperate. his cock brushes that spot inside you with every thrust, just right, and your back arches on instinct, nails biting into his shoulders hard enough to bruise.

"knew you could do it," he growls, hands fisting in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to his teeth. "knew you’d win. my brilliant, beautiful boy—"

his voice cracks on the last word, and god, the way he’s looking at you—eyes black with want, lips swollen from kissing you stupid, his usual awkward confidence unraveled into something raw and needy—it’s worse than the pleasure, worse than the way his cock stretches you open. because this? this is mark grayson coming apart beneath you, for you, his breath coming in ragged bursts as his grip on your hips turns possessive.

you’re both a wreck—skin gleaming with sweat, your thighs trembling where they bracket his hips, the filthy, wet sound of him sliding into you over and over until your vision whites out at the edges. his grip on your hips is brutal, thumbs pressing into the bone hard enough to bruise, holding you down as he grinds up with a snap of his hips that punches a sob from your throat. "mark—!" his name comes out broken, slurred between panting breaths, and he’s no better, his voice ragged as he chokes out, "that’s it, baby, take it—fuck, just like that—" like he’s unraveling, like he’s worshipping you.

you cut him off with a sharp roll of your hips, stealing the groan right from his lips as you take control, your fingers tangling in his hair to yank his head back. "shut up," you mutter, but it’s fond, "you’re so fucking loud." his hands scramble at your back, blunt nails dragging red lines down your skin as you ride him with ruthless precision, chasing your own pleasure just as much as his, the whimpers and groans coming from his lips not stopping. the chair creaks dangerously beneath you, your forgotten headset hitting the floor with a clatter, but you don’t care—not when mark’s thrusts are growing erratic, his rhythm faltering under your relentless pace.

you lean in, teeth scraping his cheekbone before you kiss him, messy and biting, swallowing his gasp as you nip at his bottom lip. "gonna come already?" you taunt, voice rough, "thought you had more stamina than that."

mark growls—low and feral, the sound rumbling through your chest like thunder—and suddenly the world tilts. his arm snakes around your waist, hauling you back flush against him with a brutal yank that makes your gaming chair screech in protest. your chest meets his, sweat-slick and heaving, as he manhandles you like you weigh nothing.

one hand fists in your hair, wrenching your head back to expose your throat while the other grabs both your wrists, pinning them behind you with crushing ease. "stay still," he groans against your ear, voice ragged with want, and then he’s moving—snapping his hips up hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, each thrust deeper, meaner, the angle punching ragged moans from your throat.

you’re burning. tears streak down your face, hot and humiliating, but you can’t—fuck, you can’t stop the way your body arches into him, the way your thighs tremble as he fucks up into you with punishing precision. his hand gropes your ass, fingers digging into flesh as he holds you at that perfect, devastating angle, every drag of his cock lighting your nerves on fire.

"that’s it," mark pants, his breath scalding against your shoulder. "take it. fucking take it." his pace turns brutal, the wet slap of skin on skin drowning out the game’s distant lobby music. you don’t care. can’t care. not when he’s ruining you like this, not when every snap of his hips has you sobbing, oversensitive and wrecked but needing more—

"fuck, look at you," he pants against your ear, voice wrecked as he watches his cock disappear into you with every snap of his hips. "taking me so fucking good—god, you feel perfect—" his words dissolve into a whimper when you clench around him, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he fucks into you with desperate, uneven thrusts.

you can feel him everywhere—the heat of his chest pressed against yours, the bite of his fingers on your wrists, the relentless stretch as he bottoms out again and again. "gonna—fuck—" mark's warning is barely coherent, his whole body tensing as he pulses inside you, his release hot and overwhelming. but he doesn't stop—can't stop, not when you're still clenching around him, not when your own orgasm is so close.

his hand slips between you, calloused fingers wrapping around your neglected cock, and it only takes three rough strokes before you're coming with a broken cry, painting both your stomachs in streaks of white. mark groans as you tighten around him, his hips stuttering through the aftershocks as he mouths at your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach—like he still can't get enough even now.

mark gathers you against his chest as you both come down, his lips pressing shaky, open-mouthed kisses to whatever skin he can reach—the sweat-damp curve of your temple, the corner of your swollen mouth, the frantic rabbit-quick jump of your pulse. "so good," he mumbles against your throat, voice wrecked and raw. "so fucking perfect for me. missed you—god, missed you so much, baby." his arms lock around you like steel bands, all that stupid superhuman strength trembling with the effort of not crushing you.

you feel him shift—his softening cock dragging slow and filthy out of you, the obscene wet sound making your thighs twitch—then pause. his breath hitches when he sees it: his cum starting to leak from your used hole, glistening in the dim light. a rough noise tears from his throat, and before you can even process it, he's pushing back in with one sharp roll of his hips, the thick head of his cock scooping up the spill and stuffing it back inside you where it belongs. "mine," he growls, biting at your shoulder as he seats himself to the hilt again, making sure not a single drop escapes.

you should shove him off. should snap something scathing about his disgusting possessiveness, his pathetic need to keep you full of him. but your traitorous hands fist in his hair instead, dragging his mouth to yours in a biting kiss as your legs lock around his hips. his groan vibrates through your chest when you arch up, taking him deeper—like you couldn't bear to let him pull away either. pathetic. you're both so fucking pathetic.

so. this was supposed to be a quick little 3-4k one-shot. supposed to be. but then reader and mark decided to have feelings (gross) and now here we are at 7.7k words of competitive gaming, unresolved tension, and mark being absolutely insufferable (affectionate). whoops? anyway, hope you enjoyed this self-indulgent mess as much as i enjoyed writing it—because honestly, i have no regrets.

[airosuiren]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔊𝔦𝔯𝔩 𝔚𝔥𝔬 𝔚𝔞𝔰𝔫’𝔱 ℭ𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢𝔫

A/N: OHHHH we’re starting like this??? Yes. Yes, we are. 😌 Welcome to the fic where the Batfamily fumbled so hard they created a monster. A genius. A legend. And then had the audacity to be surprised when they saw what they lost. This is not your usual redemption arc. This is the reckoning. This is "you had one job and still chose emotional neglect" energy. This is found-family-who-found-better-family energy. So grab a snack. Grab your emotional support crowbar. It’s time to show them what happens when you build yourself from the ashes they left you in.

Thank You @arislia for this Idea! I don't think this is that good (suffering from writer's block😭😭) I still hope you like it!

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 2, 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 3

You showed up at Wayne Manor the week Jason Todd’s body was lowered into the ground.

Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong life.

Grief soaked the halls like rot. No one spoke louder than a whisper. No one looked you in the eye. You were just another weight dropped onto a family already breaking.

Bruce didn’t welcome you. He tolerated you. Barely.

You could feel it every second—the tension, the blame, the absence. Jason’s ghost loomed larger than any living presence. His name was written in the silences. The locked doors. The way Bruce never quite looked at you when he spoke.

Still, you begged to stay. Begged to be part of it. You saw the cave, the mission, the masks—and you thought maybe you could matter if you bled for the same cause. You thought pain could buy you a place.

Bruce said yes.

Not out of hope.

Out of apathy.

You were never trained. You were thrown to wolves. Half-hearted lessons. Cold shoulders. Every patrol was a test you weren’t told how to pass. You were a cautionary tale in the making. The other kids avoided you. Damian sneered. Tim didn’t even register your presence.

And then you messed up.

It was supposed to be simple. In and out. You panicked. Damian got hurt. Bruce’s voice over comms was the coldest thing you’d ever heard.

You were benched. Permanently.

No conversation. No second chance. Just silence.

You became furniture in that house. A shadow. A mistake no one wanted to acknowledge. Alfred stopped knocking on your door. Meals went cold before they reached you. You were invisible—but not gone enough to be mourned like Jason.

So you pivoted.

Desperation turned inward. If you couldn’t fight beside them, maybe you could outthink them. Outshine them. Outgrow them.

You stopped sleeping. You studied until your hands shook. You pushed your body until it gave out. You vomited from stress and kept going. You begged the universe for one thing—see me.

Then came the others.

Dick came home. Tim got promoted. Cassandra arrived like poetry in motion. Bruce remarried. And the new daughter? She was everything you weren’t.

They loved her instantly. She had your dream. Your place. And she didn’t even have to ask for it.

You hated her.

You hated yourself more.

One fight. One moment of pettiness. You said something cruel. The kind of cruel that comes from years of being nothing. And they turned on you like wolves.

Even Alfred.

Especially Alfred.

They made it clear—you were the problem.

So you vanished.

Not physically. But emotionally. Mentally. You became a ghost with a pulse. But outside the Manor?

You became a monster.

You devoured every competition. Dominated every room. Wrote like your soul was burning. Played music like it was a scream for help. You climbed ranks in circles that didn’t even know what a Robin was.

Gotham called you a prodigy.

The Manor never called at all.

So you made new homes. The Queens in Star City. The Kents in Metropolis. They gave you warmth you didn’t know you missed until it wrapped around you.

Clark looked at you like you mattered. Lois praised your fire. Oliver bragged about you at every event. You were someone to them.

And that was everything.

Until the League got a threat.

Someone wanted to expose them. Hurt their families. Drag the secrets into the light.

So they gathered everyone.

And for the first time since you were benched, the Batfamily saw you again.

And they didn’t recognize what they’d thrown away.

A/N: AND THAT’S HOW YOU CLEAR A WHOLE ROOM WITH A SINGLE VIBE. They looked at you like a stranger—and you? You looked like a legacy they never deserved. This chapter is for every reader who's ever been benched, pushed aside, or underestimated. Who found their worth in new rooms, louder voices, and softer families. You weren’t broken. You were unseen. And now? Now they see you. Too late. 😈 Next chapter? Gloves off. Power on. Let’s give them something to regret.

—Your drama-feeding, applause-giving, justice-wielding author 💅🖤✨

Taglist: @feral-childs-word, @trashlanternfish360, @astro-girly1, @suneaterscape, @thatcatladywrites, @arislia, @kittzu, @ottjhe, @tinybrie, @wpdarlingpan, @ryuushou, @simpingpandas

Let me know if I missed someone!

[rosemaryhoney27]

Dont mess with our daughter

Wrath of the Fentons

Jason Todd had seen a lot of weird things in Gotham. Lazarus pits, immortal assassins, fear gas-induced nightmares—hell, he'd been one of the weird things, once upon a time. But watching a bunch of black-market meta traffickers haul a very pissed-off redhead into an unmarked van in broad daylight was quickly climbing the ranks of what the fuck moments.

She wasn't screaming. That was the first sign that something was wrong. Most metas—or normal people—would be terrified. Instead, this girl looked annoyed.

Jason had been tracking this particular ring for weeks. They specialized in kidnapping metas with "unique features"—horns, glowing eyes, animal traits, things that marked them as different. The bastards made a killing selling them off to the highest bidder.

The girl—Jazz, he caught one of the thugs saying—fit their usual type. Her hands, bound behind her, had faint green veins pulsing under her skin, as if something otherworldly coursed through her. Her eyes flickered a ghostly green before settling back into a sharp, human blue.

Jason knew that look. It was the look someone got when they were waiting.

For what? Backup? Did she have a tracker? A hidden weapon?

He was about to interfere when Jazz sighed dramatically and muttered, "You poor, poor idiots."

Jason didn't have time to wonder what she meant before his comms flared to life with a frantic Oracle.

"Red Hood, stand down—I repeat, do not engage—the girl's parents are en route, and—holy shit—these guys have no idea what they just did."

Jason frowned. "Parents? Who—"

And then he saw the tank.

It barreled down the street, mounted with weapons that absolutely should not be street legal, glowing green with ominous energy. The side of the vehicle had a logo painted in jagged white letters:

FENTON WORKS

The doors flew open, and a massive man in an orange jumpsuit leaped out, wielding what could only be described as an anti-aircraft cannon converted into a rifle. His wife followed, a visor covering her eyes, her sleek blue bodysuit glowing with strange symbols.

"JAZZ!" the man bellowed, aiming the cannon at the traffickers as if they were just another ghost to blast into oblivion.

"Hey, Dad!" Jazz called, still completely unbothered as one of the thugs tried to hold a knife to her throat. "You might want to be careful. They think I'm a meta."

"Oh, honey," her mom said, pulling out a gun that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi horror movie. "They won't be thinking anything in a few minutes."

Jason took a slow step back.

He'd seen Bruce handle hostage situations with surgical precision. He'd seen Dick talk down armed criminals with nothing but charm and a smile.

He had never seen two civilians go full scorched earth on a meta trafficking ring without so much as a plan beyond "rescue daughter, destroy everything."

The traffickers barely had time to react before green energy blasts tore through their van, their weapons, and the street around them. The sheer destructive enthusiasm was a sight to behold.

One thug made the mistake of aiming a gun at Maddie Fenton. She shot him with a glowing net that phased through his skin before electrifying him into unconsciousness. Another tried to run—Jack Fenton threw what looked like a modified bear trap, which snapped shut around the guy’s legs and dragged him back, screaming.

Jazz, still tied up, sighed as one guy tried to use her as a human shield. "You do realize that you're standing between me and them, right?"

The thug barely had time to consider his life choices before Maddie calmly shot him in the leg.

Jason, crouched on a nearby rooftop, slowly exhaled.

Well. The ring was definitely out of commission.

As the Fentons loaded the unconscious criminals into their highly illegal ghost-proof containment units, Jazz finally noticed Jason watching. She arched a brow.

"Hey, Red Hood, right?"

Jason, still processing, just nodded.

Jazz smirked. "You look like you're having a what the fuck moment."

Jason stared at the still-smoking wreckage of what used to be a human trafficking operation and then at the grinning, trigger-happy Fenton parents.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, that about sums it up."

[natsaffection]

Innocence. pt 2 | N.R

Older!Sargent!Natasha × Younger!Soldier!Reader

Warnings: Gore, description of death, dismemberment, injury’s, explosion, blood

Word count: 7,4k

A/N: Penultimate chapter, until we get to the end. All images used are my own (except the Natasha icon)!! So please ask if you want to use them! :)

Part 1

Sleep didn’t come easy.

You lay on your back, staring at the dull ceiling of the container, the small fan above you creaking as it rotated with a lazy, rhythmic whine. Outside, the desert wind whispered against the walls — dry, soft, constant. You’d stripped down to your undershirt, your dog tags resting cool against your collarbone, your hands folded on your stomach like you were already in a coffin.

Your mind wouldn’t shut off. Tomorrow was the day.

Your first real mission. Not a drill. Not a simulation. No instructor with a stopwatch waiting to yell “reset.” This was boots-on-ground, civilians bleeding, enemies possibly lurking in the shadows kind of mission.

You didn’t know if you were scared or excited. Maybe both. Probably both. Rae had passed out hours ago, breathing softly on the other side of the room, still wearing one sock and half-hugging a med bag like a teddy bear. You had smiled at the sight, but now, hours later, you’d stopped smiling.

Every time you closed your eyes, you imagined what you might see. A child missing limbs. A man screaming. A woman with glass embedded in her skin. The unknown made your bones ache. Eventually, exhaustion won.

The alarm hit like a slap. You bolted upright, breathing hard, heart thudding. Your eyes were dry, your mouth dryer. It felt like you’d only closed your eyes five minutes ago. You didn’t speak. Didn’t think. Just moved.

Boots. Vest. Gloves. Radio. Helmet. Sidearm. Canteen. Dog tags tucked. Every motion was mechanical now. Your hands trembled just once, zipping your pack, and then steadied. Rae was already up, tying her hair back. She looked at you, nodded once. You didn’t speak. No one needed to. You both knew what the day was.

You stepped out into the pale early morning light. It was cooler than expected, but the wind carried dust that clung to your lips and lashes. At the rally point, the vehicles were already prepped, dusty, armored trucks fitted with mounted comms and open hatches. Soldiers moved around them in silence. No jokes today. No banter.

This was real.

Natasha stood near the first vehicle, arms crossed, headset slung low on her neck. She gave a quick signal. No speech. No send-off.

Just: “Mount up.”

You climbed into the second vehicle with Rae, Martinez, and two others you hadn’t trained closely with. You slid into your seat, back pressed against the hot metal interior, helmet secure. The hatch slammed shut behind you.

And then, you were moving. The base vanished behind you, replaced by the open sprawl of desert and broken earth. No trees. No grass. Just wind, sand, and the occasional distant shape, twisted wreckage, forgotten fences, lone figures moving slowly with the horizon.

You passed a small cluster of homes, if they could be called that. Shacks built from sheet metal and stone, half-collapsed, windows covered in fabric. Children ran alongside the vehicles, barefoot and thin, laughing like they didn’t notice the rifles pointing past them. One girl waved at you. Just waved. Big smile, missing two front teeth.

You blinked, stunned, and instinctively waved back. Rae elbowed you gently. “First time seeing them?”

“Yeah,” you whispered.

“Some just want to feel safe,” Rae said. “Others want answers. Some don’t even know who we are.”

You watched a woman carrying two plastic buckets stacked with water. Another walked with a child on her hip and two more trailing behind her, eyes wide and sunburned.

Through the vehicle comms, a calm voice filtered through, “Convoy One, approaching high ground. Eyes open. Light movement on the north ridge.”

“Copy. Looks like shepherds.”

“Shepherds don’t carry scopes.”

Your chest tightened. Your grip on your rifle increased but nothing happened. The convoy moved forward. Just tension. Just silence.

After 30 minutes the vehicle slowed. And when the hatch opened, the smell hit you first. Burnt wood. Rot. Blood. Ash. The air was thick with heat and the copper tang of death.

You stepped down from the vehicle, boots crunching into the dirt. What had once been a village was now a battlefield without bullets. Collapsed homes. Charred trees. Rubble scattered like the aftermath of a god’s tantrum.

White medical tents flapped in the wind like ghosts. The red cross barely visible beneath layers of dust and smoke. And then the sounds started.

A man screaming. A child sobbing for someone who wasn’t there. The bark of a medic yelling for supplies. The squelch of blood-soaked bandages being changed.

You stood there, frozen. A body lay just fifteen feet away, partially covered in a sheet. Bare feet, darkened with soot. A hand poked out, fingers curled. A fly buzzed around the exposed skin.

You turned slightly, and saw more. A boy, maybe ten, holding the limp hand of his younger sister while a medic worked on a burn across her face. Another man had a gaping wound across his thigh, shrapnel still visible. His leg was blackened with dead tissue.

Some just sat. Still. Staring at nothing. One woman, blood on her arms, cradled a bundle wrapped in white cloth and didn’t look up as the soldiers passed. You didn’t want to know what was inside. But your gut already did.

Over comms, Natasha’s voice came through:

“Echo 9, this is command. Secure perimeter and begin patrol grid. Keep your distance from civ medical tents unless requested. Watch for movement past the east road. We’ve had reports of looters.”

You looked up and saw her. Natasha stood arms crossed, headset tilted, watching everything like it was a chessboard. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

You were supposed to be watching the eastern trail. But your eyes kept drifting back to the field. It wasn’t the smoke, or the tents, or the scorched buildings that held you there.

It was the people.

This was your first time seeing real pain. Not a training scenario. Not a documentary. Not blurry footage edited for public consumption. This was raw, loud, undeniable.

You had seen pain before, bruised ribs in hand-to-hand, blood on the sim floor, a dislocated shoulder during drills. But it had always come with the safety of structure. A start. A stop. A reset.

This had none of that. This was endless. Then, the sound of engines. You turned in time to see another convoy pulling in, three trucks, armored, each marked with the red insignia of a partnered med relief group. They rolled into the center field, tires kicking up dirt.

The back of the lead truck opened with a groan, and a stretcher was pulled out, fast, desperate. Two medics barking words you didn’t understand over each other. Blood soaked the sheet. It trailed behind them, painting the dirt with a thick, dark smear.

The man on the stretcher wasn’t moving. One leg was gone from the knee down. His eyes were open. But he wasn’t seeing.

You turned your head, you stomach tightening. You stared at the horizon instead. Squinting against the sun. This is real, you thought. This is what it looks like when someone’s body gives out before their soul knows how to leave.

You felt something shift inside you. A quiet part of yourself shrinking. And time passed like syrup.

You hadn’t moved much, only rotated position once, now stationed at a higher vantage where you could see the slope leading out of the village. Your comms buzzed faintly, distant voices, check-ins, status updates.

“Report from Bravo-3: local dispute broke out west sector, perimeter holding. One potential hostile removed.”

“Copy that. Civilians reacting erratic, no threat yet.”

“Randals started west of the crater site, looters maybe.”

Your posture stiffened. Your back went straight, your stance shifting slightly, fingers tightening on the grip of your rifle.

Randals. Looters. Opportunists. Or worse.

Your eyes scanned faster now, no more blank stares. Just tight, mechanical sweeps across the road, the rooftops, the edges of the ruins. You saw movement, just a man at first, standing near a torn wall where a roof used to be. Alone. Not near the med tents. Not walking. Just standing.

He was watching you. Your eyes met. Even with the distance between you, something about his stare sent cold sliding down your back. His face didn’t shift. No scowl. No grin. Just locked, unreadable stillness.

Your fingers curled tighter around your rifle. You didn’t lift it. Not yet. But you didn’t look away either. Your pulse tapped faster at your throat. You heard the crunch of boots behind you.

“Easy.” came a voice. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. She came up beside you, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the same man. Her presence was like armor.

“He’s not moving.” Natasha added. “Not armed. Not stupid.”

Still, she looked at you now, a glance, sharp and assessing. “How are you holding up?”

Her tone wasn’t soft. It never was. But it wasn’t ice either. You hesitated, then answered. “Still standing.”

Natasha gave a single nod. Like that was the only acceptable answer. Then she reached into her vest and held out a plastic bottle of water. You took it without a word and unscrewed the top, drinking half in a few quick gulps. You hadn’t realized how dry your throat was. How dry everything was.

“You’re processing.” Natasha said after a moment. “That’s normal.”

Your jaw clenched. “I didn’t freeze.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“But I looked away.”

“Only once.” Natasha replied. “And then you kept watch.”

You looked at her, not quite challenging, but asking something you couldn’t put into words. Natasha didn’t flinch.

“You’re not here to be desensitized. You’re here to act. There’s a difference.”

A pause. The wind carried a scream from somewhere back at the tents. A child crying.

“First missions don’t leave you.” Natasha added, her voice quieter now. “They shape you. That’s the point. Let it hurt. Just don’t let it stop you.”

You blinked, and nodded. Then Natasha turned, her radio already clicking to life again as she walked back toward the main road, her voice low and command-clear. You looked back to the man by the wall.

He was gone.

10 hours later

You stirred awake to the gentle shake of a hand on your shoulder.

“Your shift.” Rae murmured. You blinked, disoriented for half a second. The tent canvas above you rustled with the wind, shadows flickering from the med lights in the distance. Your body ached, but there was no sharp pain, just the dull, heavy kind that came from a long day of watching people bleed.

You rolled out of your cot, boots already halfway on from when you collapsed into sleep earlier.

“Thanks.” you muttered.

Rae just nodded and lay down. You geared up in silence. Vest, helmet, comm clipped to your collar, rifle slung across your back. The routine movements steadied you, anchoring you in something normal.

You stepped outside. And froze.

Out here, far from cities and light pollution, the stars were alive. Not just visible, blazing. Endless pinpricks scattered across the sky like shattered glass. The Milky Way hung thick across the dark like a brushstroke. You tilted your head back, mouth parted slightly, breath caught in your throat.

You’d never seen it like this. Not even on base. The desert was silent. Just the low hum of equipment. The occasional distant cough or rustle. No gunfire. No screaming.

Just… stillness.

You reached your watch point, a small hill with sandbags and a rusted bench set up behind a camo net. From here, you could see the edge of the village. The lights were still on in the med tents. People moved like shadows, dim shapes working through the night.

The pain doesn’t sleep, you thought. You didn’t sit at first. Just stood. Watching. Breathing.

Then, a presence. No footsteps. No noise. But suddenly, someone was there. You turned slightly. Natasha sat down on the low bench beside you like she’d been conjured from the air. No helmet, just her standard fatigues, her braid falling over one shoulder, her face unreadable in the low light.

You tensed. Not because you were scared. Because this was the first time you’d been alone with her. Really alone. No training. No shouting. No commands. Just… a desert, a shared silence, and stars.

Natasha didn’t speak right away. She looked out over the same view, elbows resting on her knees, fingers loosely laced.

“First time overseas?”

Her voice was quiet. Not cold. Not soft, either. Neutral. You took a beat too long to answer. “No. It’s my third.”

That made Natasha turn her head. Just slightly. You didn’t look at her. Kept your eyes forward.

“Third?” she echoed. A note of surprise beneath the calm.

You nodded.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

A pause. Natasha blinked slowly. “You enlisted young.”

“Nineteen. Straight out of school.”

“You volunteered for this deployment?”

You looked down at your gloves. Then, after a beat, “No.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“I wanted another unit. Echo-One.” A faint, humorless smile pulled at your lips. “Didn’t make the cut.”

There was no judgment in Natasha’s face. Just quiet understanding. “Why them?”

“They were the best..” you said simply. “At least… that’s what I thought. It felt like the fast track. Like everything I worked for led there.”

“And when you didn’t get it?”

“I was crushed.” you admitted. “Then they handed me your file. Said echo 9 wanted me. I didn’t know if it was a pity assignment, or a joke.”

Natasha actually huffed, a very soft laugh under her breath. “Believe me..” she said, “I don’t do pity.”

You glanced at her. Natasha’s gaze was fixed ahead, but her mouth turned ever so slightly upward. “You’re doing good.” she added. “Better than you think.”

Your chest tightened. It wasn’t praise shouted across a drill yard. It wasn’t encouragement forced from a superior. It was just truth, said in the calm of night.

“…Thank you.” you said quietly.

The silence after was comfortable. For the first time, it didn’t feel like command sitting beside you. It felt like Natasha. You hesitated. Then bit your lip. Then, because the quiet gave you courage:

“Can I ask you something?”

Natasha turned to look at you. Not hard. Just direct. “You can ask.”

You flushed a little. “It’s kind of personal.”

Natasha didn’t move.

“Was yours like this?”

Natasha turned to you again. “What do you mean?”

“Your first time outside. Was it like… this?”

A beat. Then Natasha smiled, just barely. “No. Mine was worse.”

You blinked.

“It wasn’t a humanitarian op..” she continued. “We weren’t guarding medics. We were the medics. Improvised evac from a collapsed tunnel system. No command. No backup. I was the youngest.“

You studied her. There was no brag in her tone. No drama. Just.. fact.

“We’re you scared?”

“Of course.” Natasha said, almost gently. “I still am. That’s the job. You just learn how to breathe through it.”

You had imagined her as cold steel. Untouchable. Sharp edges and closed doors. But now…you could feel the history in her voice. Not brokenness, but survival.

“Do you ever…wish you’d done something else?” you asked.

Natasha’s eyes flicked back down. And then..softly, she smiled.

“Every day.” she said. “And none of them.”

Then, without a word, she reached into her vest pocket and pulled out a slim, scratched phone. The kind soldiers carried overseas. Secure. Tough and personal.

You watched in stunned silence as Natasha unlocked it and pulled up a photo. She turned it slightly, offering it to you.

A girl. Maybe eleven. Dark hair, same sharp eyes. Laughing in a backyard with a dog chasing her.

“My niece.” Natasha said. “She lives with my sister.”

“She’s beautiful.” you whispered. “She looks like she laughs a lot.”

“She does.”

You smiled a little. Then swallowed thickly. Your fingers twitched at your thigh, the photo was still being held toward you, but what made you freeze wasn’t the picture.

It was the way Natasha was watching you. Not casually. Not with suspicion. With…confirmation. Her gaze was fixed on you, steady and analytical. Like she was adding another bullet point to a mental file she kept locked behind her eyes.

“You get soft when you see kids.” Natasha said, not accusing. Just…naming it. You tensed slightly, the smile slipping from your face. “Is that bad?”

“It’s human.” Natasha replied. “But out here… softness gets turned into leverage.”

She turned the phone screen off, not like she was hiding it, but like the moment was over. Then she leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees again, voice shifting lower, not sharp, but serious.

“You need to be aware of what this place can do.”

You nodded slowly. Natasha didn’t flinch. “You know what children are used for in places like this?”

You blinked, the answer cold on your tongue. “Yes.”

“Tell me.”

You swallowed. “Cover. Distraction. Suicide ops if they’re trained.”

Natasha gave a single, sharp nod. “Or they don't know. You can’t forget that. Doesn’t mean you stop feeling, it means you never let the feeling override your judgment.”

You didn’t look away. “I understand.”

Romanoff studied you for a moment longer, then her posture softened just slightly. She pulled her phone back. With a few taps, she flicked through a few more pictures and showed you a new one.

Same niece, maybe a year younger. Sitting on Romanoff’s lap in a living room cluttered with pillows, a birthday cake half-cut on the table.

“She thinks I’m boring.” Natasha said.

You laughed. Quietly. “You? Boring?”

“I don’t talk about superheroes or animals enough.”

“I mean…valid critique.”

Natasha smirked..barely. Then she said something that surprised you both.

“She reminds me of you.”

You blinked. “Me?”

Natasha didn’t backpedal. Just shrugged, eyes back on the screen.

“You both have that same thing. That softness under all the armor. Most people out here…they build walls. You came here with doors still open.”

Your breath hitched. Not from flattery. From truth. Because it was you. And no one had ever said it like that.

“You sound like you think that’s bad.”

“I think it’s dangerous.” Natasha said softly. “But powerful. If you survive it.”

You looked back out at the desert, letting the words settle.

“I don’t want to lose it.” you admitted. “The softness, I mean.”

“Then don’t.” Natasha replied. “Just protect it better.”

Another silence, but this one felt different. Like something had clicked. You kept talking after that, not about tactics or protocol or pain. Just…life.

Natasha showed you a few more pictures, a snowy street in St. Petersburg, a blurry photo of her sister holding a wine bottle triumphantly, a candid of Romanoff in civilian clothes, smiling like she wasn’t aware the camera was on her.

You couldn’t believe you were seeing any of it. And Natasha watched you see it, like she was testing how much she could give before it felt like too much. You talked about music. About food you missed. About things you’d do after this deployment, even if neither of you believed in the word after.

“You’ll make it through this.” she said. “Just keep that door guarded.”

Silence stretched again, but this time, it wasn’t awkward.

Then Natasha stood. The spell didn’t break. It shifted. Stretched. She looked down at you, “You’re doing fine, Y/l/n.” she said. “Don’t overthink. Just watch. Breathe. Stay present.”

You nodded, mouth dry. Then Natasha reached into her vest and pulled out another bottle of water. She placed it beside you without a word.

And left.

The mission had ended hours after. But the mission inside your head hadn’t. You were pacing. Still half-geared, your helmet tossed onto your cot, your comm still clipped to your collar. You ran a hand through your hair and stopped at the small table in the center of the container.

Rae sat on her bunk, unwrapping a ration bar, watching you with an amused expression that bordered on knowing.

“…and she said it just like that..” you were saying. “Not soft, not cold, just there. Like she meant it. Like she could see straight through me and still…I don’t know. Trusted me?”

Rae smirked, took a bite of her bar, and spoke through the chew. “You’re quoting Romanoff now?”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

“You just said it again. That line. About the door.”

You flushed a little and looked down at your hands.

“She said…” your voice dropped, quieter now. “‘You’ll make it through this. Just keep that door guarded.’”

There it was again. The echo of Natasha’s voice. Burned into your memory like it had been spoken under your skin, not just into your ears.

Rae raised a brow. “Damn. That’s kind of poetic, honestly.”

You sat down on the edge of your bunk and unlaced one boot. “It stuck with me.”

“It tattooed itself onto your soul, you mean.”

You threw the boot at her. Lightly. She caught it midair and dropped it with a thud, grinning.

“I’m just saying…” Rae leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You’ve never talked about anyone like this. Ever. You’re doing the whole starry-eyed, quiet-smile, soft-voice routine.”

You snorted. “I am not.”

“You are, and it’s adorable.”

You tried to hide your grin, but it crept up anyway. Rae tilted her head. “So. Are we thinking it’s admiration? Respect? Or, and hear me out..!” she wagged her bar like a pointer, “..a possibly hopeless crush on the unit’s most terrifying woman?”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Then buried your face in your hands with a groan. “Oh my God.”

“That’s a yes.”

“It’s not.”

“It so is.”

You sat up and threw a small towel at her this time. “She’s my commanding officer!”

“Mmhm.”

“She’s literally trained to kill people with a spoon!”

Rae nodded, chewing. “Hot.”

“Rae!”

“What?! I get it! She’s intense. Brilliant. Completely unreadable. Gives you the kind of attention that makes your skin feel electric.”

You froze. “…okay, how do you know that?”

Rae just grinned wider. “Because you’ve been acting different ever since she talked to you. And you’re not the only one who notices. Martinez saw her hand you water and practically wrote a fanfiction about it.”

You laughed, loud and sudden, falling back onto your cot. A pause. Then you added, quieter, more honest: “She even showed me pictures of her niece..”

That made Rae blink. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” You turned your head, staring at the ceiling. “And then she told me to be careful about getting too soft out here. That kids get used for weapons. That…I needed to be more aware.”

Rae nodded slowly. “Classic Romanoff. Emotional intimacy, followed by a lesson in emotional survival.”

“I guess.” You exhaled. “It felt like… like she was trying to prepare me. Not scare me. Like she’s letting me in, but still making sure I know the cost.”

Rae didn’t tease now. She just looked at you, softer. “She’s watching you.” Rae said. “Not like a boss. Like someone who’s already chosen whether you’re worth something.”

Your chest tightened. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything.” Rae said. “Just… keep showing up. Keep earning it.”

You sat in the silence for a moment. Just the creak of the wind against the container walls. The hum of a generator in the distance.

Then Rae grinned again. “But if you two do run off into the sunset together, just know I’m totally raiding your locker for snacks.”

“RAE—”

Five Weeks In

You sat inside one of the lead vehicles, knees drawn up slightly, rifle rested across your lap. The sun filtered through the slits in the armor plating, casting long lines of light across the cabin.

Rae sat to your right, gear rattling softly. Across from you, two others from the unit: Martinez and Gage, looked half-awake, the kind of tired that lives in your bones after five straight weeks in the heat.

And next to the comms, facing you all with one boot braced against the bench, was her. Sleeves rolled up. Vest spotless. Gun strapped over her shoulder. She leaned forward, pointing at the map pinned to the wall behind her.

“We reach the collapsed checkpoint, set perimeter, and assist in clearing wreckage. Eyes open, if they hit it once, they could do it again.”

You watched her speak, and something inside you warmed. The tone. The calm precision. The way Natasha’s voice cut through dust and static like it was sharp enough to split tension in half. You found yourself liking it. Not just the words, but the sound of her. The way she took up space without shouting. You didn’t even realize you were staring, not really, until the next moment shattered everything.

A blast. No warning. No time.

The vehicle lifted. A guttural roar of metal shrieked through the cabin as the truck tipped, hard, thrown to its side like a kicked toy. Your shoulder slammed into Rae. Equipment flew. Dust and sand poured through the cracks. The world became a storm of sound and pain. The vehicle hit the ground again with a metallic scream.

Your ears rang. Your helmet had tilted sideways. Your ribs screamed. Someone was coughing. The radio hissed, voices cutting in and out.

“…Echo 9, come in—copy, copy—what’s your—”

“—Vehicle down, IED—no follow-up fire—stand by—stand by—”

Natasha’s voice sliced through the chaos, harsh and controlled. “Status check! Everyone sound off!”

Rae groaned, “I’m good, I’m..fuck, bleeding, but it’s surface!”

Martinez coughed. “Here. Damn, I hit my head..”

“Y/l/n?” Natasha called.

You blinked again, pushing yourself upright. Your side screamed at you. “I’m okay!”

Natasha twisted toward the radio again, tone crisp. “Command, Echo 9. We’ve hit a device. No secondary detonation. No hostile contact visible. Requesting drone recon for eyes on. Holding position.”

A long beat. Then she turned back toward the others. “Everyone out. Stay low until the drone confirms we’re clear.”

You moved with the others. Rae kicked the door, and it slid open with a groan. Heat and dust poured in. You crawled out, coughing, brushing dirt off gear, checking your weapon. Your legs were shaky, boots slipping in the loose gravel. Every step sent pain lancing through your side. You bit down hard, jaw clenched, blinking spots from your eyes.

You planted your feet outside the vehicle, stood up straight, and Natasha’s eyes locked on you. Not a second of hesitation. Not a flicker..She knew.

“Y/l/n.” Natasha barked, stepping closer, her boots crunching into the dust. “You’re holding yourself wrong.”

“I’m fine.” you said automatically, sucking in breath through your teeth.

“No, you’re not.”

You didn’t respond. Natasha’s eyes narrowed, then flicked to the others. “Rae, Gage, gear a 360. Martinez, eyes on that ridge. Move.”

They obeyed instantly. Then it was just you and Natasha, standing there in the heat, the wrecked vehicle beside you and silence pressing in from every direction.

“Where.” Natasha said, not asking, stating.

You swallowed. “Ribs..”

She stepped in, close. “You breathe tight. You’re protecting your side.”

“I said I’m okay.”

Her expression didn’t shift, but her voice dropped half a tone. “You don’t get to lie to me about injuries.”

You flinched. Not from the voice, from what it meant. Natasha’s eyes flicked down.

“Give me your rifle.”

“What?”

“Your weapon, Y/l/n.” she repeated, sharp. “Now.”

You stared at her. “I-I’m not supposed to handing over my gun-”

She stepped back just enough to unsling her own rifle, lowering it carefully to the ground. Then her sidearm. Her vest still on. She looked up.

“Now give me yours.”

The unspoken message was clear: This is not about trust in weapons. It’s about trust in me. You slowly unslung your rifle. Handed it over. She set it gently next to hers in the dirt. Then stepped in again.

“Arms up.”

You hesitated. Then lifted your arms. Natasha’s fingers went to the vest clasps. Quick. Efficient. Tactical. She unhooked the buckles, sliding the gear off your chest with practiced care, and as she did, you let out a breath that sounded too much like pain.

Then she touched your shirt. You flinched. “Easy.” she said. Not gently, but low..She lifted the edge of your shirt, just enough.

And there they were. Bruises. Deep purple shadows already blooming across your ribs, like a storm trapped under skin. Not broken, not life-threatening, but they’d ache like hell. Every breath. Every turn.

She stared at them. Then exhaled through her nose. “Damn lucky.” she muttered. “If that blast was two feet closer, we’d be dragging you out in pieces.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. For a moment, there was no sound but wind and the soft buzz of radio static from the wreck.

Then, “Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked. Still low. Still unreadable.

“I didn’t want to be a problem.” you answered honestly. “I wanted to keep moving.”

Her eyes flicked up to yours. “You’re not a problem.” she said. Then, quieter: “But you’re not immortal either.”

She stepped back, letting your shirt fall back into place. She reached down, handed you your rifle. Picked up her own.

“You’re off combat rotation for the rest of the day. Command it as injury management if anyone asks.” You opened your mouth to protest. Natasha just stared and you closed it. And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel reprimanded.

The sound of boots crunching through gravel snapped you out of the haze of pain. The others had returned from securing the area, rifles still slung, dust smeared across every inch of gear. No more movement. No threats. Just the ghost of a blast and the burn of adrenaline slowly draining.

Natasha stood near the overturned vehicle, already speaking into her comm. “Echo 9, requesting ground evac. We’ve got wounded, non-critical. Vehicle disabled. No hostiles in the area. Copy?”

The answer crackled through within seconds: “Copy, Echo 9. Evac in fifteen. Sit tight.”

You stood stiffly, arms hugged around your midsection without realizing it, pressure holding the ache in place. Natasha walked past you, crouched beside the wreck, and started unstrapping gear, one pack, then another, and yours.

She didn’t say anything. Just clipped it over her shoulder with her own like it was nothing.

You took a step forward. “Sargent, I can carry it-”

“No.” she cut in, not sharply, but with finality.

“I’m fine. I can-”

“You’re not fine.” she said, standing now, boots planted in the dirt, her voice quiet but unshakable. “And this isn’t about proving anything. You’re not a burden. You’re a soldier who just walked away from a detonation. Let me carry it.”

Something in your chest cracked, just a little, not from pain. From the care tucked inside the command.

“…Yes, Sargent.” you said softly.

Fifteen minutes felt longer when the world had gone sideways. Rae checked your pulse just in case. Martinez kept rubbing the back of his head. No one really spoke. It wasn’t needed.

When the evac truck pulled up, loud, armored, dust blooming behind it, Natasha helped load gear and guided everyone in without a word. You moved slowly, one hand pressed against your ribs. Natasha walked behind you like a shadow.

Once inside, the door slammed shut, and the world became metal and vibration. She sat across from you, arms crossed, eyes scanning. Always working. Always watching. You hated how it made you feel: weak. Exposed. Like you were wasting everyone’s time.

You shifted your weight, and of course, she noticed.

“You’re not deadweight.” she said suddenly, voice low so only you could hear.

You blinked. “I didn’t say any-”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your eyes met. And in that moment, you saw something different. Not softness. Not warmth.

Just…truth. That she meant it. And somehow, that meant more than sympathy ever could. The gates opened, and the vehicle rolled to a halt near the med tent. The second the doors opened, the heat surged in again, and with it, movement.

Medics were waiting, already briefed. Rae climbed out first, joking with the first responder about “light trauma and one badass bruise.” Martinez waved off help but got pulled anyway. Gage limped a little, grunting, but fine.

You hesitated. Your hand hovered over the wall of the truck before you pushed yourself upright and stepped down. Natasha, already waiting at the foot of the ramp, holding both your packs.

She handed off her own to a supply officer without looking. Then, she looked at the medic. “Possible rib trauma. Checked for internal signs. Minimal distress response.”

The medic nodded, gesturing you toward the tent. You didn’t move right away and Natasha stepped closer. “Go. Get checked. I’ll hold your gear.”

“…Sargent-”

“It’s an order.”

You sighed, and finally moved, ducking into the med tent, your heart pounding harder than it had during the blast. And behind you, you didn’t have to look to know..She was still watching.

You sat on the field cot, back straight, hands clenched in your lap. Sweat clung to your lower back despite the chilled air blowing through the tent. The sounds around you were all soft: a pair of boots pacing on the canvas floor, the rustle of a clipboard, the distant hum of a generator.

“Name?” the medic asked, a pen poised over your file.

“Y/l/n.” you answered hoarsely.

“Last four?”

You rattled them off. The medic nodded, jotting.

“Pain scale?”

“…Five.”

The medic gave you a glance that said: You’re full of shit. You exhaled. “Seven. Maybe.”

He crouched in front of you, pulled up your shirt with permission, and pressed gently at the bruises on your right side. Your jaw locked. His fingers were clinical, impersonal and fast, but the second he hit the impact point, your whole body flinched.

“No fracture.” he murmured. “Just deep bruising. Pulmonary signs are clear, no coughing blood, no fluid. You lucked out.”

He stood, marked something down. “I’m clearing you for limited movement only. No drills, no fieldwork, no gear for four days. Compression wrap, painkillers if you want them, rest. Understood?”

You nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The medic handed you a printed sheet, already signed. “Dismissed.”

You didn’t ask questions. You just grabbed your jacket and left the tent. Inside your container, you leaned against the door for a long moment. The silence was suffocating. Your gear was still off. Your skin was sticky with sand and dried sweat. Your ribs ached.

You paced. Sat. Stood. Sat again. Your hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting, twitching against your thighs. You kept hearing the boom. Kept feeling the side of the vehicle lifting, the brief, weightless moment before impact.

What if it was closer?

What if it wasn’t just bruises?

What if-?

Your breath hitched when someone knocked at your door. You swallowed, stood quickly. “Rae?” you called, half-expecting the familiar teasing voice.

But it wasn’t. When you opened the door, your stomach dropped.

Natasha.

Still in uniform. Hair tied back, boots dusty, jaw tense. She held your gear in one hand, the pack, the vest, your weapon, cleaned and locked.

“I figured you’d want your stuff.” she said quietly.

You blinked. “I-I was gonna grab it later-”

“You didn’t,” she said. “So I did.”

You stepped back, unsure of yourself. “Right. Thanks.”

She entered. Her presence filled the room without effort. She set the gear down at the foot of your cot, then looked around briefly, checking, scanning. Habit.

“How’re the ribs?”

“Bruised. Four days off.”

She nodded once. “Could’ve been worse.”

You let out a quiet laugh that didn’t sound right. “Yeah, I figured.” Your jaw tensed. “I keep thinking…what if it was worse?”

Silence.

“I mean-” you shook your head. “If the blast was stronger, if I wasn’t sitting how I was, if I didn’t grab the frame in time?”

Your chest rose sharply. “I keep picturing it. Over and over. My body crushed. Legs gone. Bleeding out. Rae screaming.”

You pressed your hand against your sternum. The panic was rising now, hot and fast. “I can’t stop it. It just keeps looping. And I know it’s over, but it doesn’t feel over, and-“

Natasha crossed the space between you before you could finish. “If it was worse.” she said flatly, “you’d be zipped into a body bag right now.”

You froze. Breath stopped. She didn’t blink. “You’d be cold. On a gurney. Covered head to toe. With someone else writing your death report while they washed blood off the walls of a truck.”

The words were brutal, but her voice softened.

“But you’re not.”

Your hands were shaking. “You’re breathing. You’re sore. But you’re here. And that means you get the choice to recover.”

She didn’t touch you. But she didn’t leave, either. Your body trembled again, and your knees nearly gave out. You braced yourself on the edge of the cot, tears welling, not from pain, not exactly. From shock. From survival.

“I’m sorry..” you whispered.

“No.” she said sharply. “Don’t apologize. You’re reacting like a human. That’s allowed.”

You pressed your fist to your mouth. She crouched then, not to her knees, but just enough to be eye-level.

“You’re not weak.” she said. “You’re processing. That’s what happens when you realize how close you were.”

“I feel stupid.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Your eyes were glassy. Then, slowly, she reached to her own side. Pulled her vest away. Unclipped the top buttons of her uniform, just slightly.

And there, beneath the collarbone, was a jagged, faded scar. Long, pale, old.

“I got this in Fallujah.” she said, voice even. “Close quarters. My partner went down. I hesitated.”

She paused.

“I watched someone die because I wasn’t fast enough. And I almost joined them.”

You stared.

“I have twelve scars like that. Some you can see. Some you can’t.”

Silence, then, “Why are you telling me this?”

Her eyes didn’t leave yours. “Because I don’t want you to think fear makes you less of a soldier.”

Your lip trembled. You looked down at the floor, arms wrapped tightly around yourself.

She didn’t say anything. She just sat beside you on the cot. The quiet sat heavy between you. You hadn’t spoken for a few minutes. Not since the scar. Not since the cot shifted slightly under your weight and your ribs throbbed, reminding you you were alive, and maybe that was the worst part.

You weren’t sure what pulled your eyes to Natasha’s hands, still resting against her knees, knuckles scuffed, veins taut under pale skin, but you stared. Until your gaze climbed up again. Until your eyes met.

And stayed. Your voice broke the silence. “You weren’t supposed to stay.”

Natasha’s brow twitched. “What?”

“with all due respect..You weren’t supposed to check in. Bring my gear. Sit here. Talk like this.” Your throat tightened. “You’re not here for me. You’re not supposed to be.”

Natasha’s face didn’t move. But something behind her eyes flickered. “You want me to leave?”

The silence between you curled tight. Natasha didn’t stand. Didn’t move an inch. Just stared at you with a kind of weight you could feel pressing against your skin.

“No.” you said finally, breath catching.

Natasha’s shoulders eased, barely. Her voice dropped, low and even. “Then don’t ask me to.”

The air between you shifted. Hot and thick. Your ribs ached, but you barely noticed. You were still sitting so close. Shoulders brushing. Legs almost touching. And your eyes..Didn’t move.

Your heart thudded. Your breath shook. Your mind screamed don’t, but something else, something deep in your chest..whispered do it.

And you leaned in. Not fast or dramatic. Just drawn. Like gravity pulling you into a space you didn’t fully understand. Your lips parted. You could feel Natasha’s breath. Your foreheads almost touched. Your fingers twitched against the cot.

The container door burst open. “Y/N, YOU HAve-”

You and Natasha jumped apart like you’d been struck by lightning. Rae stopped dead in the doorway, half-crouched like she expected to see an ambush or a rat. Her eyes scanned the room-

And landed squarely on Natasha. “…oh shit.” Rae blurted, going rigid. Her hand shot up into a textbook salute. “Sargent-!”

Natasha stood, fast. Smooth. Like nothing had happened. Her face locked down so fast it was like flipping a switch. “At ease.”

Rae dropped her hand, but her eyes were massive.

“Sorry, I didn’t.. I thought- I was just-“

“It’s fine.” Natasha said coolly. “I was just leaving.”

She looked at you one more time, just a flicker. Something unreadable in her eyes. Then she was out the door before either of you could speak.

The door clicked shut behind her. Silence. You sat there, stunned.

“Oh my god..!” Rae hissed.

You turned slowly. “Don’t.”

“No. No, no, no- do not tell me I just walked in on you about to kiss the actual, living, breathing, deadly Natasha Romanoff.”

You groaned. “Rae-”

Rae pointed dramatically. “YOU. And HER. Two seconds closer and I would’ve walked in on a war crime.”

“We didn’t even-”

“Oh please, you were inhaled.”

You threw a pillow at her. Rae caught it mid-air like a grenade.

“I need answers.” she said, flopping down beside you. “I want timelines. Did she smell good? Did your knees go weak? Did you black out?!”

You buried your face in your hands. “She brought my gear and I was having a moment..”

“Oh honey, she was the moment.”

You groaned again. And Rae just grinned, vibrating with uncontainable delight. “God, I love this deployment.”

The evening air was cooler now, desert heat giving way to a quiet stillness that only came at night. The stars were just beginning to claim the sky. Someone had dragged a crate and a few foldable chairs into a loose circle, cards already being shuffled by Martinez while Johnson argued with Rae over something dumb.

You sat a little stiffly, one arm curled around your ribs, the dull ache still lingering, manageable now. Rae had all but dragged you out of the container after your Natasha-escape scene with a look that said you’re not hiding from this.

And maybe Rae was right. You needed normal. So now you sat, legs stretched, an energy drink in your hand, trying to laugh at Martinez’s awful bluff and ignore the way your heart still hadn’t calmed.

“You in or what?” Gage asked, grinning.

You blinked. “Yeah. Deal me.”

Cards slapped the crate. Talk flowed. Rae kept giving you that I know what you almost did smirk every time your eyes met. You elbowed her once. Not that it helped.

And then, Boot-steps and low voices. Two shadows joined the edge of the circle. Natasha and Maria Hill - Sergeant of Unit 3.

Hill had her sleeves rolled, casual but sharp-eyed, a cigarette tucked behind her ear. Natasha looked the same as always: unreadable. Confident. Steady. Her gaze flicked across the group once before settling, briefly..on you. You felt it like a pin pushed into skin.

Hill smirked. “What, no invite?”

Johnson scrambled. “Always room at the table, ma’am.”

The group shifted, made space. Hill pulled up a chair. Natasha took one beside her.

Rae nearly vibrated next to you, nudging you under the crate with her boot. You gave her the look of death and pretended you weren’t aware of anything except the five of hearts in your hand.

The game went on.

Talk drifted between units. Some mission banter. Some teasing. Gage bragging about a shot he definitely didn’t make. Hill cursing about someone in command. Natasha barely said anything, just played her hand cleanly, collecting wins without reaction.

You tried to be normal. Tried to breathe. You even cracked a joke about Johnson’s poker face, which earned a real laugh from Maria. But Natasha… Natasha didn’t laugh. She just watched you for a second too long.

One by one, people started heading out. Hill was first, clapping Natasha’s shoulder. “I’m gonna grab rounds with the command team. You staying?”

Natasha just nodded. Rae followed not long after, mouthing good luck to you like this was a goddamn battlefield. And then, it was just the two of you.

You and Natasha. The cards. The stars. The low hum of distant base activity. And a silence that grew thick.

You played in it. Two more hands. Quiet shuffles. Hands folded. Cards drawn-

“I made you uncomfortable.”

You looked up. Natasha wasn’t looking at you. She was adjusting her cards.

Your chest tightened. “What?”

“Earlier. In the container.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Natasha glanced at you, quick, sharp. But not cold.

“You don’t have to explain. But I saw it.”

You looked down at your hand. Queen, seven, ace. Crap..

“I wasn’t uncomfortable.” you said. And Natasha didn’t speak.

“I was…” You exhaled. “Caught off guard. And you’re..” Your voice dropped. “You’re you.”

Natasha set down her hand slowly. King, ten. Beat you easily. “I’m not used to getting that close with anyone out here..” you added.

Natasha tilted her head slightly. “That makes two of us.”

The words landed like a stone dropped in water. You sat with it. Then she picked up the deck, started shuffling again. Not looking at you. Hands steady.

“I don’t let people in easily.” she said, quiet now. “Especially not soldiers I’m responsible for. It complicates things.”

You swallowed. “So…earlier was a mistake?”

A long pause. Natasha looked up. Eyes steady. Locked on yours.

“No.”

Your breath caught. “But it’s not something we can rush. Or take lightly.”

You nodded. You understood that. All of it. The chain of command. The danger. The risk.

Still.. “I didn’t want you to leave.”

Natasha’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Good.”

You played one more round in silence. And when Natasha finally stood, gathering her cards, she paused. Looked down at you.

“Get some rest.” she said softly. And then added, just for you, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And you? You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips.

-

-

-

-

(Original picture of the vehicle who drove on a deterniation)

[natalievoncatte]

Content Warning: It is very lightly implied but there’s part of this that may be upsetting.

Kara bolted awake to the sound of a scream, and when she bolted awake, she bolted. Her forehead thumped the ceiling and someone in the loft above hers yelled for her to stop that fucking racket, but it didn’t matter. The blood curdling, gurgling shriek of terror was still ringing in her ear and she had but a single thought: Lena.

She threw up the sash of her window so hard the wood chipped and leaped into space, alien power folding the air behind her so hard that the entire building shuddered, and she had to stop herself from going hypersonic and breaking every window on the block.

It was Lena. Her voice cut through the constant barrage of human and mechanical and animal noises around her. It sliced through a wall of arguing spouses and sighing lovers and wailing sirens, through the secret language of cats and the grinding of the tectonic plates beneath all their feet. It was not a mere scream but a shriek, a wail of agony and terror that made her blood freeze even as she rocketed through the city in a blur, dozens of pedestrians looking up as she blasted overhead.

Lena’s place was across town, an hour on foot- for a human. Kara made it at the speed of thought, arriving so fast that Lena was still screaming as she landed and wrenched open the balcony door and stormed through the penthouse.

When she brushed open the bedroom door she found a cowering Lena curled in the corner in a pile of bedsheets, staring at nothing, shaking violently and shrieking.

Kara jabbed the comm bead in her ear.

“Alex!”

“What?” Alex said, groggily. “Kara? What time is it? Why… who’s that screaming?”

“It’s Lena. I need help. It’s like she’s still asleep but she’s screaming and her eyes are open. She’s not reacting to me.”

“What the hell is she doing at your apartment at three in the morning?”

“I’m at her place. I heard her screaming and flew.”

Alex let out a pained sigh. “Please tell me you remembered the suit.”

Kara looked down at her threadbare pajamas and frowned.

“Yep, sure did. What do I do?”

“Get off me!” Lena choked out, “get off me!”

Her eyes wide wide with horror, but worse, her heart was beating incredibly fast, her pupils tiny points. She began swiping at nothing with hooked fingers, tangling herself in the sheets, which only drove her into a deeper frenzy. L

“Alex! What do I do?”

“Try to get her back into bed. Gently. Speak slowly and calmly.”

Kara nodded. “Lena?”

She was met with another round of screams.

“Lena, it’s me, it’s Kara. I’m hear to help you.”

“Kara?” Lena choked out. “No, you have to go, you can’t, they’ll hurt you too.”

“No, they wont,” Kara said, soft but firm, kneeling in front of her. “No one can hurt you when you’re with me. I’ll protect you.”

Kara gently placed her hands on Lena’s shoulders. Her skin was fever hot and a vein stood out on her forehead, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

Very slowly, Kara began to shift her towards the bed, finally giving up and lifting her entirely. Lena clung to her in a full body arms-and-legs hug.

Alex crackled in her ear.

“Stay there. I’ll have J’onn do a sweep of the area just to be sure.”

“Don’t go,” Lena murmured, “Kara please, don’t go please.”

“I’m right here and I’m not leaving,” Kara said, lowering her to the bed.

It was… awkward. Kara had no choice but to climb in with her. She grabbed an armful of silk sheets and down comforter and sheltered them both within it, packing herself up into a tight roll with Lena, arms locked around her.

Lena’s screaming had stopped but she still seemed unaware, her focus entirely on Kara as she sobbed lightly into her chest.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you, it’s okay,” Kara repeated, like a mantra, lightly running her fingers over Lena’s scalp.

“You’re safe, I promise.”

Lena buried her face in Kara’s throat and sobbed. Kara continued to stroke her hair, and almost without realizing it, started singing.

“Kara,” Alex said in her ear, “the channel is still open. Kara, you’re singing a Kryptonian lullaby!”

She didn’t care. She jabbed her ear to silence the little voice and continued to sing, the same song her father used when she had nightmares in the groundquakes when their world was shaking itself apart.

Lena’s breathing finally slowed. The tension slid out of her and her breathing and pulse eased. She fell into a deep, deep sleep.

Kara could leave now, if she wanted. Skip away and let Lena think it was all a dream, though she might wonder what happened to the lock on her balcony door.

She could, but a promise was a promise.

Eventually, her own lullaby lulled her to sleep, and she drifted off into a dreamless rest of her own.

When the sun draped a warm touch across her skin and Kara opened her eyes, she found herself oddly well rested for someone who’d woken up at three in the morning and flown across town. Lena dozed lightly in her arms, tucked against and under Kara so naturally it was as if they were made to slot together this way. Kara lay turned and curled around Lena, a fortress of living walls around her smaller frame, even as she clung to Kara’s waist.

She still had time to leave, to let the night be a mystery… but something stopped her. She wasn’t sure if it was the soft, sweet scent of Lena’s hair or the way Lena’s breath tickled her throat or the soft weight of her or the delightful sensation of her breasts pressed against Kara’s own but she needed this, she wanted this.

Lena was looking at her.

“Are you real?” she whispered.

“It’s me, Lee.”

“Why are you here?”

Kara licked her lips and sorted through fifty lame excuses. What would it be this time? Lena butt dialed her in the middle of a night terror? She forgot her hairbrush?

No.

“I heard you screaming and I flew here to protect you.”

Lena blinked, clearly groggy, her brows pinched in consternation as she worked it out. Kara waited.

“Oh,” Lena said, finally.

“Yeah,” said Kara. “I can go if you’re upset, or you need time,” her voice grew thick, “or if you’d rather not see me anymore.”

“No,” Lena snapped, almost angrily, then more softly, “please stay. I’d like you to stay, I… I need you to help me feel safe for a while.”

Kara nodded.

“I had a terrible dream. It was so real. I dreamed Lex sent people after me in my office, but they weren’t there to throw me off the balcony this time. I tried the gun I keep in my desk but it had no effect on them, and Jess didn’t hear me screaming and no one would help me.”

“It wasn’t real,” Kara murmured. “That will never happen. I will always be there when you need me.”

“What if you’re too far or you’re too busy?”

“I’m never too busy and I’ll never be too far. I’ll give you a signal watch.”

“A signal watch?”

Kara nodded. “Like my cousin gave James. If you use it I’ll be able to find you anywhere.”

“God, Kara in can still feel the hands on my throat. It was so real.”

“It wasn’t, I promise. I’m real. Can you feel me?”

Lena suddenly seemed a touch embarrassed, but didn’t pull away.

“I can definitely feel you.”

“Good. You’re safe. We don’t have to get up yet. Just lay here with me in the sun and you’ll be safe.”

There was a knock at Lena’s door and they both jumped.

Alex’s voice crackled in her ear.

“I’m at the door, Kara. Let me in.”

“Kara? What’s going on?” said Lena.

“Alex is at the door.”

Kara started to slip out of bed and Lena almost frantically followed her, pressing close behind. Kara looked through the door -a little relieved that Lena hadn’t lined it with lead- and saw Alex standing there in full agent gear. She opened the door.

Alex raised a brow. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes,” said Kara. “We were going back to sleep.”

Alex swept into the apartment.

“J’onn caught a guy. Two-bit mercenary hack, calls himself Doctor Destiny. Uses a drug to enhance latent psychic abilities- he’s a dreamer, messes with people’s heads while they sleep. J’onn gave him a taste of his own medicine.”

Lena tensed beside her, and Kara felt it.

“Alex, where is he now?”

“Back at headquarters in a holding cell. I made arrangements for him to be transported to Belle Reve, with a cape escort.”

Kara paused for a long moment.

“Alex, can you stay with Lena for a few minutes?”

Lena paled even further, the blood draining from her face.

“Kara?”

“I won’t be gone long, baby. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

“Baby?” said Alex.

“Shut up,” Kara snapped.

Lena gave her a slight nod of assent.

Kara decided to make this quick. She flew home first, changed, and landed on the DEO balcony all in less than five minutes. When she reached the holding cells, she told the guard on duty to get a coffee and let herself in.

He was an unassuming man, average height and build with scruffy hair and a five o’clock shadow. He looked more like a petty crook that got caught robbing a corner store, less like a supervillain.

“You’re ’Doctor Destiny’?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you do this on your own or were you hired?”

“Fuck off,” he said, with a shrug. “I’m going to the hole until Waller comes in to cut me a deal. You’re a Supe, you don’t scare me. Maybe send the Bat if you want to-“

Kara took two steps across the cell, seized his throat in a crushing grip that almost crushed his windpipe, and pinned him to the wall like a struggling insect beneath a sadistic child’s thumb.

“What the fuck?” he croaked out.

Kara turned her head slightly and hit the wall with a pop of heat vision that scorched the concrete and left a warm red spot.

“What the fuck?” he said again.

“I can see it,” Kara said, her voice as cold as ice. “I can see the little quirk in the back of your brain that gives you powers. One little blink and it’s gone.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“It’s too bad that there’s some important structures in the way, but you probably don’t need those language and motor skills.”

“You can’t!” he screamed.

Kara leaned in close, eyes smoldering so that he could feel the heat begin to sting his flesh.

“Wrong. I’m Supergirl. I can do anything.”

“Jesus fucking Christ! It was Edge! Morgan Edge! He paid me fifty grand!”

“Fifty g-“ Kara snarled, gritting her teeth. “Listen to me. They’re taking you to Belle Reve. I want you to tell everyone there. Everyone, do you hear me?”

“Tell them what?”

“If anything happens to Lena Luthor, I have no rules.”

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll tell everyone I promise! I swear!”

Kara let go and turned, ignoring his cries as his knees hit the concrete floor, and slammed the cell shut behind her.

When she landed on Lena’s balcony, Alex was sitting with her on the couch. The color had come back to Lena’s cheeks and she no longer looked small and frightened, her eyes no longer darting to corners and thresholds as if she expected something to pop out from behind them.

“Lena is going to pack a few bags and come stay with you for a few days,” said Alex. “I convinced her that crashing on Supergirl’s couch is a better security system than what she’s got, and while she’s out I’m going to have our tech team integrate her security into the DEO so we’ll know instantly if she’s in trouble.”

Lena nodded at all of this.

Kara knelt before Lena and gently took her chin by a curled finger and raised her gaze.

“You’re under my protection,” she said. “I swear it.”

Lena’s eyes sparkled and she gave Kara a soft smile, cupping Kara’s hand in her own.

“Okay, Brave Sir Kara, let’s take milady Luthor back to yonder castle.”

“Shut up,” Kara muttered.

The trip home seemed to calm Lena even more, as she laughed at the two sisters bantering with each other after Kara changed and climbed into Alex’s car, leaning forward from the back seat to poke her head between Lena and Alex and tease her sibling.

Lena ended up staying a full two weeks.

The “sleeping on the couch” concept didn’t even last the first night.

[olliev3r]

i said i would redraw it, and i’m actually pretty happy with this one. i wanna explain a few design choices/hcs

jay has a medicine pouch bc I think he’d be a field medic. zane does all the medical stuff when they’re on the bounty or at the monastery, but since jay is the fastest I think he’d serve that role during battle. he also would wear exclusively converse lol. he has lightning scars, most prominently on his face. he’s partially blind in that eye

lloyd has rosacea. it’s pretty common in fair skinned people, and i don’t see it represented often in art

nya likes to dye her hair. she dyes it blue not only because of water, but also because it’s jay’s color. he is the one that helped her dye it

kai has fingerless gloves bc his fire keeps burning the cloth off, until he finally removed them. he also regularly sets his hair on fire without realizing

nya and kai are the same exact height. the only reason he started making hair spikes is so that he would look taller than her. he ended up keeping them bc he liked how they looked

cole can’t work if his forearms are restricted. that’s it lol. he also has steel-toed boots. he has scars on his arms from various hikes and rock climbing accidents

zane uses ice skates. he mostly uses hockey style ones in battle for speed, but he sometimes figure skates for fun. he always has a comm with pixal in his ear

also just a fun note, the height diff between jay and zane is close to me and my younger brothers height diff irl (im shorter)

this is the original that this is a redraw of

[grimdarling69]

Another Dan and ellie deaged p2

Dick wasn't unaccustomed to getting calls at five a.m., but he wished it had happened less. He reached his hand out from the haphazardly placed blanket and fumbled for his ringing phone. Finally finding it, he quickly answered to the call. I swear if this is an arkham breakout, it better be the goddamn joker. He will be very upset if Tim just calls him in for condiment king.

"Hello?" He says sleepily. He winces and rubs his eyes away from the bright light of the phone.

"Dick. I need your help, Damian got spooked somehow and ran away. I'm pursuing him but i can't get him to stop."

His heart drops. Immediately awake, he jumps up from the bed and tries to find the suit pieces he threw around when he crashed last night.

"What happened?" I found myself asking, hoping this was just a misunderstanding. "I don't really know. We were down in the cave, and I guess he knocked a tool off and woke me up. I asked him what he was doing, but he didn't answer me and just ran to the bikes."

He could hear the slight panic in Tim's voice. "I'll call him."Wait -" I hang up.

I quickly dialed Babs number. If Damian left as fast as tim says he did, he probably didn't have his phone. I glance at the windows, one of my gloves is placed on the seal. Rain is still coming down hard. Thunder rumbling distantly.

"This better be goddamn joker." Me and Babs always thinking the same thing, I think fondly.

"Damian ran away, and I need you to connect me to his comms."On it now. I'm calling in the others just in case."

A click is heard, and I can hear slight wind and heavy breathing through my own comms. I hang up the call.

"Dami?" I ask hesitantly. His baby brother son was out there alone in the rain.

I hear a sharp intake of breath, but he doesn't speak. I quickly throw open the windows after grabbing my last glove. Skillfully and methodically climbing down. Throwing myself on my bike. Come on, Dami, answer me.

"Whatever is going on, you can tell me, okay? I'll help you no matter what. I promise." He meant every word.

The bike starts, and I race down the streets in chase of the tracker. I just need to make it to Gotham in time.

__________

Bruce was no stranger from his kids running away. They'd all done it at least once. It never got any better whether they were running from him or others didn't change it. He just had to remember they always came back.

Alfred watches off to the side. Making sure if i start to go down, he could catch me. I won't. A few broken ribs and a sprained ankle won't stop me. He had gotten the call in his bedroom. Alfred had finally wrangled him into sleeping when the call came through.

"Bruce. Damian fled the nest. Dick and Tim are in pursuit, but i don't think he's stopping anytime soon." Her tone heavy but focused.

He had quickly made his way down to the cave. Alfred had stopped momentarily to wake up his other son. He would be down soon.

I start to make my way to my suit, but I'm quickly thwarted.

"Master Bruce. You will be no help with might i remind you of five broken ribs, a sprained ankle, and a stab wound." Alfred told him stepping in front.

"My son is out there. i need to find him."he said with a deep voice heavy with memories. He knew Alfred was right he would only be a hindrance. He could walk off his injuries they were barely flesh wounds, but he wasn't good with emotions. He had plenty of arguments with his kids about it before. Whatever scared Damian into running, he couldn't help him.

Duke's footsteps sounded out behind him. He walked past, gancing at him concerned but determination on his face. He turned around and limped back to the batcomputer. He just had to trust his sons to bring their brother home.

‐---------

Jason was no stranger to long nights. He hadn't even made it to his safe house anyway, too busy with the storm, making sure all the alley kids had a warm and dry place to sleep for the night.

Stormy nights were the worst for alley kids. He hated them when he ws on the streets. The cold rain freezing your clothes to you, the cold rain soaking your shelters, the cold rain ruining any halfway edible food. He's seen a lot of kids get sick from the rain and die. If you were sick, you had to hide. If others found out you were sick, they'd leave you in a heartbeat. It caused a lot of fights with Bruce in the early days. He hid his injuries or sick days in case Bruce finally saw how weak he was and threw him out.

"Damian fled the nest. The rest of the batboys are already heading out after him." Oracle spoke into his comms.

The Batboys. What O had recently started calling Dickhead, Timbo, Duke, Demon brat and him ever since the batgirls left to Hong Kong together.

Demon brat, his obligation in the league. When he left, he'd assumed he'd never see him again, or if he did, it'd be from opposite sides. Sometimes, it felt a lot like opposite sides regardless.

Jason revved up his bike again he was mostly done with his people anyway. He would have to have some of his trustworthy men on the lookout for stragglers.

He pulled up his tracker to Damian. He winded through the streets following it.

---------

Crack

Thunder sounded out. Dick had hated the rain ever since... He just hated it. It was worse, so with Dami out there all alone. He didn't even know what had scared him enough to run. Damian would never run just cause what he knocked a tool over? That didn't sound like his brother son. Something else must have happened. He just had to figure out what.

"Nightwing. Report." Bruce growled into the comms suddenly. His throat felt dry. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't speak.

"SHIT!" A crashing sound loud enough to echo on the comms could be heard. Tim, dami, please be alright. He was just now reaching the Gotham border. Just hold on, I think desperately.

"Red Robin, what's happening on your end." Bruce demanded.

"Red Robin is fine. Damian deployed the bike sludge. He had to grapple backward to avoid the sludge. I think his leg is broken."

"Be careful, Signal, one wrong move with your powers, and you could light that right on up." Jason attempted to banter. Jason and his bad habit of deflecting by using humor. Something he's gotten in trouble because of before.

"We are on the warehouse that we busted yesterday with that drug deal across from Gotham Bridge. We lost sight of him." Duke ignored Jason's comment and carried on.

"Damian has stopped near gotham bridge hurry. Cameras aren't looking good."

"Oracle. Report, what do you see?" He can hear Bruce's gravelly voice tinged with desperation. Please don't do what I think you're going to do.

"I think he might jump."

The silence was suffocating.

Click.

Damians comms came back online.

"Damian?" Bruce's voice sounded distorted and echoes to his ears.

"Dami, can you hear me?" He knew he could.

"Yes."

"Master Damian, please come home." Alfred didn't beg, but he swore he could hear it in his voice.

"We can help you. Damian, don't do whatever you're planning. Please." Jason's voice was desperate.

" Please, Damian, listen to us. Let us help you."he was begging at this point, but he couldn't care less.

"I'm sorry Richard, but I don't think you can."

Click.

Crack

Lightning broke the illusion of quiet peace. The rain thundering just as loud against the ground.

-------

Jason drove as fast as he could, but by the time he and dick made it, the bike was the only thing left of his brother.

"Damian!" Dick tried jump off after him. "Dick! Stop!" "Let me go! I have to save him. Please..." His voice was thick and course. His brother's mask was starting to peel from the wetness.

"I know. I know..." He collapsed to the ground, taking his brother with him.

The headlight flickered ominously in the heavy rain.

[sightseertrespasser]

Sunny Side Screw-Up part 2

Me: Hey, what if Bluestreak was a great sniper because Tacnet enabled him to view the world in slow motion, kinda like bullet time?

Later me: Wait, what if he experienced Bullet Time All the Time and THAT’s why he’s like that?

The mecha AU was spawned by @keferon, go check ‘em out!

———————————————————————

For hours, Prowls processor continued to spiral well after Jazz disconnected the drift bond. The steady crackle from Bluestreaks currently inactive comm lines did little to settle him.

Individually, Prowl curled each of his digits, then released. The fingers Ratchet replaced were still numb. But the phantom pains stayed sharp.

“Hey.” A hoarse whisper at his hip got Prowl to online his optic.

“You should be resting, Jazz.” The Praxian whispered back. If Ratchet saw them both up the doctor would likely make good on some of his threats. Or Deadlock would.

“I’m gonna.” The human leaned against his side, shoulders wrapped in a spare blanket.

“You’re lying.” Prowl stated as flatly as if he’d pointed out Jazz was bipedal.

“Hmm, just getting it out of my system so you know I’m gonna be serious next.” When the pilot moved to climb up Prowl’s thigh, he gave him a slight boost with one servo. Weak as Prowl was, Jazz still weighed basically nothing.

“Ratchet said you already pushed past your limits for the day. I do not think it’d be wise to reconnect right now.” Prowl watched Jazz for every minute tremble, delicately adjusting the plane of his servo to support him as evenly as possible.

“We pushed it today. And s’alright. Wasn’t going for that.” Jazz laid back in Prowls palm, getting comfortable.

Given the pattern of their past interactions, Prowl preemptively readjusted to lay down on as well, before Jazz could begin guilting/bargaining/tricking him into resting properly.

Jazz, knowingly, smiled.

“I know you’re scared for him. But Bluestreak is gonna be fine Prowler. He’s got you, and you’ve got us.”

“I had myself and you and I still got vivisected.” It was a low blow and still a raw wound for the both of them. His missing platting stung.

Jazz closed his eyes. Prowl could still hear the echos of what thoughts that would be racing through his head.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. This is a nightmare scenario and I can’t believe you aren’t completely loosing your shit right now.” A sour note came through his field. “I just don’t want you to fry yourself with worrying.”

Prowl sighed, “I have come to terms with our current limitations. The plan currently underway is definitely the best chance we can possibly give him.”

“I do not have enough information to predict how the Twins will conduct themselves..” Prowl briefly paused to send a scheduled Check In ping to Bluestreak. Continuing once he received the Return ping.

“But I know my brother, and that’s what has me worried.” Despite himself, Prowl felt his face almost twitch a smile when Jazz’s EM field chimed against his palm. He could feel the human silently laugh.

“Little brothers are something else, but have a little faith in him okay? Bluestreak just needs to play it cool until we can debrief the Twins. He doesn’t even have to actually lie. All he needs to do is walk and shoot, and I’ve seen him shoot.”

Jazz rolled onto his side to face Prowl, who still frowned but was coming around.

“Look, it took me nearly two days to figure out I was literally surrounded by aliens who weren’t even trying to hide it.”

“You had a concussion.” Prowl grumbled.

“And I’m a very clever fucker.” Jazz raised a pointed finger.

The human snuggled back into his blanket, “Never in a million years is anyone just gonna guess he’s an alien shaped like a mecha.”

Prowl hummed in assent, choosing to let his systems wind down, save for his Comms.

Yawning, Jazz finished his thought, “The only way they’d find out he’s from space is if Bluestreak straight up told them.”

———————

“And that star cluster is about where Cybertron is!”

The fading red-gold of the sunset had given way to dusty dark blue twilight. This far from any civilization, the stars did not shy from taking the stage early, casting the desert in a cool toned glow.

Sideswipe looked where he was pointing and nodded along. Sunstreaker likewise examined the sky for a moment before continuing their trek.

“You guys are good listeners.” The Praxian smiled.

Bluestreak shifted how he was holding his rifle for the nth time that afternoon. “I wish I could just subspace this but Jazz said that would be too openly weird and you guys might try tearing my hip apart.”

Unsurprisingly, Sunstreaker showed no sudden comprehension of Bluestreak’s native language. The yellow mecha was too preoccupied with digging out a quint fang from his plating. Similarly unaware, Sideswipe had found a small boulder and played an improvised game of how long he could kick it along their path.

Bluestreak checked his Tacnet Dilation: 25%.

“Did you know I taught Prowl and Smokescreen how to use Tacnet to shoot better? Cause I did. They taught me pretty much everything else though about how to function. They’re my brothers by the way, which is kinda funny to think about since you guys are brothers too but ‘organic brothers’ are kinda different from ‘Cybertronian brothers’. We’re all Cold Constructs designed by the same people but that doesn’t actually have anything to do with being brothers.” With family on his processor, the Praxian flicked a ‘Hey guys!’ out of habit without thinking. He didn’t notice the twins simultaneously pause for a second beside him.

“The word translates directly into English but I think the origins are totally different. A literal translation of “Brothers” in Cybertronian would be something like “Those who are most familiar to me.”

He counted the decimal points of each passing click to pace himself. Making sure he was talking at a socially acceptable level. After 4 clicks, his will broke down and the gap of silence was filled.

“Hey want to hear how we met?” Bluestreak looked up at the hulking mechas with wide optics, questioning tone riding through the air.

The twins looked at each other briefly before shrugging.

Aside from his brothers, mechs that knew his particular reputation would take that pause in his chatting as an escape route from the conversation.

Bluestreak understood. It’s why he tried to leave gaps in. He scuffed his peds in the dirt while waiting for a response.

A curled servo came into his peripheral vision. With a little difficulty, Sunstreaker gave him a crude thumbs up, his mecha not really built for fine motor controls.

“Really?” Bluestreak beamed, checking in with Sideswipe as well who was also nodding in the positive.

The Praxian began his tale, “So it happened a little under two million years ago.”

——————

The crowd around the train station moved in a tightly packed slow motion torrent.

“-taken at specified slots-“

“-one hundred and fifty shanix is-“

“-consult the map if she really-“

Words, sentences, broken paragraphs and contradictory orders buzzed across his processor. His internal dictionary pulling up definitions and explanations almost too fast to keep up with.

Tacnet Dilation: Increase to 75%?

Huh?

[Yes]?

Oh!

That’s so much better.

If he picked out one voice at a time, he could decipher each glyph as they came and string it together. Mildly entranced by how they interlocked and changed the information they carried as it dripped into his echoing memory banks.

For example:

“Get out of the way you useless cop!”

An upward swing from behind struck him, jamming his doorwings at the apex of their mobility.

The mech would have fallen forward if the density of the crowd allowed it. They stumbled, struggling to stay upright as the mass of mechs around him pushed inexorably toward the trains.

New information came through. Bright boxes burst across his vision and new words wrote themselves on his processor. This new sensory input was competing with every other piece of stimulus for his immediate attention.

He didn’t like it.

What is it?

[Pain]

Oh, is this a setting that can be changed?

[Pain - Repair - Reset- Doorwing (1)]

[Pain - Repair - Reset - Doorwing (2)]

How? How do I fix them?

[Pain - Repair - Reset]

I don’t understand?

[Pain - Repair - Reset]

The logic branch repeated incessantly, almost as bad as the distraction of the pain itself.

The praxian began asking every mech who passed nearby how to reset his doorwings. Sometimes, they’d kindly tell him they couldn’t help. Other times they’d push him off harshly, fields flashing with hostility. One even told him to go jump on the tracks. Before he could actually consider how that’d help, an orange mech scolded the harsh one and pulled the praxian to where they could speak into his audial.

They told him they couldn’t fix his problem, but if he found other mechs with doorwings like his, they would help him.

“How do I find them?”

The orange mech adjusted a pair of spectacles, smiling, “Just listen to your wings young one, you’ll get there.”

It was then he realized something else was coming through the sensor net of his doorwings. A muffled, irregular pulsing, coming from one of the train cars.

He forgot to thank the skinny mech and pushed through the crowd, past the overwhelmed conductor.

Reduced Sensory Input, Tacnet Dilation: Decrease to 25%?

[Yes]

The inside of the train car was packed, no one would be leaving without numerous scraps and dents by the end of their journey. He tried not to flinch every time a passenger bumped into his back with very little success. Spurred on by pain and desperation, the Praxian pushed rudely past the other passengers who each added new and exciting expletives to his steadily growing lexicon.

He followed the signals like a lifeline to the back of the train.

Two Praxian enforcers sat side by side, doorwings flicking intermittently. Both of them leaned forward with their elbows on their knees, either from the exhaustion clearly written across their faces or simply because the bench they sat on wasn’t made to accommodate the extra limbs on their backs.

One was blue with a yellow chevron, lazily leaking smoke to pool against the ceiling. Seemingly absorbed in people watching.

{ ···· · -·--     ·--· --··--     ··· · ·     - ···· ·     --- -· ·     ·-- ·· - ····     - ···· ·     ···- ·· ··· --- ·-· ··--·· }

The other was monochrome save for a bright red chevron, scanning the crowd with a critical optic, locking onto his approach.

{ ··     ·-· · --· ·-· · -     - · ·-·· ·-·· ·· -· --·     -·-- --- ··-     ·- -· -·-- - ···· ·· -· --· }

{ ·· ’ --     ···· · ·-·· ·--· ·· -· --· }

{ ··- -· -·- -· --- ·-- -·     · -· ··-· --- ·-· -·-· · ·-·     ·- ·--· ·--· ·-· --- ·- ---- ·· -· --· }

The praxians straightened, the blue one offering a casual smile and a welcoming field.

“Hey there! Can we help you?”

He almost crashed to the floor, stumbling to stand before them.

“Yes! Yes! Hello! I need help! I’ve been trying to find someone to help with my doorwings for what feels like forever but everyone I’ve talked to has told me to go away or go frag myself or go ask someone else and then somebody told me to come in here or really they actually told me to follow my doorwings which was actually kinda hard because they hurt a lot and all the warnings I’m getting are making it kinda hard to focus on anything and nobody has let me finish talking the entire time!”

The optics of the black and white praxian got steadily wider as he spoke, taking in the information with an otherwise motionless posture.

The blue one took it in stride, waving him to get closer, “Alright, c’mere and turn around real quick.”

Gratefully, he followed the clear instructions and did just that.

The blue one hummed, “Oh that’s an easy fix.”

His doorwings twinged in their slots at the feeling of the mechs servos on his back. “Sorry, this’ll pinch a little.” And with two practiced twists, the mech braced one servo against his back and popped the hinges back in place.

He hissed at the initial sting but relief immediately flooded his sensor net.

“Is the Doorwing injury related to why you are covered in ash?” The monochrome mech spoke for the first time.

“Hmm? Oh no, someone just ran into me from behind. He was yelling something about useless cops?” He could see the irises of the praxians optics cycling as he spoke. The mechs mouth thinned to a line as his brow furrowed.

The other didn’t seem to notice, laughing heartily, “Oh trust me that’s not the last time you’ll hear that. Next time call your squad in to book the guy for assault on an officer. You new here?”

He smiled, doorwings fluttering involuntarily at being asked a non clinical question for the first time ever. “Yes! I’m very new! Everything is so new! Who are you two?”

Something clicked for the other mech. Doorwings drooping, “Um, Smokescreen?”

The blue mech, Smokescreen, ignored him. Instead, he wrapped an arm around the mechs shoulders and pulled him in, “Well this here is my little brother Prowl, I promise he’s slightly less of a stick in the gears than he first appears. We’d show you around our precinct, but it kinda burnt down this morning.”

“Smokescreen.” Prowl hissed.

“So what’s your designation and your placement new guy?” Smokescreen beamed at him with a sooty grin.

“My designation is P-E 2102. Aaaand the building I was being tested in caught fire, so I have no idea!” He rocked on his peds.

Smokescreen gave him a slightly curious once over.

Meanwhile, Prowl crossed his arms and looked unimpressed with his older brother.

Prowl turned back to him, “A follow up question, if you are able to answer, P-E 2102. When were you constructed?”

He checked his memory banks, “Two cycles ago!”

Smokescreen choked, coughing up a small cloud of exhaust. Prowl automatically thumped a servo against his back to help.

“Right.” The elder Praxian recovered, coughing into his fist and straightening up again. “So you’re two cycles old huh? That explains.. some things.”

Unconsciously, P-E 2102 pulled his doorwings in, not yet knowing what to call the awkward energy that spilled into the train car. The only mech seemingly unaffected was Prowl.

“Typically, once you make it through Quality Control a mech is assigned to act as your mentor to answer questions and bring you up to speed on how to function in society.” Prowl glanced at his brother. “Their designation should be tagged with your factory designation. We’ll assist in contacting them for your retrieval.”

Internally, P-E 2102 pulled his factory designation back up, and did indeed find what Prowl was talking about.

“Oh okay, it looks like I’m assigned to someone named Barricade?” He smiled again, happy to have a clear path forward after so much uncertainty. The two older Praxians immediately, silently looked at each other.

Optics wide, Smokescreen gave him a massive showman style grin, announcing loud enough for the whole train to hear, “Nooope!”

“Um, what?” He new forge looked confused, optics flitting between the two of them.

The eldest praxian nudged Prowl to scoot over. “Nope!” He clapped his servos on his knees for emphasis. “That is not happening. You’re actually going to be my ward now. Last minute update. You know how office work gets.”

“This is a terrible idea.” Prowl grumbled but still moved to make room. “You aren’t qualified to mentor more than one ward. You wouldn’t even be my mentor if the Council hadn’t lowered the age requirement.”

Smokescreen patted the new space between them, “Go ahead and take a seat newbie. And Prowl? C’mon. You haven’t needed me for literal vorns.”

He squeezed into the space between them. It took a bit to figure out how to overlap their doorwings, but once they folded together, the new forge felt more secure than he’d ever been in his life.

Which wasn’t very long but still.

“First things first, you need a proper des.” Smokescreen poked him in the chassis. Briefly frowning at the grime left on his digit. “And a proper paint job.”

“Oh can I be red? I think I like red. And orange. And yellow. I like warm tones in general really. But I think just red for now.” He pointed up at Prowls chevron for reference.

“It is a striking color.” Prowl nodded sagely. “It will suit you fine, though I request you do not completely copy my appearance to avoid future confusion.”

He hummed, already considering the ash grey covering his plating. He didn’t think it looked too bad actually.

“We’ll get the paint sorted later, now how about a proper name? I don’t believe in assigning one over your own choice, so you gotta pick.”Smokescreen leaned back, not giving away any clues of what options laid before him.

“Hmm.” He studied the signage outside the train. “Something with blue in it?”

“Blue?” Prowl raised an eye ridge. “Didn’t you just say you wanted to be painted red?”

“Well yeah. I like the color red but I like the word blue.” He said rationally and sensibly.

Prowl could find no argument and accepted the information for what it was.

Smokescreen tapped his shoulder. “Gonna need something a little more complex than just Blue, buddy. It’s a pretty popular des.”

“Oh how about Blueline!”

A few eavesdroppers snorted at the announcement, a small wave of mirth echoing around the mostly reserved fields of the crowd.

There was a long pause.

“That.. is the name of the train we are currently riding.” Prowl slowly pointed out.

“Ah.”

Voice an octave higher, Smokescreen gave a slightly pained albeit encouraging grin. “Yeeeah. Maybe try one more time?”

The young mech rested his chin on his servos, rapidly tapping his digits. “Is Blue streak taken?”

Prowl and Smokescreen considered the name. Internally, Prowl scanned over something for a moment. “I do not see any other registrations for that designation. It is indeed available.”

“Then Bluestreak it is!” Proclaimed Smokescreen, who clapped a servo around Prowls far shoulder, squishing Bluestreak between them.

Bluestreak whooped, sirens he didn’t know he had briefly going off before Prowl rushed to teach him how to turn them back down.

With a sense of finality, the train at last closed its doors and pulled out of Praxus. Bluestreak watched the skyscrapers dance in streams of gold and red.

Tacnet Dilation: 125%

The sounds of the train car moved treacle slow. Bluestreak turned to his new brothers and in a voice that sounded strangely deep to his own audials, asked them “Why is Praxus burning?”

They glanced at each other again, passing silent communication born of familiarity. When he eventually spoke, Bluestreak could hear the buzz of Smokescreens vocalizer activating the click before the consonants of his words rumbled forward like distant thunder, “There’s a war, a civil war. We’re still deciding where to go.”

“Can I come?” The question came so easily.

A pause that lasted a thousand years crawled by, as the train swept into a long dark tunnel with no clear end.

“Yeah.” Smokescreen said, “You can come.”

——————

“And to make a long story short, we ended up joining the Decepticons because well, the Functionalist Council kinda claimed all surviving CC Praxian Enforcers as ‘Government Property’.” Bluestreak made quotations with his digits.

Not for the first time, Bluestreak glanced at his audience. It was difficult to read the twins, Sunstreaker especially, but Bluestreak thought he was starting to get a hold of their personalities.

He vaguely remembered Jazz saying he had an unusually high affinity for piloting mecha, and hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Now that he was spending time with “regular” pilots, Bluestreak couldn’t help but stare at the stark difference.

Jazz made it work, easily translating laid back body language and a friendly demeanor through several tons of non living machinery.

But the twins? There were times when the Twins reminded him of Empurata victims, their fine movements unnaturally stunted and their incredibly restricted means of self expression coming off as awkward at best. Drone like at worst.

And yet, like clouds passing through an Uncanny Valley, Bluestreak would see bits of their true selves slip out.

For example, the three of them had just come up to a broad shallow stream running across the sandy earth. Sunstreaker stalked right up to the shore, knelt down to dip a cupped hand into water and wasted no time in splashing it across his plating. While his brother attempted to clean himself of the filth they’d accumulated from the day, Sideswipe pointedly looked Bluestreak in the optics and raised a single finger to his visor.

Bluestreak tilted his helm, understanding the meaning of gesture but not the why.

Casually admiring the scenery, Sideswipe tiptoed behind his brothers back, hands clasped in the picture of nonchalant innocence.

And then kicked him square in the back.

Tacnet Dilation: 50%

BLUESTREAK: [Uh Prowl?]

Abruptly flattened face first into the sand, Sunstreaker raised one arm and punched into the earth beneath the stream. He rose with a measured, predatory speed.

BLUESTREAK: [Not an emergency. I think.]

Regardless, the Praxian still backed away from the beach. Tacnet stretching out the clicks for Prowl to answer into wisp thin strands of time.

BLUESTREAK: [But please still respond.]

Sideswipe made a show of pointing a finger at his brother while almost doubled over. Frame absolutely shaking with silent laughter.

PROWL: [I’m here. What is it?]

Whip fast, a clawed hand fisted itself around Sideswipes collar, yanking him off his feet. The red mecha vanished, reappearing on the opposite bank, laying prone in a brand new crater.

BLUESTREAK: [So the twins are fighting.]

Tacnet Dilation: 100%

Bluestreak watched as Sideswipes arms rotated backwards, punching off the earth with explosive momentum and launching himself towards the yellow mecha.

In a clear display of practice, Sunstreaker caught him with a shoulder to the chest, slamming his brother back first into the water with enough force to make it rain.

PROWL: [Each other?]

BLUESTREAK: [Yep.]

Sideswipe twisted his waist around almost 90 degrees and suddenly had the leverage to dig his clawed feet into the ground, flipping Sunstreaker back into the water.

Tacnet held steady at 100% dilation, slowing the fight to a pace that Bluestreak could actually follow. To anyone else, it’d be a blur of red and yellow plating churning through indecipherably dense sprays of water droplets.

Once, back on the Lost Light, Bluestreak had asked Prowl what was it that drew him to Jazz. Prowl, naturally, gave a highly clinical answer, “Jazz is highly competent. Tacnet likes competence.”

Of course, Bluestreak made fun of him at the time for hiding his feelings behind his battle computer.

But uh.

He was kinda getting it now.

Every awkward gesture, every stilted performance at normal body language from before evaporated instantaneously. There wasn’t a hundred feet of separation between their hands and their brains anymore, the pilots filled their mecha out to the very finger tips. Swift and precise and alive.

To Tacnet, these weren’t machines anymore, but men.

Very competent men.

PROWL: [This is apparently normal behavior for them. Keep your distance and wait it out.]

Bluestreak nearly dropped his rifle, juggling it in slow motion as his frame struggled to move as fast as his processor.

BLUESTREAK: [Yep got it.]

BLUESTREAK: [Will be observing closely.]

BLUESTREAK: [From a distance.]

BLUESTREAK: [I’ll be observing closely from a distance I mean.]

BLUESTREAK: [I am completely fine.]

By the time he’d pinned the stock against his chassis, he’d sent Prowl about half a dozen more messages, all following in a continuously self correcting pattern.

PROWL: [Bluestreak. Paragraphs please.]

He reeled Tacnet back to the standard 25% dilation and watched the fight continue at normal speed. Occasionally, Bluestreak noticed one of their visors would turn his way before snapping back to focus on pummeling each other into the ground

Are they watching to make sure I didn’t leave? Or… are they watching to make sure I’m watching?

When they were younger, Smokescreen would sometimes get a hold of fuzzy holovids of old gladiator fights, (or questionably sourced security footage) and drag Prowl and him to his hab suite to watch. On a purely superficial level, he claimed it was for “Tacnet training” and taught them both how to zero in on hundreds of little tells that’d determine who’d the winner of the match would be right from the opening move.

They played a game where whoever correctly guessed the outcome of the match first would be the winner. Bonus points for predicting the correct finishing move. Prowl and Smokescreen would get ridiculously competitive. Or rather, Smokescreen always won and it drove Prowl up the wall. Years later, Smokescreen would whisper what the secret was to him over a bottle of high grade: Prowl never considered not all mechs fight to win.

This was a performance.

Every blow the twins traded landed on the thickest parts of their armor. The flashing exposures of their most delicate components were brief but frequent, always left untouched.

His digits twitched where he held the rifle.

Two targets (moving, distracted) within close firing range. Estimated reaction time: 2.2 clicks. Estimated time between shots: 1.4 clicks.

Tacnet Dilation: 100%

Manual Override, Tacnet Dilation: 25%

Bluestreak turned up his ventilations and stamped down on Tacnet, blocking out anymore suggestions by tunelessly humming some random jingle he’d heard about a million years ago.

Eventually, the fight wound down on its own without a winner. Sunstreaker helped Sideswipe up, and that was that.

Watching the two stomp out of the water, Bluestreak raised a thumbs up, “You guys good?”

The twins responded in the affirmative, each giving the other one last shove before resuming their flanking positions beside the sniper. Setting out once more.

Several hours later, the stars had dimmed as the sky turned powder blue.

The broad flat expanse of the rocky desert begged to be raced across. The variation in the terrain with its short stoney shelves and dried river bed roads would have been fantastic tracks for a spur of the moment race.

If I was allowed to that is.

The sand and grit from the environment was starting to grind uncomfortably in his joints. His peds ached more from the knowledge that he didn’t need to walk than from the physical exertion of the hike itself.

“On a scale of one to ten, how badly would you guys react if I turned into a car right now?” He panted, keeping careful watch of his coolant levels as the sun rose over the horizon. “Like a five maybe? A five seems about right for the situation.”

The twins simultaneously stopped.

Bluestreaks doorwings flicked nervously, “Is this your way of saying it’s a three?”

Steadily, Sideswipe lowered into a low crouch, vents hissing steam and visor going dark. There was a subtle click of joints locking into place.

Sunstreaker picked a rocky shelf and sat, keeping both of them in his line of sight

BLUESTREAK: [The twins are doing something weird and new. Sunstreaker is just watching but Sideswipe is squatting for some reason and it looks like he just went into recharge?]

While Bluestreak worried the inside of his cheek, Sunstreaker waved at him and patted the stone by his side.

Hesitantly and not wanting to potentially offend the alien hunter, Bluestreak took the offered seat. Thankfully, Sunstreaker seemed mollified by this and went back to staring at the horizon.

PROWL: [Ratchet says it sounds like they’re taking shifts resting. Given the length of time you’ve been traveling together, they may expect you to “power down” for a while as well.]

BLUESTREAK: [So what you’re saying is I have to fake being in recharge while sitting upright, outdoors in the sun and in heavily implied to be quint infested territory?]

PROWL: [Yes.]

BLUESTREAK: [Great. Awesome. Thank you. This is totally fine.]

PROWL: [I’m sorry.]

Okay now that was a red flag.

Angry Prowl meant “There is a problem and I will not physically stop until it is obliterated.”

Apologetic Prowl meant even he couldn’t deal with the problem.

The sheer scale of how fucked he was finally set in.

Tacnet Dilation: 125%

Tacnet Dilation: 150%

Tacnet Dilation: 225%

Time curled up into a little ball on the floor.

The only thing that stopped Tacnet from going past 300% was a wedged in bit of coding Bluestreak had forcibly added after a truly nightmarish near death experience at 500% dilation.

Logically, he knew he still had control over his frame, but the sheer delay in response felt like he was paralyzed.

Don’t force it. Don’t force it. Don’t force yourself to move, everything you try to do will add to the queue and it’ll hit all at once.

He wished Sunstreaker could talk, Bluestreak couldn’t deal with silence. Silence was like trying to keep track of passing time by staring at a blank wall. At least when there was noise, the pitch could clue him in and keep his mind semi tethered to the actual rate of things happening around him.

The dinks of his digits curling against his servos finally registered from when he started the motion all the way back when Prowl said he was sorry.

The faint pressure just was enough to start his thought process again.

Manual Override, Tacnet Dilation: 200%

Manual Override, Tacnet Dilation: 150%

Manual Override, Tacnet Dilation: 100%

Feeling spread back into his frame as sensory input raced back to his processor. From Bluestreaks perspective, it felt like he’d just lunched forward, helm between his knees. From the outside it probably just looked like a slow miserable curl.

He tried not to purge.

When his doorwings picked up on movement from Sunstreaker, he froze. Hyperaware of how bizarre his behavior must look.

A heavy hand not designed for anything other than ripping and tearing settled between his doorwings, lightly patting.

Bluestreak chanced a glance at the yellow mecha. Sunstreakers visor was as impassive as ever but with his unoccupied hand he raised an “OK” symbol, tilting his head inquisitively.

Letting his vents run at max, Bluestreak swallowed, raising an “OK” back.

“I’m gonna go ahead and pretend to be unconscious now. Thanks for not killing me so far.”

Bluestreak crossed his arms and dimmed his optics, flaring out his doorwings to compensate for the drop in input.

To execute his performance as an unfeeling empty husk of machinery, Bluestreak clenched his jaw and vowed not to speak or move for the next several hours.

Tacnet Dilation: 50%

Or however long it felt like.

———————————————————————

Jazz: “So if you use Tacnet to crunch the numbers on crazy complicated battle simulations, and Bluestreak uses his Tacnet to pull off insane sniper moves, what does Smokescreen use his for?”

Prowl: “Gambling.”

——————

Cybertronian ages are weird and don’t really align to human developmental rates but I do roughly equate 1 millennia to about a decade in human years.

So Prowl is in his late twenties, Smokescreen is in his thirties and Bluestreak can legally buy alcohol, depending on the country.

Also, Prowl and Smokescreen don’t know about the constant time dilation Bluestreak lives with. It was an experimental feature that got turned on for testing and when Bluestreaks factory got blown up there was nobody around to disable it.

Sometime after they started living together, he asked Smokescreen what Tacnet Dilation actually was, and Smokescreen basically just went “Oh yeah that thing. Yeah just don’t touch it and you’ll be fine.” Not knowing it was already on.

As far as Bluestreak is aware, 25% is “normal speed” because that’s the lowest setting.

-SSTP

[ccupcakeyss]

HELLO AND WELCOME TO TUMBLR!

Can I request a Xavier scenario when they are have a bathtime together as the weekend finally approaches? Both fluff and smut.

HIHI THANKYOU FOR THE WARM WELCOME AND OF COURSE!!! this is such a cute idea!!

  x   𓎟𓎟  STEAM AND STARDUST ★

SUMMARY: after a particularly demanding week filled with long missions and very little downtime, Xavier invites you to stay the weekend at his place- somewhere private, quiet, far from the hum of ships and constant notifications.

CW: female reader, 18+ MDNI, romantic fluff and aftercare, sensual bathtime setting (shared bath, implied nudity), masturbation (partnered, fingering), oral-style teasing and dirty talk (light dominance), p in v, cowgirl, from behind, multiple orgasms (fem receiving), creampie (implied, no protection mentioned), gentle dom!Xavier vibes, cursing, explicit language, consensual, emotionally safe atmosphere, post-sex tenderness and cuddling.

WC: 1.0K!

NOTES: FIRST REQUEST and was super fun thank youso much!! this was a bit more smutty than fluffy, but lmk if you want more fluff in the next req!! thank you so much and enjoy!!

The sun had already dipped below the horizon by the time they arrived—his apartment dimly lit with soft, ambient lighting and the scent of something warm and earthy in the air. Xavier had planned ahead, of course. Candles glowed along the edge of the bathroom counter, casting golden light over polished tile and the deep tub that filled slowly, water laced with herbs and essential oils.

“You’ve been quiet,” Xavier said, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it by the door. “Long week?”

You gave him a tired nod, toes curling into the soft rug underfoot. “Yeah. Feels like we didn’t stop moving.”

He crossed the room in a few steps, arms sliding around your waist, pulling you close. His lips brushed your forehead, then your cheek. “Then we’re not doing anything tonight. No missions. No comms. Just this.” His voice dropped. “Just us.”

By the time the tub was ready, your clothes were somewhere forgotten between the bedroom and the hallway. Xavier helped you in first, and then climbed in behind you, his thighs bracketing yours, arms circling your waist beneath the surface of the water.

His touch was soothing at first—fingers drawing lazy shapes over your skin, voice low as he murmured about nothing and everything. But soon, the silence between words shifted, heavy with anticipation.

“You’re so soft here,” he whispered, his hand moving from your stomach down between your thighs. You gasped, leaning back into him. He groaned quietly, like the sound of your pleasure was a trigger, a signal he’d been waiting for all week.

“Relax,” he said again, breath hot against your neck. “Let me take care of you.”

One hand stayed firm on your hip, the other sliding lower, finding that sensitive spot with practiced ease. His fingers moved with a slow rhythm, teasing, circling, dipping just enough to make your legs twitch beneath the water.

“Xavier,” you breathed, hand reaching back to grip his thigh.

He chuckled, low and dark. “That’s it. Say my name again.”

He shifted behind you, and you could feel the hard length of him pressing against your lower back beneath the water. His teeth grazed your shoulder, lips moving against your skin as he murmured how much he missed you, how beautiful you looked bathed in steam and starlight.

Then, with no warning, he slid two fingers inside you—slow but deliberate—curling them just enough to make your head drop back onto his shoulder. His thumb kept its rhythm against your clit, dragging you higher, tighter.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he whispered. “You’ve been holding everything in all week. Jus'let go for me.”

Your breath came faster, chest rising out of the water as your body arched, hips moving to meet every stroke of his fingers. He knew your body well—knew when to slow down, when to build you up again until you were gasping his name with every breath.

He held you when you came, whispering praise into your ear, not stopping until the tremors left your body. Then he turned you to straddle his lap, water sloshing gently around you both. His hands ran up your back, mouth finding yours with hunger, and you felt him slide against your entrance, hard and ready.

“Round two,” he said with a smirk, voice low and full of promise. “This time, I get to feel all of you.”

You could feel him, thick and hot beneath you, pressed between your thighs as the water lapped around your hips. Xavier leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was deeper now—less teasing, more claiming. The kind of kiss that made your toes curl and your body ache.

His hands moved to your hips, guiding you as you shifted just enough to line yourself up with him. The moment the tip of his cock slid into you, both of you exhaled like the weight of the entire week had lifted. He filled you slowly, inch by inch, until your thighs pressed against his and you were seated fully in his lap.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your neck, holding himself still for a moment, as if savoring the feeling of being buried inside you.

Your hands braced against his shoulders, your forehead resting against his. The intimacy of it—warm water around you, skin to skin, hearts pounding in sync—felt overwhelming in the best way. You rolled your hips experimentally, and Xavier’s grip on you tightened.

“Just like that,” he whispered, breath ragged. “Use me. Take your time.”

And you did—slow, deliberate rolls of your hips that had both of you moaning softly into each other’s mouths. The water sloshed lazily around you with each movement, the heat and slickness amplifying every delicious grind, every drag of his cock against your walls.

Xavier’s hands roamed your back, your thighs, sliding up your spine and into your hair, tugging gently as his mouth found your collarbone. He murmured your name like a prayer, like it was the only thing grounding him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he said through gritted teeth, hips finally beginning to move with yours. He thrust up into you, slow and deep, matching your rhythm until every breath was a shared moan.

Your bodies moved in perfect sync, the slow burn building again—this time hotter, needier. You were close already, and he could feel it. His hand slid between you, thumb circling your clit with the same practiced care he gave to everything else.

“Come for me again,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “I want to feel you fall apart around me.”

And when you did—clenching around him, mouth falling open in a silent cry—he held you tight, fucking you through it until he followed with a groan, spilling inside you with a final thrust and a shudder that rocked through both of you.

You collapsed against his chest, the water now rippling gently around your tangled bodies. For a moment, the only sound was your breath and the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

“Think we needed that,” you mumbled, eyes half-lidded with bliss.

He laughed softly, running a hand through your wet hair. “That was just the start of the weekend.”

BONUS . . .

Later, after drying off and slipping into soft robes, Xavier wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you onto the couch. The stars twinkled through the glass above as you curled into him.

“Tomorrow,” he murmured, “we sleep in. And then…” His lips brushed your ear. “Round three?”

[moonlit-imagines]

warnings: blood/injury/knife

a/n: dick looks so funny in this gif. also inspired me to keep babs as batgirl in this.

requested by anonymous

While it wasn’t uncommon to cross paths with any of the Bats of Gotham, it certainly was never pleasant. Batman seemed like somewhat of a control freak and another masked vigilante in Gotham that wasn’t taking orders from him seemed to make him…anxious.

Well, tonight’s brush with the Bats wasn’t all that unpleasant. You were trying to hide your injury—a stab wound to the thigh that was hindering your ability to walk, climb, run, you name it. They were all detectives, it wasn’t hard for them to notice the knife you hadn’t yet removed from your body. “I left it there to stop the bleeding.” You told them.

“That’s not going to help if you’re still walking around on it.” Batgirl said, trying to help you by holding you up under the shoulder. “You know, it’d be nice if you let us work together every once in a while.” She grumbled as she took part of your body weight, Robin took the other side.

“Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice now.” You chuckled through the pain.

“You’re right about that.” She said before tapping into her comms. “Batman, we have y/v/n on a rooftop downtown. Sending coordinates now—they’re injured.” Batgirl listened for a response. “You’ll have medical attention within five minutes. Don’t worry, you won’t be compromised.”

Batman soon showed, offering his help to get you into the Batmobile. “I don’t want to blindfold you, can I trust you?” He asked.

“That’s it. I just have to say ‘yes?’” You asked in awe.

“It wouldn’t usually, but I think we can help each other.”

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