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just-aake · 4 months ago

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Who Would Sit at Your Grave the Longest?

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Who would ever mourn the life of a trained spy and assassin?

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, violence, mention of death, scenes from Marvel movies, multiple time skips

Words: 11,010

Red Room, Unknown — 2002

“If you passed away, who would sit at your grave the longest?”

It was a strange question, posed by one of the girls in the Red Room. The answers from the others are what one would expect – mom, dad, siblings, friends.

People they remembered from their lives before.

People who loved them.

With so many choices, it was difficult for some to decide who would fill that position.

Natasha, however, didn’t need any time to consider her answer.

She raises the gun in her hand and fires multiple shots at the practice target, each one hitting a fatal area. After the last bullet, she removes the empty magazine with practiced ease, reloads the gun, and aims at the target once again.

“Who would sit at her grave the longest?”

Her grip wavers slightly at the thought, but Natasha takes a short, steadying breath before steeling herself.

Consecutive shots ring out in the room, hitting the target with perfect precision and demonstrating why she is one of the most feared assassins in the world.

For Natasha, the answer was clear.

“No one.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Abandoned Building, Budapest - 2003

With a tired sigh, Natasha leans her head against the wall of the abandoned building. She lifts her hand from her side, grimacing at the sight of blood covering her palm.

With a slight wince, she presses it against the wound again and glances at the person sitting across from her.

His head hangs limply against his chest, his own hand pressing against a wound on his stomach. If not for his shallow breathing, Natasha would have thought he was already dead.

Taking a deep breath, she nudges him with her boot. “Hey, Barton, you still with me?”

He stirs slightly at her words, becoming more alert, and chuckles softly. “I knew you had a heart, Romanoff.”

Natasha rolls her eyes at his comment, turning her gaze to the distance, searching for any sign of backup from his organization.

Clint Barton had been the first to see something different in her—something better—and had offered her a way out of her previous life.

Now, the one person who might actually care about her existence was dying right in front of her.

A coughing fit seizes Clint at that moment, and a trickle of blood escapes his lips.

“If your people don’t arrive here soon—”

Before she could finish, the sound of an engine fills the air as a quinjet lands nearby, kicking up a whirl of dust.

Spotting the SHIELD logo, Natasha quickly stands, grunting as she pulls Clint up and slings his arm over her shoulder, dragging him toward the plane.

“Over here!” she shouts to the disembarking crew.

The agents at the front eye her warily, cautiously raising their weapons until they recognize Barton and realize his condition. They quickly rushed to help, taking her place and carrying him onto the quinjet.

Natasha shuffles forward slowly, keeping a close eye on them to ensure they’re handling him carefully.

Suddenly, a hand brushes her side, startling her. Instinctively, she grips the wrist and yanks it away, only to find herself locking eyes with you, surprise evident on your face.

Her glare is sharp, a silent warning, but you furrow your brows and pull your hand free, undeterred by her reaction.

“You’re injured too,” you point out, trying to examine the wound on her side.

“I’m fine,” Natasha grits out, swallowing hard against the pain. “You should be taking care of Agent Barton.”

She tries to sidestep you, but her strength falters as the adrenaline starts to fade, and she stumbles. Bracing herself for a hard landing, she’s surprised when a pair of arms catches her before she can fall.

Leaning her head on your shoulder, Natasha takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself and shake off the wave of dizziness.

“He has enough people,” you say firmly, your voice resolute. “I can focus on taking care of you.”

With that, you adjust her gently in your arms and start guiding her toward the quinjet.

“Come on, you’re not dying today.”

You say it with such certainty and determination that Natasha can’t help but believe you.

As you walk, she glances at the side of your face, her curiosity piqued.

“How strange,” Natasha muses to herself, “to have found another person who seems to care about her existence.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Stark Mansion, Malibu - 2010

After pretending to be impressed by Stark’s demonstration of the Iron Man armored glove and its repulsor beam, Natasha quietly slips away as Miss Potts confronts him for his reckless behavior.

At the private bar, Natasha prepares more drinks, anticipating Tony’s inevitable request for another round.

“This is quite the birthday party,” a voice comments from behind.

Natasha turns her head to find you leaning casually on the opposite side of the bar countertop, giving her a friendly smile.

Since her initial encounter with you after joining SHIELD, Natasha hasn’t had the opportunity to work with you again, only spotting you in passing until now.

She raises a questioning brow at you, curious about your presence and wondering how she missed you being part of the team for this mission.

“It seems you’ve gained Mr. Stark’s trust pretty well,” you remark, referring to her little performance earlier.

Returning to her task, Natasha responds as she continues to pour the drinks.

“It’s not hard. He’s a textbook narcissist.”

A loud clatter erupts from the other room and interrupts the conversation, prompting both of you to look at the sound in alertness.

Tony picks himself up from where he stumbled into the DJ booth, then throws his arms up in the air with a cheer, eliciting an excited response from the crowd.

Spotting how he leans heavily on the table for support, Natasha shakes her head and continues her observations.

“His condition is worsening, though. He’ll need something to take the edge off soon.”

From the corner of her eyes, Natasha notices your expression become contemplative as you tilt your head and observe her curiously.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing,” you reply with a small shake of your head. “It’s just nice of you to worry about your new friend.”

Natasha rolls her eyes at that.

Tony Stark is just a potential candidate for the Avenger Initiative that she’s been assigned to assess. From what she’s seen, he cares less about being her friend than she does.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Natasha asserts, turning around with the tray of finished drinks.

You smoothly pluck a glass from the tray before Natasha can stop you and sip it nonchalantly, unbothered by her glare. Still, Natasha can’t help but smirk slightly, amused by your bold action.

Setting the empty glass down, you glance at Tony, who is still playing to the crowd.

“No harm in building genuine friendships,” you comment before nodding at the billionaire.

“Anyway, lucky for him, Fury agrees. He wants to meet with Mr. Stark soon,” you reveal.

Natasha’s brows knit together in confusion.

“Fury sent you just to tell me that?”

You turn your gaze back to her, a small grin tugging at the corner of your lips as you push yourself off the counter.

“Me coming here was more of a personal choice.”

Her eyes narrow in suspicion, still puzzled by your answer.

“Why would you do that?”

With a light chuckle, you meet her gaze, a slight smirk playing on your lips.

“Maybe I just wanted to see the legendary Black Widow in action,” you admit, your tone teasing, before turning to walk away.

For a moment, Natasha is left stunned, her mind racing to make sense of your reasoning. But as you disappear from view, a sudden sensation tightens in her chest. She quickly sets the tray down and moves around the counter, her instincts urging her to follow you.

Just as she takes a step forward, a deafening crash reverberates through the building.

Whirling toward the source of the noise, Natasha’s eyes widen as she spots Tony, now clad in his Iron Man armor, locked in a fierce struggle with one of his other mech suits.

Natasha groans, rolling her eyes as she braces herself to clean up yet another one of Stark’s infamous messes.

She wonders how you could think this man could ever be among those she’d considered a friend.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Stark Tower, New York City - 2012

With the portal closed and the battle over, Natasha and the other newly assembled Avengers gather on the top floor of the Stark Tower to complete the final task of apprehending Loki.

“Alright, get him on his feet,” Tony says, gesturing at the defeated god sprawled on the floor. His Iron Man suit begins to disengage from his body as he walks away.

“Oh, and by the way, feel free to clean up,” he remarks to the others, waving at the destroyed room left in the aftermath of the battle.

Natasha rolls her eyes at his words before focusing on the piece of metal in her hands. She taps Loki’s scepter gently against her palm and asks, “So, who gets the magic wand?”

Standing near the shelves filled with various bottles of alcohol, Clint retrieves two glass cups and answers, “Strike team’s coming to secure it.”

As he finishes speaking, the strike team steps out of the elevator, carrying a large case.

“We can take that,” an agent offers, heading towards her.

“By all means,” Natasha replies, handing it to them and walking toward Clint. Out of the corner of her eyes, she notices one of the agents examining the staff’s point with their hand.

“Careful with that thing,” she warns.

Clint nods in agreement as he hands her a glass, “Unless you want your mind erased, and not the fun way.”

As they both turn around toward the bar, the cups are taken from their hands.

“And I’ll take these,” you declare, placing them on the counter.

“Medical team is also here,” you announce with a smirk, placing your hands on your hips. “Which means the agent with blood dripping from their head should have a seat.”

Natasha and Clint exchange glances to see who you’re referring to.

“Looks like you’re going first,” Clint declares happily, patting Natasha on her shoulder and stepping around you–not before sneakily taking back his cup.

When Natasha doesn’t move, you cross your arms and tilt your head at her with a raised brow.

“Well, are you going to sit, or do I need to wait until you fall on me again?”

Natasha huffs in amusement at the reminder before taking a seat on the barstool, giving you space to come closer.

Stepping forward, you place yourself between her legs and gently brush back her hair as you examine her forehead.

“Doesn’t look like you’ll need stitches, so that’s good,” you comment.

Natasha clicks her tongue in mock disappointment.

“No scar? That’s a shame.”

Your lips twitch upward slightly at her words, and Natasha grins proudly, knowing she almost made you smile.

As you clean her wound, your hands move delicately across her skin, treating her with the utmost care.

Noticing your closeness, Natasha takes a moment to observe you, intrigued at how comfortable you are around her. She was so absorbed in watching you that she almost missed your next words.

“You all make a good team.”

At the mention of the others, Natasha glances over at them across the room, talking and jostling each other in a friendly fashion.

It’s admittedly an odd bunch that Fury managed to assemble: a demi-god, a super soldier, a billionaire tech genius, a scientist with an angry alter ego, and a couple of master assassins.

“Not what I imagined, but surprisingly, it turned out okay,” Natasha admits.

After finishing the bandages, your hand drifts from her hair to gently cup her face, lifting it to meet your eyes.

“You came together, trusted each other, and had each other’s backs—all within just a few days,” you say, your voice steady with conviction. “That’s more than just okay.”

You give her a soft smile, tilting your head lightly.

“It’s actually pretty incredible…and so are you.”

Natasha’s eyes widen at your words, leaving her speechless.

A familiar warmth stirs in her chest, similar to the sensation she felt the last time she met you—a subtle yet undeniable pull towards you.

The intensity of your gaze draws her in, making her feel connected to you in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

Her fingers fidget in her lap as she considers bridging the small gap between you. She raises her hand hesitantly, about to reach out—

“Romanoff!” Tony calls, causing Natasha to withdraw her hand and turn her head, inadvertently making your hand fall from her face, much to her disappointment.

He and the others are gathered by the elevator, looking in her direction. Tony waves his hand in a hurried gesture.

“Hurry it up with the doctor-patient roleplay! The shawarma’s going to get cold.”

Natasha glares at him for the interruption before returning her attention to you.

“Shawarma?” you ask with a questioning tilt of your head.

She shakes her head exasperatedly.

“I don’t know. Tony wants to try it.”

You hum in understanding and take a step back.

“Well, that bandage should be fine for now, but you’ll need a more thorough check-up when you return.”

Natasha leans forward slightly, a small smirk playing on her lips as she teases, “By you?”

You meet her smirk with an amused smile. “We’ll see.”

Accepting that she won’t get a definitive answer, Natasha nods and stands. As she’s about to pass by you, a thought crosses her mind, and she pauses beside you.

“What about you?” she asks.

You look up from where you’re packing your things. “What about me?”

Natasha huffs lightly at your evasiveness, ready to respond, but she hesitates. Her usual confidence falters, and uncertainty flickers in her eyes for a brief moment as they meet yours.

After everything she’s been through, Natasha is still unsure whether she deserves to feel this way about someone—to want to not feel alone.

Noticing her hesitation, your expression softens, and you offer an understanding smile. With a gentle push on her back, you urge her forward.

“Go, you deserve to celebrate this win with your team,” you say, your voice calm and encouraging.

Before Natasha can reply, Tony calls out again.

“The elevator’s going to leave without you, Romanoff,” he warns.

You give her an encouraging nod, and with a light sigh, she makes her way to the elevator, where the others are already waiting inside.

Tony leans casually against the elevator doors, arms crossed and a teasing grin on his face.

Before he can make a comment, Natasha gives him a shove, pushing him inside, and quickly presses the button. As the doors close, she catches one last glimpse of your little wave at her before you disappear from view.

Reflecting on your words, Natasha glances around at the people beside her. Surrounded by her new teammates, she begins to realize that maybe, she’s not so alone anymore, after all.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

National Mall, Washington, D.C. – 2014

Natasha lets go of the back of Steve’s neck, breaking the kiss, and turns around casually on the escalator. With their fake display of affection, Rumlow and the other SHIELD agents do not spare them a glance as they search the mall.

She steps off the escalator smoothly and glances slightly over her shoulder at the super soldier.

“You still uncomfortable?”

Steve clears his throat lightly, trying to regain his composure.

“It’s not exactly the word I would use.”

The two walk calmly until they reach the path leading to the underground parking garage. As they pass through the doors, Natasha notices Steve’s awkward silence and decides to tease him a little.

“Don’t tell me you’re still flustered from that kiss, Rogers?”

Steve sighs at her teasing, “No, I just wasn’t expecting–”

As they round a corner, Natasha and Steve abruptly come to a stop, finding themselves face-to-face with a SHIELD agent.

He eyes them suspiciously, his hand moving toward his walkie-talkie.

Reacting swiftly, Steve tackles him before he can alert the others, and the two engage in a fierce fistfight.

Natasha steps forward to assist, but before she can reach them, someone grabs her from behind and throws her against a concrete column. She groans in surprise as pain radiates from the impact.

Before she can recover, a body pins her against the wall, an arm pressing against her collarbone.

Natasha’s hands instinctively push against the pressure as she focuses on her attacker. Her eyes widen in surprise at who she sees.

“Since when are you a part of the strike team?” she grunts out.

You frown slightly and nod toward Steve.

“Since Captain America took down most of their men, and they had to pull others from different teams,” you explain before giving her a questioning look. “You do know he’s wanted by SHIELD, right?”

“Yes,” Natasha grits out, raising her knee sharply, catching you off guard.

The sudden pain in your side forces you to loosen your grip just enough for her to slip out. With a swift motion, Natasha twists her body, reversing your positions, and slams you against the wall, pinning you there.

“Do you know why SHIELD wants you to hunt him?” Natasha challenges.

Despite being pinned, your expression remains calm as you raise a brow at her.

“What happened to the Black Widow who followed every order—no questions asked?”

Natasha pauses, thinking about the anger and sense of loss she felt after Fury’s sudden death��one of the few who had become an important figure in her life. He was betrayed, and she was determined to find out who was behind it, even if it meant going against orders.

“I’m trying something new,” Natasha answers.

To her surprise, a smile spreads across your face, and you remark proudly, “Good.”

It’s then Natasha notices you aren’t even trying to break free from your pinned position. Your hands hang limply at your sides, offering no resistance.

Slowly, Natasha lowers her arm from your chest and takes a small step back, allowing you to lean against the wall on your own.

You make no move to attack her.

Before Natasha can question your intentions, the walkie-talkie at your side crackles to life with incoming communication.

“Anything in the lower levels?” Rumlow’s voice asks.

Your eyes drift down to the device at the request for an answer. As your hand reaches for the walkie-talkie, Steve, having just dealt with the other agent, rushes toward you.

But Natasha quickly stops him, holding out her to block his path. She watches you calmly as you raise the walkie to your mouth, maintaining eye contact with her the entire time.

“Negative in the parking garage,” you respond.

Rumlow’s frustrated growl sounds through the speaker. “Expand the search area and sweep the floors again.”

“Understood.”

With that, you casually toss the walkie aside and raise your hands in surrender. When Natasha and Steve remain still, you give them a pointed look.

“Shouldn’t the two of you be looking for a way to escape?” you suggest, your tone laced with a hint of urgency.

Understanding your intentions, Steve gives you an appreciative nod and gently touches Natasha’s arm.

“I’ll go find us a ride,” he says.

“Okay,” Natasha replies with a nod, watching as Steve heads off in search of a vehicle.

When she turns back to you, she notices a slight frown on your face as your arms cross over your chest.

“You two seem closer,” you observe.

Natasha chuckles softly, catching the hint of displeasure in your tone.

“Aren’t you the one who told me to make friends?”

You huff in response, giving her a tiny glare before walking past her.

As you examine the unconscious agent on the ground, a thoughtful hum escapes you, clearly contemplating your next move.

Sensing your dilemma, Natasha steps beside you and offers, “You could always come with us.”

You shake your head and turn to her with a slight smirk.

“Three’s a crowd,” you reply before taking a step closer, tilting your head curiously. “Did you really kiss him?”

Realizing you must have overheard her earlier comment, Natasha starts to explain.

“It was just a cover.”

She watches you carefully as you take another step closer, leaving only a small gap between your bodies. Feeling slightly distracted, Natasha swallows lightly and continues, unsure why she feels the need to explain herself further.

“Public displays of affection make people very…”

Natasha’s words trail off as you place your hands on her waist and lean in slightly with a tilt of your head.

“…uncomfortable,” she finishes softly, her eyes falling to your lips, which curve up slightly at her attention.

Her pulse quickens, and for a moment, the world around the two of you fades, leaving only the charged tension in the air between you.

That familiar, tempting feeling stirs within her again.

She lifts her eyes to meet yours, noticing the amusement dancing in your gaze.

“Are you uncomfortable?” you whisper, the words softly caressing her lips.

Natasha finds herself leaning forward as she responds with a breathless sigh, “No.”

Just as the space between you is about to disappear, you abruptly pull back, removing your hands from her hips and stepping away.

“Good to know,” you say with a playful grin. You raise your hand to reveal a tiny taser disk between your fingers. “Do you mind if I borrow this?”

Still stunned by your sudden move, Natasha remains frozen, too shocked to react to the revelation of the item you swiped from her.

You chuckle at her silence, tilting your head playfully.

“Catch me?” you request before activating the device and delivering an electric shock to yourself.

Recovering quickly, Natasha catches you as you slump forward, wrapping her arms around you and gently lowering you to the ground.

With a small huff of disbelief, Natasha cups your unconscious face, caressing your cheek with a fond touch.

You always know how to leave her speechless.

A truck pulls up beside her, and Steve leans out from the driver’s seat. “Ready to go?”

Natasha takes a moment to make sure you’re positioned comfortably before nodding and hopping into the passenger seat.

As they drive toward New Jersey, the silence eventually gives way to their earlier conversation.

“Really? Nobody special, though?” Natasha asks, glancing over at Steve.

Steve sighs, a touch of exasperation in his voice.

“Believe it or not, it’s kind of hard to find someone with shared life experiences,” he replies, then gestures toward her. “And what about you? You keep urging me to go on dates, but it doesn’t seem like you’re taking any steps in your love life either.”

He nudges her arm encouragingly, adding, “That agent earlier seemed interested.”

Natasha smirks at his observation, her gaze drifting to the window as the trees blur past. After a pause, she answers, her voice thoughtful.

“I don’t know. People usually want something real,” she says, her eyes distant, as if she’s seeing something far beyond the road. She turns to Steve with a small, sad smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Nothing about me is.”

Steve remains silent for a moment, processing her words.

“You know, you’ll never find out if someone can accept you until you let them see the real you,” he says gently, his tone firm yet understanding.

“Yeah…” Natasha whispers, almost to herself.

Her thoughts wander to her secretive past, the parts of herself hidden from the world. If you knew who she really was, would you still trust her? Or would you leave her, like so many others had?

Her entire life, people wanted her to be something for them—a killer, a spy, a tool. Everyone had their own agenda.

She turns back to Steve, a curious glint in her eyes. “Who do you want me to be?”

Steve meets her gaze, sincerity in his expression. “How about a friend?” he suggests, his words simple yet filled with meaning.

Natasha laughs, starting with disbelief but gradually softening into something more genuine.

Shaking her head, she imagines what her past self would think of her now—a person trying to be more open to others.

“Maybe I could manage that,” she decides, her tone lighter than ever before.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Avengers Tower, New York City – 2015

Laughter fills the common room of the Avengers Tower as everyone takes turns trying to lift Thor’s hammer. With one last grunt, Steve lets go and shakes his head in defeat, returning to his seat with a chuckle.

“Alright, be honest, it’s rigged,” Tony remarks to Thor. “The handle is imprinted. The one who is worthy is the one with Thor’s fingerprints, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Clint agrees with a laugh, clinking his bottle with Natasha’s. He sits on the floor, leaning against her seat, and takes another sip.

Natasha chuckles lightly and brings her bottle up for a drink, only to pull it away and see it’s empty. She looks at it in confusion, wondering when she had finished it.

A hand takes the empty bottle from her, and Natasha turns to see you sitting on the arm of her chair, giving her an amused smile.

“You finished it two attempts ago,” you reveal.

“Were you watching me the entire time?” Natasha asks with a playful smirk.

You return her expression with a slight smirk of your own and lean in closer, your hand sliding against the back of her chair.

“Well, it’s hard to pay attention to anyone else when you’re around,” you reply.

Before Natasha can respond, Tony claps his hands together, exclaiming, “Alright, who’s next? Romanoff? Hill?”

Maria shakes her head as she stands and heads to the bar. “I’m going to have to pass.”

Chuckling lightly, you stand also and give Natasha an encouraging touch on her shoulder.

“You have fun. I’m going to get us another round.”

Natasha’s eyes follow you the entire time as you walk away. When she finally turns back around, she notices Steve giving her a pointed look.

“What?” she questions, arching a brow.

“Come on, you and her. It’s obvious there’s something between you two,” Steve insists.

“Don’t bother, Cap. She’s not going to be convinced. I’ve tried,” Clint chimes in, earning a tiny kick from Natasha in reprimand.

“Ow, see what I mean.”

Natasha rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“We flirt,” she defends with a shrug. “It’s what we’ve always done. Just some innocent fun.”

Tony, overhearing the exchange, joins the conversation with a nod toward something behind her.

“Yeah, well, it’s not looking so innocent over there,” he remarks.

Natasha furrows her brows and turns to look at the bar. Her frown deepens at what she sees.

You and Maria are talking and laughing together, with the latter leaning a bit too close for Natasha’s comfort.

“Hey, take it from someone who knows. You don’t want to wait before it’s too late,” Steve advises.

Natasha considers his words as she watches the two of you, contemplating what she should do.

You and she have grown and maintained this comfortable dynamic for years. Of course, there’s an undeniable attraction, but Natasha isn’t sure if taking things further would be worth the risk of losing what she already has with you.

However, when Maria leans forward to whisper something in your ear, Natasha suddenly finds herself rising from her chair and heading toward the bar.

Just as you duck down to grab something from the bottom shelves, Maria takes the opportunity to slip away, passing by Natasha with a pat on the shoulder and a whispered, “Good luck.”

Frowning in confusion, Natasha glances back to see Maria and Clint exchanging a high-five. Realizing she’s been set up, Natasha turns to retreat to her seat before you notice her.

But it’s too late.

“Oh, hey, I’m almost finished with the drinks,” you call out, straightening with a grin as you spot her.

With her escape route cut off, Natasha decides to sit at the counter, her earlier irritation melting away when she meets your gaze.

“You sure you’re not getting distracted over here?” Natasha teases, her tone playful.

You laugh lightly as you secure the top of the shaker, shaking it with practiced ease, your eyes never leaving hers.

“Only if you’re the distraction,” you tease back.

Natasha relaxes at the warmth of the familiar banter, putting her at ease as she watches you finish preparing the drinks and pour them into two glasses.

You slide one across the counter to her and nod curiously toward the gathered group.

“You didn’t want to try to lift the hammer?” you ask with a curious tilt of your head.

“Oh, no,” Natasha replies, shaking her head slightly as she raises her glass to her lips. “No, that’s not a question that I need answered.”

“Really?” you respond, leaning forward on the counter, bringing yourself closer to her. Your hand inches toward hers, brushing her fingers lightly and letting the touch linger.

With a slight smirk, you raise a brow. “Then what is?”

That familiar feeling stirs in Natasha’s chest again as she holds your gaze—the temptation to close the distance between you two growing stronger.

Recalling Steve’s advice, Natasha swallows nervously and answers in a soft whisper, “Something probably only you can help me with.”

Intrigued, you gesture for her to continue, your attention entirely on her.

“There’s this thing—this feeling,” Natasha begins cautiously. “It appears during certain situations, like a pressure in my chest.”

You furrow your brows in concern. “Does it hurt?”

Natasha chuckles lightly, her gaze dropping to the drink you made for her, swirling it gently. The small ripples are nothing compared to the pounding of her heart at that moment.

“Sometimes,” she admits, her eyes drifting to your hand beside hers. She’s tempted to intertwine them but ultimately decides against it.

“It feels like I’m standing on the edge,” Natasha explains, meeting your eyes again. “I know what’s waiting for me if I turn and walk away, but if I choose to fall…”

She releases a shaky breath.

“…I don’t know what that future looks like, and that terrifies me.”

Your expression softens with understanding. You reach out, this time more deliberately, and your fingers find hers with gentle assurance.

Natasha clears her throat lightly, a playful smile tugging at her lips as she tries to mask the vulnerability of her confession.

“So what should I do?” she asks, her tone teasing, an attempt to deflect the seriousness of the moment.

You chuckle softly, recognizing her attempt to lighten the mood.

“I think—”

The sound of scratching metal against the floor interrupts the conversation as Natasha and everyone in the room turn to look at the dilapidated robot that has just dragged itself in front of them.

The moments after that are chaotic as she and the Avengers have to deal with Ultron’s threat to the world.

New Avengers Facility, Upstate New York

With Ultron defeated and most of the original members either retired or off on their own adventures, Natasha watches bittersweetly as Steve welcomes the new recruits to the Avengers.

Footsteps approach and stop beside her, and Natasha doesn’t need to look to know who it is.

“The new team looks good,” you comment, your eyes scanning the mix of familiar and new faces before glancing at Natasha’s expression.

“Do you miss them?” you ask softly, understanding the emotions behind her eyes.

Natasha sighs, her gaze still fixed on the newcomers.

“Nothing lasts forever,” she replies, a touch of sadness in her voice but not surprised. She’s accustomed to things not staying a part of her life.

You hum thoughtfully, considering her words before declaring with quiet conviction, “Well, you won’t have to worry about that with me.”

Natasha turns to look at you with a curious tilt of her head.

You offer her a small, reassuring smile.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, your words laced with promise.

A soft smile spreads across Natasha’s face at your assurance, feeling the familiar warmth blossoming in her chest.

“You never answered my question,” she reminds you, referring to the conversation that was interrupted earlier.

Natasha waits, her nerves on edge as you consider your response. Finally, you meet her gaze with a soft expression, placing a gentle hand on her arm.

“You should do whatever feels right for you,” you say sincerely, giving her arm a comforting squeeze before turning to leave.

Natasha looks down, a slight shake of her head and a light huff of amusement escaping her as she recognizes your deflection.

“But if you want my opinion…” you add, pausing at the doorway, prompting Natasha to look back up at you.

Lingering at the threshold, you offer her a playful smirk. “… I’d say, based on my track record, I’ve caught you when you’ve fallen before.” You shrug lightly. “And it seems like everything has turned out fine since then.”

Your smile widens as you notice Natasha rendered speechless once again before you turn to leave the room.

Recovering quickly, Natasha strides after you with determination. She catches up to you this time, gently taking your hand and turning you around to face her.

Cupping your cheek, she leans in and kisses you, pouring all her emotions into the gesture.

Before she can even worry that she might have made a mistake, you wrap your arms around her, pulling her closer as you deepen the kiss, your lips moving fervently against hers.

The world around Natasha fades away, leaving only the two of you in that moment, and she knows she made the right decision.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Leipzig-Halle Airport, Leipzig – 2016

Natasha looks across the airport at the people she had come to call friends and then back at those standing beside her. As the two sides rush at each other and engage in battle, she can’t help but wonder how it came to this—how they all decided that fighting each other was the only option left.

She’s not even sure if signing the accords was the right choice, but the one thing she does know is that staying together is supposed to be the most important thing.

Just because they’re fighting now doesn’t mean Natasha cares any less about them. The thought lingers as the chaos of battle surrounds her.

Clint flips her to the ground, and she reacts instinctively, bringing up her batons to block his bow from pinning her down. The two lock eyes, a familiar intensity passing between them.

“We’re still friends, right?” Natasha asks, her voice steady despite the conflict around them.

Clint smirks, the kind of smile that reassures her, even in the midst of battle.

“Depends on how hard you hit me.”

Natasha grins back, then uses her legs to flip him off of her. She springs to her feet, ready to deliver a follow-up kick, when a sudden wave of red energy wraps around her leg, freezing her in place.

Startled, she glances to the side, catching only a brief glimpse of Wanda before she’s hurled through the air.

Natasha braces herself for the inevitable impact, but instead of hitting the metal wall of an airport car, she collides with a body in mid-air.

A pair of arms wrap around her, cushioning the fall as they both tumble to the ground. They roll to a stop, with Natasha ending up on top.

Dazed but unharmed, she pushes herself up, her breath coming in short gasps as she looks down to see who caught her.

“Hey,” Natasha greets softly, a small smile forming on her lips as she cups your face with her hands. “What are you doing here?”

You don’t return her smile, instead frowning at her with concern.

“The Avengers are fighting each other, and you didn’t think to call me?”

Natasha’s smile falters, and she shifts her gaze away, her voice soft with guilt.

“I didn’t want you to have to choose a side.”

You release a knowing sigh.

“You mean, you were afraid I wouldn’t agree with your choice,” you correct gently.

Natasha twists her lips at the truth in your words.

Yes, she’s afraid. Her makeshift family is breaking apart before her eyes, and she’s desperate to protect the one other part of her life that matters.

Why wouldn’t she try to shield you from this chaos?

Your hand covers hers, still resting on your cheek, drawing her attention back to you.

“I’ve told you, Nat. Do whatever it is you feel is right for you. I’ll support you no matter what.”

Natasha’s eyes soften, a wave of relief washing over her. She starts to lean in, but you stop her with a gentle press of your finger against her lips.

“However,” you add, your voice firm and disapproving, “not calling me and having me find out from Stark? That’s a different kind of trouble you’re in.”

Natasha chuckles, taking your hand from her face and pressing a gentle kiss against your palm, a hint of playfulness entering her voice.

“Well, you still love me though, right?”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to maintain your stern expression, though it softens slightly.

“I don’t know. Ask me again after this,” you tease back at her.

Before Natasha can respond, Tony’s voice crackles through the comms, interrupting the moment.

“Uh, less flirting, you two. In case you forgot, there are multiple fights happening around you.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, but the smile remains on her face as she helps you up, ready to rejoin the fray.

Leipzig Hospital Balcony

“You let them go, Nat,” Tony accuses, his voice sharp with disbelief.

Natasha doesn’t deny it. In the end, she chose to help Steve and Bucky because it was the right thing to do. If the fighting didn’t stop, it would only cause more pain for everyone involved.

“We played this wrong,” Natasha admits, her voice tinged with regret.

“We?” Tony scoffs, shaking his head in frustration. “You know, it must be hard to shake the whole double agent thing, huh? It sticks in the DNA.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. Natasha flinches inwardly, the hurt flickering across her face before she quickly masks it.

His comment cuts deeper than she expected, reminding her of the ghosts of her past, the shadows she’s fought so hard to leave behind after all these years.

But here, at this moment, those shadows seem to close in on her, dark and suffocating, reminding her of the person she used to be.

Her voice hardens, a cold edge creeping into her tone. “Are you incapable of letting go of your ego for one goddamn second?”

Tony’s expression remains stony, but there’s a brief flicker of something in his eyes—regret, maybe, or disappointment. He doesn’t back down, though.

“T’Challa told Ross what you did, so…they’re coming for you.”

Natasha meets his gaze, her eyes steely, refusing to show any sign of fear.

“I’m not the one that needs to watch their back,” she replies before turning to leave.

As she walks away, the weight of the confrontation settles in her chest, heavy and suffocating.

She finds an empty hallway and leans against the wall, pressing her hands to her eyes, trying to push back the frustration and the sting of Tony’s words. Her breath comes in uneven gasps as she struggles to regain her composure.

A gentle hand touches her wrist, a gesture of comfort, but in her raw state, she instinctively swats it away.

When she looks up, your expression is sad as your hands retreat to your sides. You clear your throat awkwardly, searching for the right words.

“I can talk with Ross. Maybe change his mind or something.”

Natasha breaks away from your soft gaze, looking down and biting her lip to stop herself from saying the cutting remark on the tip of her tongue—that it would not make a difference, not with her past.

She’s all too aware of the person she was, and no words could erase that history.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” you try to reassure her.

Despite the same certainty and determination in your tone, Natasha can’t seem to find it in her to believe that to be true this time.

Glancing up, Natasha’s eyes fall on the bruises and scratches on your face, injuries you sustained because of her—because you chose to stand by her side.

The sight only deepens the ache in her chest.

“Don’t,” Natasha mutters, her voice trembling. “Just leave.”

“Nat…” you begin, your voice soft, filled with concern.

But she closes her eyes tightly, shaking her head as if to block out the sound. “I said go! Leave me alone!”

The harshness in her tone is laced with pain, and it cuts through the air like a knife.

For a moment, there’s silence, thick and heavy, before you turn and walk away, leaving Natasha alone with her thoughts.

The hallway echoes with the sound of your retreating footsteps.

Natasha sinks down to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees, feeling the weight of her actions pressing down on her like never before.

She thought she could finally have a different life, that she could change, but nothing has changed. She still hurts the people around her.

So, Natasha does what she does best. She disappears.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Seventh Circle Prison, Russia – 2016

The whirl of the helicopter blades fills the air as Natasha flies away from the prison, the tension inside the cabin palpable among its three occupants.

“It means so much to me that you girls came back for me,” Alexei begins, his voice tinged with nostalgia.

Natasha, however, isn’t in the mood for such sentimentality. Her voice is sharp as she cuts him off, “No. No, you’re gonna tell us how to get to the Red Room.”

Alexei huffs, slightly taken aback by her tone.

“Whoa, look at you, huh? All business.”

“Trust me, this isn’t pleasure,” Natasha retorts, her eyes narrowing in irritation. She was not prepared to deal with her old family after just losing her new one. But the quicker she destroys the Red Room and saves the remaining Widows, the faster she can leave this part of her past behind.

Behind her, Alexei chuckles, though there’s a trace of bitterness in his laughter.

“Little Natasha, all indoctrinated into the Western agenda.”

Natasha’s gaze hardens as she turns to glare at him.

“I chose to go west to become an Avenger. At least they treated me like family.”

“Really? Family?” Alexei’s tone drips with sarcasm. “Well, where are they now?”

From the corner of her eye, Natasha catches Yelena looking at her. A mix of emotions crosses Yelena’s face—curiosity, concern, and a brief flash of sadness—before she turns away, staring forward.

“Where is that family now?” Alexei repeats, his voice louder, more insistent.

Unable to face the question any longer, Natasha turns away, focusing on the landscape outside instead.

The ache of loss resurfaces within her, a painful reminder of the bonds she once believed were unbreakable, now torn apart so easily.

As the helicopter continues to slice through the air, the silence between them grows heavier, especially after Natasha discovers that Melina is still working for Dreykov, remotely operating somewhere outside of Saint Petersburg.

With Yelena now at the controls of the helicopter, Natasha takes a moment for herself. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small flip phone—the only possession she hadn’t discarded when she went on the run.

Opening it, she stares at the screen, at the message she’s been fixated on for weeks.

“I love you”

It was the last thing you sent her after she had disappeared.

Natasha swallows nervously before attempting once more to type a response. Her fingers move over the keys, spelling out the same words that appeared on the screen countless times before.

I’m sorry|

But once again, nothing else follows. Frustration wells up inside her as her fingers hesitate, struggling to find the right words.

Instead of clarity, a heavy weight presses down on her—guilt from your last moment together, regret over her actions, and fear of what the future holds for the two of you.

Before she can dwell on it further, the helicopter suddenly lurches, jostling everyone inside.

“Yelena?!” Natasha calls out, her voice filled with alarm.

The blonde-haired Widow nods calmly, her tone casual despite the situation.

“Uh, yeah, the plane’s going down.” She flips a few switches, nodding in confirmation. “Told you we didn’t have enough fuel to get there.”

Groaning in frustration, Natasha quickly tucks the phone away, securing herself as she declares, “Everyone, brace yourselves.”

After a rough landing and leaving the wrecked helicopter behind, they finally arrive at Melina’s home.

The four of them sit awkwardly around the table, a scene eerily reminiscent of how it was many years ago.

Breaking the silence, Alexei exclaims joyfully, “Family! Back together again!”

Natasha rolls her eyes, dismissing his enthusiasm as she tries to stay focused on the mission.

“So, here’s what’s going to happen—”

“Natasha, don’t slouch,” Melina interrupts, her voice carrying a motherly tone.

Blinking in surprise, Natasha straightens slightly, though she couldn’t help but argue, “I’m not slouching.”

“Yes, yes you are,” Melina insists, her tone firm.

“I don’t slouch,” Natasha retorts, irritation creeping into her voice.

“You’re going to get a back hunch,” Melina continues, unfazed by Natasha’s resistance.

Alexei nods in agreement, tapping her arm. “Listen to your mother.”

“All right, enough! All of you,” Natasha snaps, trying to regain control of the situation and her emotions. Her voice is tinged with disbelief at their sudden concern—as if they hadn’t abandoned her and Yelena to the Red Room once their mission was over.

“I didn’t say anything. That’s not fair,” Yelena quips, her tone laced with dry humor.

Rolling her eyes, Natasha tries again, “Here’s what’s going to happen—”

“I don’t want any food,” Yelena complains as Melina places a spoonful onto her plate.

“Eat a little something, Yelena, for God’s sake,” Melina urges, her voice slipping back into the role of a concerned mother.

The constant interruptions and forced familial interactions finally push Natasha over the edge, and her frustration boils over.

“Enough! Stop, just stop pretending to care. Our family was never real,” Natasha snaps, her voice rising. “Nothing about us is real!”

Yelena’s breath catches in her throat at Natasha’s declaration.

“Don’t say that.” Yelena’s frown deepens as she continues, “Please don’t say that. It was real. It was real to me.”

Natasha falters at Yelena’s response, regret immediately washing over her. She hadn’t meant to hurt her sister, but with everything that’s happened in the past weeks, she could no longer control her anger and frustration.

Swallowing hard, Natasha stays silent, her hands clenching in her lap to keep from reaching out to comfort Yelena.

Yelena shakes her head in disbelief, hastily wiping away a stray tear. “The best part of my life was fake,” she exhales deeply, her voice trembling with emotion, “and none of you told me.”

She turns to Natasha, her voice filled with hurt and heavy with accusation. “And you…you got out. Dreykov made sure no one could escape after that. Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Natasha holds Yelena’s gaze for a long, tense moment, the silence between them charged with unspoken pain. Finally, Natasha flinches away, guilt preventing her from finding the right words.

Melina reaches out, placing a comforting hand on Yelena’s shoulder. But Yelena quickly brushes it off, standing abruptly and turning to leave.

“Yelena…” Natasha calls after her, her voice heavy with regret.

Yelena ignores her, slamming the door behind her as she storms out.

“Uh…I’ll go talk to her,” Alexei offers, standing up to follow.

Natasha’s gaze falls, her eyes glaring at the table as the weight of guilt presses down on her chest, almost suffocating her. She suddenly stands, pushing her chair back with a harsh scrape, and quickly leaves the table, heading for the bathroom.

Once inside, she splashes cold water on her face, hoping to wash away the turmoil churning inside her.

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, frustration is etched into every line of her face.

Why does it seem like the only thing she’s capable of is hurting those around her?

Natasha can’t even remember what made her believe that someone like her could have a different life—that she could change and be more than what she was trained to be.

Sighing deeply, Natasha leaves the bathroom and returns to the table, only to find that Melina has gone as well.

Unsurprised, Natasha finds herself alone once again. She closes her eyes, taking a few deep breaths to steady herself. As she does, she recalls how she used to cope with the pain of loneliness, slowly beginning to rebuild the walls around her heart.

But then, a small commotion outside catches her attention.

Moving cautiously, Natasha heads toward the front of the house to investigate. As she reaches the door, she freezes, hearing a familiar voice that stops her in her tracks.

“I’m not here to cause any trouble. I’m just looking for someone.”

Natasha’s brow furrows in recognition, but she quickly shakes her head, dismissing the thought. It can’t be possible.

“The next town is five miles that way,” Melina’s voice responds, cold and unwelcoming.

Curiosity gets the better of her, and Natasha peeks out the door, stepping outside cautiously. Her eyes widen in surprise when they meet yours.

“Nat…” you say softly, taking a hesitant step closer. But before you can move further, Melina raises the gun in her hand, her eyes filled with a clear warning.

“Wait,” Natasha calls out, rushing forward. She places her hand on Melina’s, gently but firmly lowering the weapon. “She’s not a threat.”

“Well, that’s a little offensive,” you remark with a slight glare, crossing your arms.

Natasha gives you a look, silently conveying that she didn’t mean it that way, then turns back to Melina.

“Could you give us a moment?” Natasha asks.

Melina hesitates briefly, her protective gaze lingering on Natasha, but eventually nods. With a wary glance in your direction, she retreats back into the house.

Once alone, Natasha turns to you, her expression conflicted with a mix of curiosity and concern.

“How did you find me?”

“I got worried after the message you sent me,” you explain, pulling out your phone and showing her the screen.

On it is a jumbled message: “I’m sorrywjhsgf”

Natasha grimaces, realizing her fingers must have accidentally pressed some buttons during the helicopter’s turbulent descent. She mentally kicks herself for the unintended message.

“I didn’t mean to send that.”

At her words, your face falls as understanding dawns on you, the light in your eyes dimming.

“Oh,” you mutter quietly, glancing down as you fidget with your phone before tucking it away. You shuffle in place unsurely before turning away with a shake of your head.

“I should just go,” you say, disappointment clear in your voice.

Realizing the misunderstanding she’s caused, Natasha quickly reaches out, catching your arm and turning you back to face her, her words spilling out in a rush.

“Wait, that’s not what I meant,” Natasha blurts out, her voice urgent as she steps closer. “I wanted to say more than just sorry,” she clarifies, hoping you’ll understand.

You pause, your gaze lingering where her hand rests on your arm. Slowly, you pull away, and her hand drops back to her side.

At your distancing action, Natasha’s heart pounds painfully in her chest as she realizes how much she’s risked by not reaching out sooner and letting her fears and insecurities get in the way of what truly matters.

She braces herself for the inevitable.

But instead of leaving, you surprise her by simply crossing your arms and waiting, a silent gesture that tells her you’re willing to listen.

Natasha exhales, only now realizing she’d been holding her breath. The familiar way you look at her, unchanged from before, causes the walls she’d been building to crumble.

Taking a deep breath, she begins to speak.

“You have every right to be angry with me,” she says, her voice tinged with guilt. Natasha hesitates, searching for the right words to express the turmoil inside her, still struggling to find herself amidst all the chaos.

“There’s so much more I need to say,” she continues, her voice softening, almost pleading. “But the problem is that I haven’t figured it all out yet. What I do know, though—” she pauses, her eyes locking onto yours, searching for any hint of hope, “—is that I don’t want you to leave.”

When she finishes, your expression remains unreadable.

Natasha bites her lip, anxiety twisting in her stomach as she watches you contemplate her words. Being this vulnerable is unfamiliar territory for her, and it terrifies her more than she’s willing to admit.

“Please don’t go,” she whispers, a final, desperate plea, hoping it’s enough to convey the depth of her true feelings.

You look up at the sky, exhaling softly as if weighing your options.

When your gaze finally meets hers again, a small, playful smile tugs at the corners of your lips. You gesture toward the house, the tension easing as a lighter tone returns to your voice.

“New friends?” you ask, the warmth in your tone bringing a small smile to Natasha’s face.

Natasha chuckles lightly, the pressure in her chest easing at your familiar banter.

“More like an old, broken family.”

You hum thoughtfully, your teasing grin softening into a more sympathetic expression.

“So, not much different,” you remark, referencing the fractured state of the Avengers.

Natasha sighs sadly, her smile fading at the reminder of her situation.

“What should I do?” she asks, her voice tinged with the uncertainty she’s been trying so hard to conceal.

It feels as though no matter what she does, nothing ever changes. She pretends to have all the answers, but deep down, she knows the truth is far from that.

“Whatever you feel is right,” you respond without hesitation, your confidence in her unwavering.

Natasha scoffs softly, a flicker of disbelief crossing her features as she hesitates. Her eyes meet yours, searching for reassurance.

“And what makes you so sure I’ll make the right choice?” she asks, her voice revealing the doubt that lingers deep within her.

You take a moment to consider your response before stepping closer, gently cupping her face in your hands.

“Because after everything you’ve been through, you’ve still kept your heart,” you say with quiet conviction, your thumb gently brushing her cheek as you lean your forehead against hers.

“That’s how I know you’ll figure this out, too,” you add, your voice filled with certainty.

Your words settle over Natasha, bringing a sense of calm to her chaotic thoughts. For the first time in a long while, she feels a glimmer of hope—hope that maybe, just maybe, she can find her way through this mess and everything else, too.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Avenger Compound, Upstate New York – 2018

Natasha sits on the edge of the bed in her old room at the Avengers Compound, watching you as you methodically strap on your gear and check your weapons.

The room is dimly lit, shadows playing along the walls, and the tension from the past few hours hangs heavily in the air.

Her leg bounces with nervous energy, worry gnawing at her. She presses her palms together, fidgeting with her fingers, before dropping her gaze to the floor and releasing a soft, scared sigh.

But the fear isn’t for herself.

“You can still go, you know,” Natasha mutters softly, her voice barely breaking the silence.

You hum in acknowledgment, not pausing in your preparation, the sound of buckles and straps filling the room.

“Do you want me to?” you ask over your shoulder, your tone casual, almost too casual for the weight of the question.

Natasha huffs, recognizing your familiar deflection, and shakes her head.

With Bruce’s dire warning about the impending battle with Thanos and his army still echoing in her mind, she can’t help the fear that tightens her chest as she looks at the person who has chosen to stand by her side, time and time again.

“I want you safe,” Natasha admits, her voice trembling with the honesty of her words.

“Good, I feel the same about you,” you reply, turning to face her, your expression softening as you take in the sight of her.

“I’m serious. This isn’t like anything we’ve faced before,” Natasha warns, her eyes pleading with yours to understand.

“Which means you’ll need all the help you can get,” you say, stepping closer until you’re standing right in front of her.

Natasha twists her lips, frustrated by the truth in your words. She looks away, trying to hide the turmoil in her eyes.

But you won’t let her retreat.

You gently catch her chin with your finger, guiding her face back to yours as you lean down to press a soft, lingering kiss against her lips.

Natasha’s eyes flutter shut as she returns the kiss, her hand instinctively finding the back of your neck, pulling you closer as if she can anchor herself in the warmth of your touch.

When you finally pull away, Natasha bites her lip lightly, trying to hold onto the warmth for just a moment longer.

You rest your forehead against hers, and she finally opens her eyes, meeting yours with a rare vulnerability she shows only to you.

“Are you scared?” you ask softly, your voice laced with the same fear gnawing at her.

Natasha’s eyes roam across your face, memorizing every detail as if it might be the last time she sees you.

“Terrified,” she admits, her voice raw with emotion.

“Me too,” you say, a small, reassuring smile tugging at your lips as your thumb gently caresses her cheek.

“Are you going to leave?” you ask, even though Natasha’s sure you already know the answer.

The Avengers are her family. Imperfect and flawed, but they always strive to make the world a safer place—to do what’s right. She would never abandon them when they need her most.

“No,” she responds, her voice filled with determined resolve.

You smile knowingly at her response, your gaze drifting around the room as a look of nostalgia washes over you.

The soft, wistful look in your eyes tells Natasha that you’re recalling the memories of all the times the two of you spent together in this space.

When you meet Natasha’s gaze again, a playful smile tugs at your lips.

“Do you still love me?” you ask teasingly.

Natasha huffs in mock offense, the corner of her lips twitching into a half-smile. You can’t help but chuckle at her reaction, raising a brow in amusement.

“Well?” you whisper, your voice low as you lean in closer, your breath warm against her skin, your hands resting gently on her shoulders.

Instead of answering, Natasha wraps her arms around your waist, pulling you in until you’re straddling her, your knees pressing into the bed on either side of her.

The bed dips slightly under your combined weight, and Natasha holds you close, her hands firm yet gentle on your waist.

“I love you,” Natasha breathes out, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I don’t want to lose you.”

You cup her face in your hands, your eyes filled with love and adoration as you give her a reassuring smile.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you reaffirm, your voice steady and full of the certainty she needs to hear.

You lower yourself onto her, gently guiding her down to lie back against the bed, your lips meeting hers in a tender kiss.

You had said it with such conviction that Natasha can’t help but believe you, just as she always has.

But how could she have known that after this battle, for the first time ever, it wouldn’t be true?

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Vomir – 2023

They say that when someone is about to die, their life flashes before their eyes—a rapid montage of memories, achievements, failures, regrets, and the relationships that mattered most.

For Natasha, the idea of her life flashing before her eyes seems almost laughable. Her early years are a blur of pain, manipulation, and control—years she would rather forget than relive.

The truth is, her real life didn’t begin until much later.

If Natasha had to pinpoint the exact moment, it would be when she found herself face-to-face with the sharp point of an arrow—the moment she met the first person to see something in her worth saving when she had seen nothing in herself.

That was the moment she was given the chance to truly live.

Her mind floods with memories of the life she built after that fateful encounter—a life she had never imagined for herself, filled with friends, laughter, and moments of unexpected warmth.

She remembers the first time she allowed herself to trust again, to let people in despite the walls she had built around her heart.

With all their quirks and flaws, the Avengers became the family she never knew she needed. They challenged her, frustrated her, and made her feel alive in ways she had never thought possible.

But it wasn’t always easy. Natasha recalls the arguments, the disagreements, and the moments when it seemed like they were tearing apart at the seams.

However, no matter how far they drifted, they always found their way back to each other.

She learned to fight for them, to fight for herself, and to fight for something greater than her past.

And then there were those who reached out from her previous life, some seeking assistance, some seeking redemption. Even then, Natasha chose to rebuild those broken bonds of the past.

Yet, among all these memories, one person stands out more than any other.

That person was there at every pivotal moment in her life—whether she was on the verge of giving up or standing tall in the face of adversity. Through the highs and lows, they were her constant, the one who saw her for who she truly was and loved her all the more for it.

In her final moments, Natasha’s mind doesn’t dwell on her victories or her failures.

Instead, she sees your face, the one constant in her life that brought her peace and happiness.

Natasha remembers the way you looked at her, with eyes that held no judgment, only love. She recalls the way your touch calmed her, the way your presence made her feel safe in a world that had always been hostile.

As she falls, Natasha realizes that this connection is what matters most. It’s not the battles or the missions that define her, but the love she found in the most unexpected place.

And as the darkness closes in, the last thing she sees is you, a symbol of everything she has fought for and everything she has come to cherish.

Her final breath is taken not in fear but in peace, knowing that she lived a life worth remembering—a life filled with love, friendship, and purpose.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Cemetery, Ohio — 2023

“If you passed away, who would sit at your grave the longest?”

Natasha had asked you that question once.

At the time, you couldn’t come up with a definite answer, so you had turned the question back to her.

You remember the way her lips curved into a small, wistful smile as she considered it, her eyes reflecting a depth of sadness you had only glimpsed before.

“I don’t know,” she had replied, her voice soft but honest, as if she had long accepted that was her inevitable fate.

Natasha could not come up with an answer then, but you did.

“Who would sit at her grave the longest?”

You didn’t need any time to think about the answer. Many people could rightfully fill that role.

To Melina and Alexei, she was their beloved daughter, the one who had been torn from them too soon, only to return with a strength and resolve that made them proud.

To Yelena, she was her cherished sister—a mentor, a protector, the person who had sacrificed so much to ensure Yelena had a chance at a real life, free from the chains of the Red Room.

To the Avengers, she was a valued teammate and friend, the glue that held them together through the darkest times. She was their moral compass, the one who always found a way to do what was right, even when the cost was high.

To the world, she was a hero, a symbol of resilience and redemption. The Black Widow, who had fought for a better future, leaving a legacy that would inspire generations to come.

To you…she was everything.

Your fingers trace the delicate grooves of her engraved name, feeling the weight of every memory, every moment you had shared.

You stood by her side through nearly all of it��the battles, the victories, the losses. You had seen her at her best and at her worst, through moments of triumph and times of doubt.

You loved her fiercely, from strangers to friends to something so much more.

She was the woman who had shown you the strength of vulnerability, the power of redemption, and the courage to love despite the risks.

In the end, you were right about all those who would come to see her, to pay their respects to the woman who had become an important part of their lives.

But they would all eventually leave, returning to their own lives, their own battles. They would remember her, yes, but they would move on.

But not you.

“So, who would sit at Natasha’s grave the longest?”

That answer was clear.

“You would. Now and forever.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: this one was really long so if you made it to the end in one go, kudos for you and thank you for taking the time to read it!

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanov x reader #natasha x reader #black widow x reader #natasha romanoff

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hoffmansgirl · 24 days ago

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𝘿𝘼𝙉𝙂𝙀𝙍𝙊𝙐𝙎, 𝙏𝘼𝙄𝙉𝙏𝙀𝘿 & 𝙁𝙇𝘼𝙒𝙀𝘿 ⎯ father charlie mayhew

⠀⎯⎯⎯ read part one! .. 𝓶illion 𝓭ollar 𝓶an

₊˚⊹౨ৎ 𝓐'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: here it is! finally! i know a lot of people waited for this, so i hope you enjoy. please read the warnings before reading ⎯ this is dirtyyyy as hell. 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀. gore · murder · descriptive mentions of crimes & killing · blood(play). like, so much blood · masochism · blasphemy · charlie & reader refer to him as "god" · knife play · blood kink · oral (m!receiving + slight f!receiving) · finger sucking · unprotected piv · choking/breath play · cum eating · a cliffhanger at the end (: 𝘄𝗰. 5299

"Does it matter what tool do we use?", you asked inquisitively, running your fingertips over the cold surface of the chopping knife, as if you were trying to memorise every detail of it. You tilted your head slightly, and Charlie hummed, his hands resting on either side of you as he pressed his chest against your back. His chin rested on the top of your head — he took a deep breath, savouring the moment of silence, the warmness of your body against his; your smell invaded his senses, making his lips curve into a smile.

"This time — no", Charlie retorted, lifting his hand to rest it on top of yours. "But you still have to think this through. You're my smart girl, aren't you?", he run his fingers over the blunt side of the tool, and you nodded vigorously, making the Priest's heart swell with pride. "Tell me. Which one would you choose?".

You nibbled on your bottom lip, your gaze focusing on the tools in front of you.

"Easily, a gun. I would simply shot them in the head", you hesitated, turning towards Charlie, whose chocolate-like eyes were now flickering with adoration. He took a strand of your perfectly curled hair and twirled it around his pointer finger, humming appreciatively, encouraging you to continue. "They will be dead within seconds. No need to massacre their bodies before death. Then, we can use a saw to cut off their limbs. It should cut through the bones pretty easily — at least, that's what you said", you added, the corners of your mouth turning up as you battled your eyelashes at Charlie. He tugged on the strand of hair before cupping your cheek, and you snuggled into his palm, warmness spreading across your body.

"Indeed, love. You've been listening very carefully, learning so quick. Such a good little Angel", he cooed, making your heart flutter in your chest. "Let's get to work then, shall we?".

You nodded in response, and Charlie sent you a filthy, open-mouthed smirk, before leaning down to kiss you just as filthily. Your body responded to his naturally, melting into his warm embrace, your hands resting on his black shirt-covered chest, wishing nothing more but to see his body underneath. But it had to wait, and you knew it — it was hard to control the tingling sensation between your thighs as Charlie's lips brushed against you with such vigor and need, though. Your teeth clicked together as Charlie's hand tangled in your hair, causing a soft whimper to leave your mouth, your tongue rolling over his own messily. "Mmm, later", the priest mumbled lowly, pulling away just slightly — his swollen, wet lips brushed against yours as you stood there, breathing each others air, savouring the moment. The cold air of the basement hit your skin, and you trembled, your eyes snapping open to meet Charlie's gaze.

"Yes. Let's just... get it over with", you whispered softly, and he took a step back, nodding his head towards the counter behind you. You understood what he wanted — you blindly reached for the gun laying on the very edge of the table, reloading it, your every movement precise and slow. Charlie intertwined your fingers together, sending you a smile.

You were convinced everything would be fine as long as the two of you were together.

"Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand", Charlie's soothing voice reached your ears, filling the silence like the most beautiful song. You hanged your head, closing your eyes for a second, feeling his presence behind you; his cautious eyes following every movement of your steady hands. You passed the needle through the skin of a sex worker's arm, connecting it to torso of another's. You hummed softly as your knees dig into the cold, marble floor —yet, somehow, you loved the pain. You were almost finished sewing the body parts together under Charlie's gaze, as he gave you tips every now and then. You appreciated his work, appreciated how he let you be a part of his plan, appreciated how patient and helpful he was when it came to you and only you.

"I'm so thankful", you mumbled, lifting your eyes just for a second, meeting the Priest's gaze, before focusing on the needle still in your hand. A smile made its way onto your face, covered by a sheer, lacy, black veil, and Charlie's breath hitched at your beauty.

His greedy eyes roamed over your form, kneeling on the floor. You were wearing a long dress that matched the veil gracefully resting on your head.

Your hair fell on your back in cascades, silky and soft, glimmering in the dim, flickering lighting. Your long, fluttering lashes casted long shadows on your cheeks, and your lips were slightly parted as you focused on your task.

Charlie couldn't help the appreciative hum that left his mouth as he circled you, careful not to step on any of the blood pools or the poor people's body parts. "I mean it", your voice came out low and steady as you — yet again — stole him a quick glance. The left corner of your mouth quirked up as you finally finished, putting the needle and string down, admiring your and Charlie's — mostly his — masterpiece with tilted head. "Thank you for letting me help you. Thank you for showing me the world I haven't ever seen before. Thank you for loving me", you muttered slowly, and Charlie stopped in his tracks, now standing right in front of you. You lifted your gaze as his tall form towered over you — his eyes filled with adoration, pride, and the all familiar neediness.

"You make me so proud everyday", he spoke lowly, holding out his hand for you to grab. You slowly got up from your kneeling position, and he pulled you into his warm embrace, never letting go of your bloody hand — he lifted it to his mouth, pressing soft kisses on the back of your hand, humming at the metallic taste invading his senses. Your breath hitched as his lips met your fingers, the fresh blood now covering his mouth — the all familiar sight so erotic, you couldn't help but shudder, tapping two of your fingers against his lower lip delicately. Charlie obeyed, as he always did, taking them into his mouth without hesitation, his tongue lapping at the crimson liquid greedily. A quiet whine left his mouth as his lips closed around your digits, sucking them harshly, his hands now roaming over your lower back. His eyes met yours, dark and dangerous, even when you were the one stuffing his mouth with your fingers.

You pushed them further into his mouth before pulling out, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him. There was no rush in the way you moved, not even when he walked you back to press you against the wall, not when he pushed himself inside of you so hard it almost hurt — yet you loved every second of the pain. You always did with Charlie.

A breathless praises escaped his mouth as he fucked into you nice and deep, and for a moment, it was just the two of you — in the quietness of the abandoned Church, the corpses on the floor long forgotten as you turned into a babbling mess, surrounded by his powerful embrace. It made you feel powerful, too, as the two of you connected over and over again, a rush of adrenaline running down your spine, fireworks erupting in your stomach as you watched him with hooded eyes.

"I love you. I love you so much", Charlie panted, pressing his forehead against yours as he painted your walls white, holding on to you as if you were going to disappear any second now. You could only smile, brushing your fingers over his cheek, the softness of his skin perfectly matching the delicacy of his soul.

You loved watching Charlie hold his usual evening masses. Not only did he look effortlessly beautiful, but his words — always a little bit too personal and specific — touched your soul. You sat in the darkest corner, your hands folded in prayer as you savoured the moment, trying so hard to focus on his sermon — but everything about him was way too mesmerising. From his perfectly combed hair, to his glimmering eyes, to the way his lips moved as he spoke. The way his long eyelashes casted soft shadows on his cheeks, or the way his Adam's apple moved as he spoke. Your gaze travelled lower — your wide eyes following the way his fingers tightened around the platform as he read the Bible verses to the parishioners.

Your cheeks grew warm, and, as if he could sense your sudden fluster, his eyes scanned over the crowd of people, only to settle on you. Charlie knew he couldn't do much from his spot on the platform, but he felt powerful under your gaze — full of adoration and pride. You bit your lip, winking at him, and he gripped the platform tightly, his voice never shuddering. He sent you a last, lingering gaze before focusing on his work, completely — yet a silent promise of what was about to come lingered in the air between you.

Soon after, he said his goodbyes to the parishioners, turning away to snuff out the candles around the altar. You stayed in your seat, looking for the right moment to approach him as people began to leave. You got up, slowly and deliberately, smoothing out the wrinkles on your black dress, beginning to walk towards him. You knew he could feel your presence when you saw his shoulders relax, as the last person left the church, leaving the two of you alone.

"The sermon was beautiful", you whispered, and Charlie chuckled under his breath, turning towards you. His hands were on you in an instant, warm and comforting on your hips.

"Come on now, Angel", he smirked, tilting his head before leaning down to brush his lips against yours. "You were rather absent. Too busy eye-fucking me to focus on anything else, really".

You grinned, letting your hands trace the outline of his muscles through the thick material of the cassock he was wearing. "Mmm. Maybe. You just look so good. Couldn't help myself", you breathed out, closing your eyes before closing the remaining distance between you and kissing him.

Charlie responded immediately, soft groan leaving his mouth at the taste of you — a taste he missed so much. He pulled you closer, letting you feel his strong body against yours, the growing bulge in his pants brushing against your stomach. You smirked into the kiss, biting his bottom lip with enough force to draw blood. You lapped at the small wound greedily, moaning at the taste — you were convinced nothing could ever taste as good as him. You let Charlie's tongue tangle with your own, allowing him to taste his own blood. His soft groans, along with your occasional whines echoed through the air, your hands now travelling up his back to tangle in his hair.

"Mmm, I missed you", you managed to say between kisses, pushing him back blindly until he fell onto his chair — the very one he sat in during masses. Charlie took his cassock off hurriedly, before grabbing you by your thighs, forcing you to straddle his lap. He wasted no time as he latched his lips on your neck, scraping his teeth against the delicate skin before soothing the sting with his tongue. Your head fell back — your breathless moans filled the air, punctuated by the wet sounds of Charlie's mouth against your skin.

"Every inch of you is made for worship. You're perfect", he muttered, pressing kisses along your jawline as he clutched the lacy material of your dress in his hands. "You're a Goddess. A Divine Being. Made for me, and only me".

Your eyes fluttered shut at his words, and you let them settle in the silence between the two of you — your breathing became heavy as Charlie's lips brushed against your neck, his fingers tracing shapes on your thighs. The cross on the wall behind you caught your attention, but in that moment, there was no Jesus, no shame, no fear; all you could feel was Charlie and the power emanating from him.

"You, God, are my God, earnestly I seek you; I thirst for you, my whole being longs for you, in a dry and parched land where there is no water", your melodic, satin like voice filled the silence in Charlie's chamber as he washed the remains of blood from his face with the Holy Water. He swore he could almost feel the burning sensation in the places that the Water reached — as if God was punishing him for his sins. In that moment it didn't matter, though, not when your words reached his ears. He hummed appreciatively, turning towards your kneeling form.

"Very good. Worship Your God with not only words, but also actions". You nodded slowly as he now stood in front of you, with nothing but a white towel loosely wrapped around his waist. Your mouth began to salivate as you watched him, tall and powerful above you, his gaze both demanding and dangerous. Unhesitatingly, you reached for his towel, tugging it down in one, swift movement. Your breath hitched as his cock stood proudly right in front of your face, waiting to be taken care of.

"So pretty", you whispered softly, not sure of he'd even be able to hear — yet he did. He looked down at you with authority, small smile making its way on his lips before he reached down to tug on your hair, clearly inpatient. You fixed your posture, leaning forward, folding your hands, as Charlie slowly began to stroke his cock with his free hand.

A soft moan left his mouth at the contact, as he watched you with hooded eyes; one of his black shirts dangling from your figure, rolled up on your silky thighs. Charlie caught a sneak peek of your collarbones and neck as you hanged your head.

"He is the one you praise; he is your God, who performed for you those great and awesome wonders you saw with your own eyes", he panted lowly, moving his hand over his cock teasingly slow, as he held your hair tightly. Your lashes fluttered as you gazed up at him — the power he had over you in the moment only spurred him on further. "Open up. Wide", he instructed, tugging on your hair, forcing you to lift your head. You obeyed —your tongue lolling out of your mouth, eyes clouded with lust as you looked up for his approval.

There was no rush in his movements as he slowly positioned his leaking cock in front of your awaiting mouth, slapping the tip against your tongue. You hummed as the salty taste of his pre-cum invaded your senses, the smell of Charlie — wood, a strong cologne and a hint of incense — lingering in the air, making the moment even more intimate.

"Just like that, Angel", he smirked widely, his eyes not once leaving yours as he slowly thrusted into your mouth. "Worship your God".

You hollowed your cheeks around his cock, swirling your tongue around the tip just like he knew he liked it. Charlie hissed through clenched teeth, tangling his hand in your hair, holding you in place as his hips began to snap into your mouth with force. Your eyes began to water as his tip bruised the back of your throat, your still folded hands trembling as you struggled to breathe.

"You look so pretty with my dick in your mouth, on your knees — praying for me", he gasped, and you let out a moan, causing every muscle in his body to clench. He continued to use your mouth, as you slurped down on his cock, saliva mixed with his pre-cum dripping from the sides of your mouth — you weren't afraid of being messy, spurred by the groans leaving his mouth every time your wet, inviting mouth took all of his length in.

Charlie's thumb pressed against your forehead, as he continued to use your mouth, deaf to the desperate moans and gags leaving you. He drew a sign of the cross on your skin, causing a tingling sensation to spread all over your body. You doubled your efforts on his dick, your tongue lapping the pulsing vein on the underside of his shaft. Charlie whined and pushed you all the way down, forcing his length to rest deep in your throat — your hands flew to his thighs for balance, tears running down your cheeks as you struggled to breathe.

"A holy seed in your mouth, Angel", Charlie panted, his head falling back as he felt your throat convulse around him. "Take me. Take all of me in your pretty little throat — let me take over your body and soul".

All you could do was moan as his hips thrusted against your face one, two, three more times — before he pulled away, a string of saliva still connecting your swollen lips to his pretty, flushed tip. You sticked out your tongue while your hands moved up to close around his cock, jerking him off swiftly.

A few seconds and strokes of your hands later, and the hot spurts of his cum landed on your awaiting tongue, chin and cheeks, his hand on your head tightening as he struggled to stay upright.

"Oh my— Yes, fuck", he grunted desperately, and you smirked, closing your mouth around his tip to swallow every single drop he offered you.

You pulled away a while later, licking your lips, savouring the taste of his godly essence on your tongue. Charlie's chest was heaving with uneven breaths as he pulled you up by your shoulders. Your legs were shaking terribly, sore from the endless kneeling, but the burn in your lower abdomen was stronger than any pain.

"You're a real child of God", Charlie held both of your hands in his as he led you to his bed. Your knees buckled when they hit the bed frame, and you fell back against the sheets, moving up until your head met the pillow. Your hair was scattered around your head like a halo, and Charlie's breath hitched as he stood on the foot of the bed, in all his glory — his cock stood proud in the air, not yet fully satisfied.

You watched with a smile as he moved to grab a knife from his drawer. The bed creaked under Charlie's weight as he slowly moved to tower over you. His hand slid up your chest, slowly and teasingly, before the blunt side of the knife pressed against your — his — shirt-covered collarbone.

The thrill of being at his mercy — even though you knew he wouldn't hurt you — was electrifying, and you couldn't help the gasp that left your mouth at the sensation. Charlie hummed a few lines of a hymn, as his other hand grasped your thigh, his fingers tracing soft circles onto your skin. The blade moved against your chest, and he pressed it in harder, cutting through the black fabric.

"So pure... so special", he whispered, voice filled with adoration as he watched your chest rise and fall rapidly. You gasped as the cold air hit your hot skin, when Charlie slowly slid the shirt off your shoulders. Your boobs were now fully exposed to him, and he couldn't help a groan that left his mouth at the sight, his cock pressing between your bodies as he leaned down to brush his lips against the fading "C" on your sternum, that he carved out with his knife a few weeks ago. He knew it'd leave a scar, but that was his purpose — he wanted you to be marked as his for life. He let his tongue trace over the letter, lapping at your skin as if he was starved.

"Therefore, I urge you, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God — this is your true and proper worship", he mumbled, and your back arched off the bed as his mouth closed around your nipple, biting the sensitive bud softly, at which you whined. You tugged on the white sheets with force as he sucked, licked and lapped on your skin, breathless sounds leaving your mouth when the cold blade pressed against your skin yet again.

"Charlie— please", you managed to let out through gritted teeth, and he chuckled lowly — the sound vibrating against your skin, making you shiver.

You were growing impatient as Charlie finally let go of your nipple, his hand closing around your neck as he looked you up and down. "I need you so bad. I don’t want to wait". Your words came out strangled, as you struggled to breathe — due to his thumb now pressing against your pulse point with force.

"Greed is a sin", he tutted, before pressing the sharp edge of the knife into the skin of your hip. Blood was pouring from the little wound as he continued to move the blade down, creating a masterpiece of his own on your skin. He groaned when your blood streamed down your side, covering the sheets under you. Tears blurred your vision as you struggled against him, the pain and pleasure of being so obviously marked by him making you lightheaded.

Relief washed over your body when he was finished, leaving you trembling and crying — yet still, your sick mind was enjoying every second of it.

"Mine", Charlie groaned, before throwing the knife onto the bed and moving down your body to lap at your wounds. He wasn't afraid of being messy with you as he took a deep breath, savouring the smell of you, his tongue cleaning up the mess that he had made. The sting made your body twitch, as his hand left your throat, instead moving down your body to tug at the waistband of your panties. Your hips rose off the mattress, allowing him to do whatever he pleased — and so he did, taking your lace thong off greedily, his tongue still working against your crimson covered skin.

You couldn't take it no more — not when the pressure between your thighs became too much, the tension begging to be taken care of. With all the strength you had left, you tugged on his hair, pulling him in for a bruising kiss. You didn't mind the taste of your own blood on your tongue, moaning into his mouth, as Charlie's hands gripped your thighs, forcing them open when they threatened to close around his hips.

Your blood was smeared all over yours and Charlie's lips, chins and cheeks as you shared a filthy, open mouthed kiss, your tongues rolling over each other. Your hands pressed against his chest, nails digging into his skin as you felt his cock press against your clit. A groan left his mouth when you grinded your hips up, causing his tip to brush against your wet folds.

"God, please— I need your cock, I need it so bad, Charlie", you mumbled, sucking his lower lip into your mouth lewdly. He flipped the two of you over, wasting no time before positioning his cock on your entrance, and you sink down on him with an almost pornographic moan.

Your head tipped back as you grinded down against him, his hands closing on your waist in a bruising grasp. He panted lowly, eyes falling closed as he felt the warmness and wetness of your cunt squeezing him with force.

"Fuck, yeah", Charlie cried out, and you smirked, your eyes half-closed as you watched him tremble beneath you. You reached out for the knife that was long forgotten by him, pressing the flat side against his stomach, watching as his eyes widened.

"You are worthy, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power, for you created all things, and by your will they were created and have their being", you chanted, at which a desperate groan left his mouth, urging you on further. You pressed the knife against his sternum, cutting through his skin as if it was paper. You carved out big cross on his skin as you began to bounce up and down on his cock.

"Amen", you whispered, and Charlie'a bottom lip trembled in pain as your fingers digged into the wound, coating your fingers in his blood. You put them in your mouth, moaning obscenely as Charlie's lips began to piston upwards, his tip hitting your cervix every time he bottomed out. Your tongue swirled around your digits, your eyes rolling back into your head at the metallic taste of Charlie's blood coating your tongue.

"You taste so good, my God", you groaned as your fingers left your mouth, and you coated them with yet another layer of the crimson liquid, before tapping them on his bottom lip. He obeyed, digging his fingers into the plush flesh of your thighs, as you pushed your bloody fingers deep into his mouth. He whined pathetically, the movements of his hips slowing as he savoured the taste of himself. You took the lead, watching as his eyes fluttered shut at the invasion in his mouth, your blood covering the lower part of his face — the sight so erotic it made you tremble and grind against him harder.

"Oh, shit— my Goodness", he cried out around your digits, and you chuckled, pulling them out of his mouth, instead putting both of your hands on both sides of him for balance, as you bounced up and down on his thick cock. It felt like he was tearing you apart with how deep he was, incoherent curses leaving your mouth as your hair fell down your sweaty, bloody face. You licked a stripe up his chest, tracing the bloody cross with your tongue, moaning at the taste. Charlie hissed, pushing your head down, urging you not to stop, his hips snapping up to meet yours; his hands on your ass, forcing you to bounce harder.

"Every single piece of you is made for sin", Charlie groaned, spanking your backside once, twice, thrice, until you couldn't breathe. Tears blurred your vision at the pain, but you could just grind harder, the friction of his lower stomach against your clit making you see stars. "You're so filthy. Like a fucking devil", he snarled, and you arched your back as his flat palm landed on your ass cheek yet again.

"Charlie, I'm— I'm gonna cum", you cried out, and he nodded, pulling you flush against his chest, lifting your hips just a little higher in the air — causing his cock to hit that sweet spot deep inside you.

Your hand closed around Charlie's throat, and he groaned appreciatively when you squeezed, your thumb brushing against the vein on the side of his neck. His cock twitched when he watched you, your lips brushing against his just slightly as you moaned for him — the look of pure pleasure on your face was almost too much for him to handle.

"Fuck, yes— choke me— choke me, just like that", he panted, and you felt his cock twitch inside you.

"Cum with me", you begged, leaning down to capture his lips in a kiss. Your blood mixed as your tongues swirled together, and you swallowed his breathless moans as he neared his peak.

Charlie's thrusts became sloppy as he lost his rhythm, and as he hit that particular spot in you, you were seeing stars, coming all over him. Your cunt convulsed around his cock, squeezing him so tightly it became hard for him to move as you screamed his name, the hand around his throat tightening. Your orgasm triggered his own. He was grunting profanities under his breath as ropes of his cum filled your womb, causing aftershocks to run down your core.

Charlie flipped you on your back, kissing down your body before reaching your messy, puffy pussy. His cum was leaking out of your spent hole, and his cock twitched yet again at the sight — this time, everything was about you, though. He lowered his head to swirl his tongue against your clit, before lapping up the remains of your mixed releases. He groaned at the taste, and you whined, your legs closing around his head as he devoured you as if you were the last meal he was going to have.

He licked the last, teasing stripe up to your clit before he pulled away, satisfied smile playing on his lips. He kissed the area around the wounds on your stomach before kissing you, letting you taste his and yours release on your tongue.

He quickly deepened the kiss, not yet satisfied — his cock pressed against your stomach, at which you moaned, letting him explore the inside of your mouth with his tongue.

It was before you heard a soft knock on the door — and whoever was on the other side, didn't wait for a response before barging into the room. Your eyes widened and Charlie pulled away quickly, turning towards the door with an expression you haven't quite seen on him yet — fear. His eyes widened with horror as he saw Sister Megan, holding an article in her hand, her mouth slightly agape at the sight of you, the most devout parishioner, in her favourite Priest's bed — both of you naked and covered in blood. A small smile made its way onto your face as you watched her stumble across the doorway, mumbling a quick "I'm sorry", before disappearing.

"Fuck!", Charlie screamed, and you run your hands over his back, trying to calm him down — as you already had a plan. "I'm dead. I am fucking dead!", he groaned, getting up from the bed, panic clearly visible on his face, his heart racing in his chest.

"Baby, calm down! Just— listen for a moment!", you shouted, shaking his shoulders in order to get him to pay attention. "She's not gonna tell anyone. I promise", your voice grew louder as he began to talk over you. He relaxed slightly at your unbothered expression — he knew you would never lie to him, and you had this incredible ability to calm him down even in the most stressful moments.

"We need to get rid of her", he said, at which you smirked, running your hands over his chest softly.

"Exactly what I'm thinking. But", you chimed, standing on your top toes to kiss him, before continuing. "It can wait. Just trust me. And... we still have some unfinished business to take care of". You looked down on his erect shaft, running your hands down his abs to wrap your hand around him. Charlie groaned, his head tilted back and teeth biting on his bottom lip. You smiled as you felt his heartbeat against your other hand, the connection between you two only getting stronger, better — more powerful.

It was a dangerous game you were playing, but as Charlie pulled you back onto the bed, capturing your lips in a kiss, you had no doubts about the future you and Charlie have ahead of you.

But firstly, you had to get rid of the obstacles — and kill Megan Duvall.

tags (click here to be added): @darlingnikkisixx @titsout4nicholas @brlwla @blackynsupremacy @mrs-riddlexo @essentialwriter @nicholaschavezslut69 @niteskysx @emluvsuxo @nicholaslut @greengoblinswifey @sin-deciric

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themakeupbrush · 11 months ago

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Robert Wun Spring 2024 Haute Couture

THE TRINITY COAT Inspired by the iconic scene from The Matrix - Reloaded. Capturing the moment of shattered window glasses. Over 1200 of precisely cut glass shard pieces, hand sewed with over 5000 glass beads onto a sculpted coat made with black silk satin.

#Robert wun #Robert wun spring 2024 Haute couture

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coraorvat · 2 years ago

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Based on my gaming experience, so might need some explaining: right after the Disco Elysium Jamais Vu update, when I first discovered that Kim can get different icon and jacket, there weren't yet any clear instructions how exactly to make it happen. The only two discussions I found online on the subject said that it's connected to Get Kim to Wear *The Jacket* achievement (implying Pissf****t one), but how precisely to get it was unclear and ‘possibly bugged, you might need to try several times’ yadda yadda (and after encountering the Pigs bug it didn’t sound that far-fetched).

Without going into many details my stubborn ass had to do three whole runs (not counting multiple reloads and replays) before finally figuring out you simply have to finish entire game in a hard-core mode (no need to bother with piss jacket at all). So when I FINALLY, after several weeks, on the verge of desperation hurried down and saw Kim in the new jacket, me and Harry both practically weeped from joy~ *to the point I was genuinely surprised there's no dialogue to aknowledge the change (and after all of the self-imposed sufferring I kinda needed one, so...here we are)

#Disco Elysium #harrier du bois #Kim Kitsuragi #my art #Harry actually has a tiny-winy chance to pass this check #and I have a whole comic roughly sketched when he does #but I also procrastinated finishing this one for half a year #so yeah don't wait for any miracles #motivation is hard to come by these days #me to myself: please please don't make Harry look like Gerard Depardieu again #me: *opens google images* phew still safe

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fireya-x · 4 months ago

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AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist

John Price x Reader

Your husband, Captain John Price, insists on teaching you how to shoot at the range. But you soon realize that his instructions involve a lot more than just handling a gun.

[4k+ words]

cw: piv sex, spanking, light dom/sub

“Remember what I just told you,” John said, and your grip around the cool material of the gun you held grew tighter. It was a foreign object in your hands, and even though you’d just received detailed instructions on how to hold and handle it, it didn’t feel right. You’d hesitantly taken it from his hands, and felt something unexpected, as if accepting a dangerous secret from him. It felt intimate, like a shared moment of vulnerability. He entrusted you with this part of himself, this dangerous expertise, never doubting for a second that you would accept it.

Then there you were, in the middle of a shooting range, and John was moving through the facility as comfortable as he was moving through your own living room. You’d been to the base a few times, of course, meeting teammates and other partners, but never with the intention to hold a weapon.

You’d told him, more than once, that you wanted no part in this side of his life. That ignorance was your safe haven, your way of pretending that the man you loved could leave the battlefield behind. But deep down, you knew it was a lie. John Price, for all his tenderness, for all the quiet moments of domesticity you’d built a life around, was a soldier to his very core. He breathed and lived it as long as his heart pumped blood through his veins.

It was in the way he moved, precise and controlled, and it was in the way he touched you – possessive, protective, as if you were the most precious weapon in his arsenal.

He insisted it was for your own safety. “You need to be able to protect yourself, love,” he’d said. But you saw right through it. This wasn't about you. It was about him. About the nightmares that lingered in his eyes, the enemies he'd made in a life you couldn't begin to comprehend. This was his way of ensuring that no matter what happened, no matter how far apart duty tore you, he could rest easy knowing you had a fighting chance. It bordered on paranoid, the lengths he’d go to protect you – the home security systems, the calls to his former teammates, the subtle checks whenever you were out alone. But beneath all that, you saw the love, and you wouldn’t deny him this. You’d never shied away from his darkness, the stories he’d told that both terrified and fascinated you.

It was all part of the complex man that was John Price: both a trained, lethal weapon and a caring, loving husband.

Gentle but ruthless. Controlled, but capable of destruction. Dangerous in ways you probably never could even begin to understand, but you felt safer with him than you ever had alone.

He was a walking oxymoron.

“I’ve never even held a gun before, John.” You admitted, your words echoing through the vastness of the range, uncertain how to explain the weird mix of emotions you were feeling.

“I know,” he said, his lips curving into that half-smile. “And I can see you hesitating, and that’s the correct first step, love. Respect is most important.”

He’d guided you to a secluded booth, the table stocked with more ammunition than you’d ever expected to see outside a warzone. He’d shown you how to hold the pistol, how to check the chamber, reload the magazine and how to disable security. He’d shown you the stance, the subtle shift of weight so that the recoil wouldn’t punch you in the gut, and told you that it’s best to use both hands to aim, to steady yourself.

“Finger off the trigger, sweetheart,” he suddenly instructed, his tone serious. You hadn’t even realized you’d moved it, your finger was hovering over the trigger with reckless curiosity, and you couldn't quite explain why. "Only put it on there if you really mean to take a shot.”

He put his hands above yours on the grip of the pistol, then chuckled lightly. “Loosen up a little. Don’t make that a habit.” He then grabbed your elbow and lifted it up a little, so gentle, it was a weird contradiction to how controlled he moved around the shooting range like he was never meant to be anywhere else.

He stepped back, giving you just enough space to breathe, to remember you weren’t his soldier to command. But he could tell you still weren’t sure about your stance.

“Want me to show you?” He gestured to the target at the end of the range – a silhouette that seemed eerily human-shaped in the dim light.

You nodded, surrendering the weapon and retreating to a safe distance as John stepped forward, his movements fluid, almost graceful, belying the lethality he embodied.

He pushed the safety lever off with a sharp click. You could almost feel the energy in the air shift. You saw his hand gripping the weapon as it became more serious and alive, like not just a tool, but an extension of him.

John raised the gun. You were captivated, your gaze tracing the line of his arm, the flex of his bicep beneath the fabric of his shirt. It shouldn’t have been so mesmerizing, watching him handle a weapon clearly meant to kill, and yet, you couldn't tear your eyes away.

His stance was relaxed, almost casual. He didn't even flinch as he pulled the trigger.

The gunshot echoed in the silence, sharp and startling. You flinched involuntarily at the sound. It wasn’t that you weren’t expecting it – but there was something different, something almost intimate, about watching him handle a weapon with such lethal grace, such unflinching control.

There was no time to feel anything but awe as John lowered the weapon, his eyes fixed on you. The air was thick, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him.

“Now you,” he said as he clicked the safety back on and stepped aside. He didn’t need to say anything more. You were ready, he had made sure of that, and he was waiting to see if you would rise to the challenge.

“Downrange, safety off,” you muttered to yourself, remembering his words. Your finger found the safety, disengaging it with a soft click that felt overly loud in the quiet space. You tried to replicate the stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, a slight bend in your knees that made your thighs ache. Taking a deep breath, you raised the pistol, lined the sights up on the target at the far end of the range, ignoring the tremor in your arms, and squeezed the trigger.

The shot caught you completely off guard. The recoil was sharper, more violent than you'd expected. It jolted your entire body, throwing you off balance. You stumbled back, a startled yelp escaping your throat before you could help yourself, the heavy weight of the gun almost slipping from your grasp.

You missed the target entirely.

“Easy, love, easy,” John's voice, calm and steady, was right beside your ear. You hadn’t even registered his approach, your senses still reeling from the gunshot, the adrenaline that spiked through you sharp and bitter on your tongue.

You hadn't realized you'd stopped breathing until his hand settled on your waist, his touch firm yet reassuring through the fabric of your shirt, steadying you. Your body leaned into his warmth, seeking comfort, and found it in the solid presence that had always been your haven in the storm.

“Don't fight it,” he murmured. “It’s not about forcing the shot. You need to work with it. Let it flow.”

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered, but you didn’t try to pull away. His closeness was more reassuring than you wanted to admit, the solid weight of him a stark contrast to the unexpected power of the gun. You’d felt this way before, countless times: small beside his strength, intimidated but inexplicably drawn to the same danger that made you feel so vulnerable.

“Again,” he commanded softly, ignoring your remark, as his hand tightened momentarily on your hip. You couldn’t disobey, even if you’d wanted to. His other hand covered yours on the gun.

You tried to recall the stance he’d demonstrated, to feel more confident, but it felt awkward. Your body was tense, and you cursed the way your heart hammered against your ribs.

“You have to relax, darling,” John murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear, his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

He leaned closer, his chest a wall of heat at your back as his hand moved from your hip to settle on the small of your back. “Don't let that little gun take all the control,” he whispered, his fingers splaying against your spine as he adjusted your posture, holding you steady. “It's not about brute strength. Lean into it, find the balance.”

His heat seeped into you, chasing away the chill of the shooting range and replacing it with a heat that centred between your legs, a yearning you hadn't anticipated. His touch was doing things to your senses, sending a jolt of something hot and reckless straight through you.

You could feel his fingers, calloused and rough, brushing against yours as he made you hold the gun right.

“See, like that – now, the grip –” You could hear the amusement in his voice, the way he seemed to savour your discomfort. He wasn’t going to make this easy for you, and something in you – something wild and hungry – revelled in the challenge. His fingers traced a searing path down your arm, his touch lingering for a heartbeat on your wrist as he guided your hand.

“Use your wrist – just like that –” You shivered as his breath ghosted across your ear. “That’s it. That’s how you hold it. It's all about control.” He pressed closer, your bodies moulding together.

His hand covered yours on the gun again, overlapping it as you held the weapon together. This different kind of intimacy touch sent a spark down your spine, scorching away every last thought, as you tried to focus on the instructions. “Now pull the trigger.”

You did. And this time, you hit the target. The bullet tore through the paper silhouette, a testament to his guidance, his control.

It was impossible to ignore how close he was. His fingers grazed your back, sending a shiver through you, and then – oh, God – you felt it, the insistent pressure of his knee between your thighs, adjusting your stance, bracing you.

“Feet apart, love,” he murmured, his voice husky as his knee nudged you wider, his hand a steady pressure on the small of your back. You felt like a toy in his hands.

You fired again. This time, it was a little closer to the target, but still far away from the bullseye.

“That’s better,” he murmured, but there was an edge to his amusement now, something heated. You tried to ignore the pressure of him against you.

“Look at that target, focus on the sights, love.” He shifted, his lips finding the delicate skin beneath your ear, and you sucked in a breath. He was doing this deliberately now, pushing your buttons, testing your limits, and the worst part was that he knew you were powerless to resist.

You fired again. Same corner.

“That’s not good enough.” His lips hovered over your pulse. “Hit the target and you’ll be rewarded. Hmm? How’s that sound?”

A familiar heat built in your belly. The knee that was still holding your stance steady felt way too prominent. This position did nothing to hide his arousal, either.

You focused on the sights, tried lining it up with the middle of the target. The shockwave was not completely absorbed by John’s strength as he held you, and you were shoved back against his chest. You hit the target's neck.

“Good girl,” he said. “You’re a fast learner.”

Every time he’d utter that phrase, every time he brushed his fingers against your hand as he guided you, it was like a surge of heat coursing through your veins. You were flustered, struggling to keeop your focus.

“Stop it,” you pleaded. “You’re distracting me.”

You aimed again, after he’d adjusted your stance, his breath ghosting over your neck as he leaned close to make a correction. “Yes, just like that.”

That was your undoing, each word he said was laced with a playful, knowing intent. His hands guided you, but it wasn’t about the gun, or the lessons, it was all about the feel of him close to you.

You fumbled, almost dropping the gun.

“What’s wrong?” He laughed.

Your cheeks burned. “I –I can’t concentrate.”

You were so lost in showing him that you could do this, you didn’t realize what he started to do. Lips on your neck, and his hand suddenly slowly snaked below the waistband of your gym shorts.

You froze. “John! Isn’t this place covered in cameras?”

“Made sure they’re out of order tonight.” He leans in a little closer as if to whisper it in your ear, his breath warmer than the summer air. “It would take so much paperwork to have you here otherwise. Besides, my wife deserves a private lesson from her husband.”

You shuddered at the words, at the implied claim in them. You aimed again, but missed.

A sharp sting on your backside made you gasp, a sound that morphed into a startled moan as you registered what had just happened. He'd spanked you. It shouldn't have been arousing, not here, not now, yet a thrill shot through you as much at the audacity of it as the sensation itself.

“Do I have to punish you for missing shots?” He sounded so deceptively soft, sending a shiver down to the place where his knee still pressed insistent between your thighs. He was fully aroused, you realized, a thrill shooting through you at the knowledge, the feeling of it a branding iron against your overheated skin.

“Wasting ammo like that?” He punctuated the question with another swat, harder this time, his hand lingering on your ass, his fingers flexing as though torn between wanting to punish you further and pulling you impossibly closer.

It was impossible to think straight, let alone concentrate on lining up the damn shot.

“J-John,” you stammered, hating the way your voice sounded – breathless, needy – even as you pressed back against him, seeking out the heat that radiated off him in waves, making your head spin. You were caught in a delicious, dangerous game, and the only way to win was to surrender completely.

But you weren’t quite there yet. You needed to hit this damn shot. Pride warred with something hotter, wilder, as you struggled to ignore the insistent pressure of his erection against your backside.

Just as you thought you could regain some semblance of focus, his other hand, the one that had rested so innocently below the waistband of your shorts, began to descend further. It was a slow, deliberate movement, and then you felt it – a finger, rough-tipped and insistent, slipping between your folds.

Pleasure shot through you like a bullet, so unexpected and potent that your entire body went rigid. You bit back a moan, the sound dying in your throat as you clenched around his intruding digit, the ache that bloomed low in your belly a thousand times more distracting than any recoil.

“Again,” he commanded, his voice low and hot against your ear, as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening, as if his fingers weren’t actively attacking your most sensitive flesh, driving you to the edge of madness. He held all the cards in this game he'd initiated. And you were a willing participant, your body already betraying you, arching unconsciously against his touch, seeking out the friction he so expertly offered even as you tried to focus on the task at hand.

You lined up the sights again, his scent filling your senses, so distracting and so dangerously addictive that it had you clinging to him, desperate for something you couldn't quite name. The barrel wavered as a tremor ran through you, and you swore you heard his breath hitch as your hips moved against him.

“Close,” John breathed, and you felt as his fingers snaked further along your folds. You gasped as a finger slowly pushed into you. “Good girl.” His other hand had a tight grip on your hip, his fingers digging into the flesh as though he’d hold you there forever, trapped between pleasure and denial. “But not there yet, love. Again.”

The shot, when it came, was pathetic. The recoil almost knocked the gun from your grasp. The bullet ricocheted off somewhere, you weren't even sure where it landed. It hardly mattered.

Another sharp swat of John’s hand against your ass. It should’ve stung, but all you felt was the heat of him, the pressure of his body against yours. His other hand, the one driving you wild with each deliberate stroke, didn't stop even as you whimpered, your hips rocking back instinctively against his touch, seeking relief, release.

“Concentrate, love,” he growled.

But how could you? How could you possibly focus on anything but the insistent ache that throbbed between your legs?

“John, please,” you breathed, arching against his touch, shamelessly seeking more. “Just – just let me –” The words dissolved into a whimper as his fingers found that sensitive bud of flesh and squeezed, not cruelly, not yet, but with enough force to make you gasp, your inner thighs clenching involuntarily.

“Then hit the bloody mark, love,” he commanded, his voice rough with an emotion you couldn’t quite place, a tremor running through his words as though he were fighting for control just as hard as you were.

You squeezed your eyes shut against the wave of frustration – no, need – that pulsed low in your belly. The pressure of his erection against your backside was a constant torment, a promise of a release he seemed determined to deny you.

“Again,” John barked, his control finally snapping as his hips twitched against you. His touch, the way he moved against you, fuelled a fire in your veins hotter than anything you'd ever experienced. It was intoxicating, terrifying, and utterly addictive.

You were a moth drawn to his flame, even knowing you were destined to be burned.

You squeezed your eyes shut as his touch sent another jolt through you. “Please, just –”

“Hit. The. Mark.” He growled, teeth clenched, while moving his hips against you, seeking friction for his own arousal.

You wanted to scream, to sob, to demand he touch you properly, to take what you were aching for. But some primal instinct – some deep-seated need to please him – had you straightening, lifting the pistol with shaking hands.

You tried to concentrate, blocking out the burning heat of his hands, the feel of his erection hard and demanding against your backside, the way his every ragged breath whispered against your ear, fuelling the fire he'd ignited within you. Your mind was a fog of need, your senses overloaded, but the promise of release, that sweet reward only he held the power to give - it was a drug more potent than anything you'd ever imagined.

Lining up the pistol again, you forced your vision to clear, found the target through the haze of arousal, and squeezed the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot, the feel of the recoil, your own ragged gasp of surprise - it all blended into one overwhelming sensation as time slowed, distorted. And then strong hands were on you, urging you forward with a force that stole your breath, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when the need to be touched, to feel him everywhere, was an inferno consuming every other thought.

You hadn’t even registered what had happened until you caught a glimpse of the target -

Headshot.

You'd hit the mark.

You barely had time to process your victory before the gun was taken from your hands and safely put away - then you were tumbling forward, the world tilting, the cool surface of the table a shock against your heated skin as John's weight pressed you down, his chest a solid wall at your back.

The clatter of the spare ammo as it scattered across the floor was the only warning you got before he moved. You gasped, the sound muffled against the cold metal, your senses reeling as he yanked your shorts and panties down in one swift, brutal motion, baring you to the cool air, to his gaze, which you could feel burning into you.

He didn't waste his breath on anything but a low growl as he shifted, the sudden sound of a belt buckle ringing in your ears. His weight was pressing you deeper into the table, his erection, hard and insistent, nudging at your entrance. And then, in one swift, possessive thrust, he filled you, the force of it stealing what was left of your sanity, chasing away everything but the all-consuming need to feel him move, to feel him claim you as his.

The world shrunk to the feel of him: him anchoring you to the table, the possessive grip of his hand on your hip, holding you still as he moved within you. His thrusts were deep, powerful, each one a delicious torment that had you arching into him, crying out his name against the cold metal of the table.

“That's it, love,” he growled, his voice thick and primal, something that went far beyond the controlled man you thought you knew.

You suddenly felt his entire weight hovering above your back, slowing pressing your full body into the table. The angle changed, and his movements became more intense. You felt his teeth graze your earlobe, and then he murmured against your skin. “You’re mine. All mine. Say it .”

“Yours,” you gasped, the word a broken plea. The hand on your hip felt like a hot brand against your skin, as if it was marking you, claiming you in a way that went far beyond reason. “Please, John –”

“Please what, darling?” He chuckled, a low, rough sound against your ear, but his hips never stuttered, never slowed their relentless rhythm. “Tell me. What do you need?”

“You ,” you sobbed, the need, raw and desperate, clawing its way out of you with every thrust.

As if he sensed you nearing the precipice, the edge of control he’d deliberately pushed you towards, John shifted. The pressure of his chest eased, but before you could mourn the loss of his warmth, his free hand shot out, fingers closing around the back of your neck, not cruelly, but with an unquestionable force that demanded obedience.

He lifted you from the table, and then his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t a gentle kiss, not with your bodies angled as they were, but it was possessive, desperate. The scrape of his beard against your cheek was a delicious torment, and you couldn't help but press closer, seeking more, needing to be closer still.

“I’m yours, my love,” he rasped, his breath hot and uneven against your cheek. “You have me.”

You met his gaze, those ice-blue eyes were smoldering with a need that mirrored your own, and something reckless, almost feral, took hold of you.

“Then fuck me like you own me,” you breathed.

The effect was instantaneous. He didn't just snap, he shattered. The control that was as much a part of him as his own skin, gone. Vaporized. The growl that ripped from his throat had no semblance of human restraint left in it, the sound raw, feral, echoing dangerously in the silence of the range. You might have been his wife, but at that moment, you were something far more elemental: his to claim, his to conquer, his to brand so deeply with pleasure and pain that you'd never forget who you belonged to.

And he moved like it too: a rough shove pressed you back against the table, his hands grabbed yours, pulling them back, restraining you.

Your whole body trembled as his cock thrust so deep, so utterly possessing, that you cried out.

“John!” – a plea, a prayer, you weren’t sure.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” The words were a gasped groan, torn from him as his hips moved against yours, stroking a spot deep inside you that throbbed with desperate need. You whimpered, and your hands clenched into fists against your back as pleasure shot through you.

You instinctively began to meet his thrusts, your hips rocking back against him, seeking out the friction that sent sparks of need through your overloaded senses. It earned you a growl of approval.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted, the words a litany against your ear. He sounded like a man possessed.

“Please, John,” you whimpered, grinding your hips against him, desperate for that friction, that release. But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. You needed more, needed his hands, needed him. “Touch me, I –”

You didn’t need to finish the plea. He heard it. He felt it, the tremor in your voice, the way your slick heat tightened around him, urging him closer to the edge.

His fingers were tracing the curve of your waist, reaching around below your belly and slowly started to pry apart your folds. His fingers were on your clit again, and a sound that was both a cry and a sigh left your lips. You were drowning in sensation, and it was glorious.

“Mmm, that’s it, love,” he rasped, the words a broken groan as his fingers stroked, circled, teased. “Come on my cock. For me.”

You felt it then, with the help of his touch – that sweet, white-hot bliss that washed over you, causing your legs to tremble and your cunt to contract around his cock. He groaned, so deep and primal it shook you to your core. Your orgasm shattered every last bit of control in him, the feeling of you losing yourself pushed him over the edge, too. You felt that familiar throb in your pussy, the way he painted your walls with his come, hot and thick. His fingers dug so deep into your skin you were sure they'd leave marks.

And you wouldn’t mind. You were his, after all.

He finally released you, his hands leaving yours. “Nice shot, love. You just needed the right motivation.” He chuckled, and you felt as he pulled up your panties and put your pants back into their place. His hand ghost over your pussy through the fabric. “Keep me in there,” he whispered. “Consider it your reward.”

You slowly straightened your back as you stood, your gaze meeting his, and you shook your head in disbelief, a smirk playing on your lips. “Is that an order from a captain? Or a request from my husband?”

“Both.” He grunted, as he finished buckling his belt.

You tilted your head slightly, stepping closer to him. “Well, then. If this is shooting training, we need to do that more often.”

He froze, his eyes shooting to meet yours. “Don't make me have to explain why so much footage from the security feed is missing.” His expression sobered, that playful glint fading as he added, voice low and serious, “But seriously, love, you did good. We'll keep practising, alright?”

You nodded, and then he closed the distance between you. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb gently brushing away some smudged lipstick at the corner of your mouth. “I'm proud of you, you know,” he whispered, and before you could reply, he leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was surprisingly tender. There was no demanding heat this time, no desperate urgency - just the taste of him, and the lingering warmth where his come pooled between your thighs, a silent, undeniable reminder of exactly who you belonged to.

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pastafossa · 3 months ago

Text

"From A Squirt Gun, With Love" (Bucky Barnes x F!Reader, Fic)

Time for the next prompt for my Tuna-Tober prompt challenge! This is for day 5's prompt: water gun fight. It's also been a while since I've written for my favorite super soldier, so today's prompt is for Bucky Barnes! You can see the rest of the prompts I've chosen here if you'd like to know what's coming this month from me. Also, if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications! Side note, once I've got more these will all be edited a bit more and placed on my AO3, so if you lose one, just keep an eye out over there!

Ship: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Wordcount: 1.5k

Warnings for this chapter, let's do this: some suggestive dialogue and innuendo

You couldn’t afford another mistake.

He’d been hunting you for at least an hour now, stalking you determinedly through the corridors of the compound and the manicured gardens outside. He’d already nailed you half a dozen times. And much to your disbelief, one of those times was because he’d somehow managed to find his way up into the air vents where he could track you unseen. You’d done your best to at least make it a challenge for him, relying on a variety of traps you’d managed to set up ahead of time, but it hadn’t done you as much good as you’d hoped, your hit count a measly two against his six. And now? Now you were running low on ammunition, and just as low on workable options. What was worse, he’d cornered you in the garage. You’d been able to tuck yourself beneath an SUV before he could see you, but there was only one exit—one currently being monitored by your annoyingly precise marksman of a boyfriend.

You held your breath at the quiet scrape of heavy combat boots scuffing against the concrete floor. If you had to guess, he was wandering around about two rows over and off to your left. He could have bent over and just scanned beneath the cars immediately, but he was enjoying this far too much to let it end that easily. He was toying with you, dragging things out now that he had you boxed in.

“I know you’re in here, doll,” came his low chuckle. “Come on out, and I’ll go easy on you. Besides, you gotta be soaked by now, and not in the fun way. But I can change that for you if you want. All you gotta do is pop that pretty head up for me.”

Not a chance.

You weren’t going down without a fight.

You clutched your water gun tighter, checking the glowing tactical display—you hadn’t even known high-tech water guns existed until Bucky had dropped one into your hands with a grin. “If my girl wants a water gun fight, we’re gettin’ a water gun fight.”

And what you saw wasn’t good.

Shit.

You were down to eighteen percent tank capacity. Anywhere else in the compound, you might have had a chance to reload with one of the buckets you’d both scattered around, but you’d forgotten to put one in the garage. If you didn’t get him with your next shot, you were done.

“The fact that you’re not out here shootin’ at me like before tells me you’re low.” His voice sounded different now: higher up, and a bit more distant. Had he… climbed on top of the cars? “You need more practice. I’ll admit, I was proud of you when you got that ass shot in, but that ain’t happenin’ again. My turn to get your ass now, darlin’. You gonna give me what’s mine?”

You sucked your lower lip for a moment before carefully edging your way forward, water gun held in front of you just in case he decided to pull a horror movie move and drop into view. It wasn’t easy. The goddamn water gun was shaped more like a shotgun than a super soaker, clunky and a bitch to drag around. The upside was it had an automatic reload so you didn’t have to worry about making any noise while pumping the gun. Its range was good for a water gun, around twenty feet, but not good enough that you could shoot Bucky at distance. You’d need to get close.

One of the cars down the row creaked, tires groaning, presumably as your massive super soldier of a boyfriend strolled along the top of the cars like they were paving stones. That he wasn’t bothering to be silent was… unusual.

“Here, kitty kitty,” he purred, his voice growing fainter as he wandered down towards the other end of the garage. “Where’s my pretty girl gone?”

On the one hand, you enjoyed hearing that tone from him, playful and relaxed, warm and content. He’d grown pretty comfortable with you, open and affectionate, over the time you’d known him. That comfort, that openness with you had only blossomed further as your relationship had morphed into something romantic. But even so, it was still unusual for him to let go like this just so he could have fun. It was progress, and that knowledge filled your heart with a sparkling warmth.

But you also couldn’t help but be the least bit suspicious, because it would be absolutely like him to use his voice and playful tone to distract you from something.

You froze again when a pair of boots suddenly appeared on the concrete in front of you, landing without a sound—you’d been right; all the sound a minute ago had been to try to lure you out, make you think he was farther away than he really was. You didn’t dare move, not when the slightest sound might give you away. Slowly, the boots shifted on the concrete as he turned one way, and then the other. Waiting for you to make a run for it.

But he’d taught you better than that.

There was the softest, quietest little huff of amusement, or maybe pride, instead. But instead of heading off, he began to kneel.

Shit, shit, shit—

He was going to duck down and look under the car. He knew you were here, he had to. He had to. Could you shift the angle of your water gun before he leaned down and saw you—

Fortunately for you, it became clear a second later that he was only lowering himself into a crouch. You stilled again in the shadows beneath the SUV, your gun still aimed cautiously at his legs.

Speaking of which, you had a really good view of his thighs at this angle. With him crouched the way he was, his thighs looked even thicker than usual, deliciously hard muscle covered in old denim. The round curve of his ass looked just as good where he filled out his jeans, though the dark splotch on the tight fabric made you grin. It was a testament to one of the only two shots you’d managed to hit him with. Sure, he’d shot you twice in the ass in retaliation, but it had been absolutely worth it.

He settled onto the balls of his feet, rocking a little back and forth. You heard a soft whir, before his metal hand appeared in your view. Your heart skipped a beat, a droplet of maybe-water-maybe-sweat rolling down your temple. Only… his hand didn’t appear to be going for you like you’d expected. Instead, it slipped down to the concrete. One metal fingertip gleaming in the fluorescent lighting, it brushed lightly at the droplets of water drying on the concrete.

Fresh droplets.

From you.

Crap.

His head appeared beneath the SUV as he leaned over to meet your eye. Then he flashed you a feral grin. “Hi doll,” he said smugly. “Hi Bucky. I love you,” you said fondly, and shot him in the face.

His head reared back as he spat out a curse, frantically swiping the water away from his face. It gave you just enough time for you to squirm out from under the SUV and take off down row between the cars, your sneakers slapping against the concrete, the wind blowing your hair back. If you could get to the door before he did, you could turn around and lock him in. It wouldn’t keep him here forever, but it might buy you a few minutes to reload.

Based on the rapidly pounding footsteps behind you, though, you weren’t even going to get close. Not when it sounded like he was charging after you with every last bit of super-soldier-powered speed he had. You needed another plan, or else—

Something slammed hard against one of the cars behind you, startling you enough to make you stumble. In that brief moment of distraction, Bucky had vaulted himself up off the car and over your head.

His broad form landed smoothly in front of you in one easy motion, dropping into a crouch. He rose slowly, powerful muscle gradually uncoiling inch by inch, until finally he loomed up over you, water gun held ominously in one hand. His pale eyes had gone dark with heat, pupils blown wide as he fixated on you: his prey. He took one prowling step forward, a flash of pink from his tongue as he lazily licked the droplets of water away from his mouth.

“You shot me,” he rumbled hungrily. “I should be mad. But damn, doll. That was hot.” “Hot enough to stop you from shooting me back?” you asked hopefully.

“Not a chance,” he said with a smirk, before firing a blast of cold water directly at your abdomen. You let out another shriek, turning to sprint away from him, a trail of damp footprints left behind. And if your shriek was half laughter, well, his playful growl was just as full of joy as he took off after you.

#tuna-tober 2024 #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes #fanfic #fic #falcon and the winter soldier #falcon and the winter soldier bucky #james buchanan barnes #fluff #reader #x reader #f!reader #reader fic #marvel fic #let bucky have fun 2024

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siddyyyyyyyy · 5 months ago

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You're Only Sixteen

wc: ~4.6k

summary: child soldier joins task force 141 part THREE; part two, part one; part four

warnings: brief flashback, blood, violence, nightmares

a/n: I'm genuinenly happy how well this is going so far, I'm going to update the parts a bit more slowly for now, but I'm pretty sure I won't take too long on this. Probably. Enjoy!

This time, Ghost is leading the training for today. That just means they're no fun games like last time with Price, not that you were looking forward to it. Starting at the shooting range is like a warm-up for you, landing all shots while doing everything casually. Your reload is fast and precise, your aim is almost always perfect, and your technique couldn't be more clean.

Sparring was similar to the last time, but now you're paired up with Soap. You're both getting in your stance, knees slightly bent, one leg forward, and abdominal muscles tense. Both ready to fight, but this time without any weapons. Ghost specifically told him to strike first, wanting to see how long you can last or even win against Soap. It shouldn't be a big deal for you, even though he is quite a big guy, full of muscle, and slightly taller than you. You've mostly had opponents your size or bigger in field, and you never really had a problem winning or lasting long. Well, besides one person back in camp.

Soap strikes you first with a sharp jab to your side, but you dodge it quickly, hitting him back. You focus on your technique instead of winning, wanting to be strong against him. He seems to be focussing more on his technique as well, noticing how fast he works and his reflexes are. Your fighting styles are similar; the only difference is how you two use it in practice. While he's using more strength and power, you're trying to be quicker than your opponent and trick them.

You kick against his knee, and land some hits against his weak points, it's hard for him to stay balanced or focused. He huffs and stumbles back, only to rush to you quickly and try to tackle you down. With his amount of strength, it's difficult to actually stop him or dodge, having to think quickly. With a small grunt, however, you're down, with him trying to keep you like that. Your heartbeat speeds up and your eyes widen, your breath hitching in your throat. The position you're in is too familiar; trying to get out of it as quickly as you can. Soap is oblivious, just training with you and having tackled you down, keeping you pinned on the mat. Your brain is quick to handle, pulling out the same moves you did in camp. Soap doesn't even realise he's getting into a headlock by you at first. His back on the mat with your arm holding him tight around his neck, feeling how you're only squeezing him more and more with your bicep. He grips your arm and tries to relax, not wanting to get hurt. Luckily, that's all it takes for you to snap back to reality and let go. You sigh out heavily and stand back up, calming down.

»Ye alright?« He asks you even though he should be the one getting checked up on. You give him a weary nod, clearing your throat.

»Yeah, sorry about that.«

You mumble back and focus on not thinking back to the time in camp. It's almost confusing you now, how similar and suffocating it felt. But you know better than to think back to a time like that and distract yourself in training. Soap tilts his head with a confused gaze.

»What do ye mean? The headlock? Nah, that was sick.«

He encourages you with a thumbs up. You nod, unsure of what to say back. The training continues with trembling hands and more focussing on your breathing than technique, feeling on edge the entire time, thanks to the small trigger. Of course, no one has noticed these signs from you, or at least no one has said anything about it. On the other hand, you're glad no one has noticed your trembling hands and more or less distracted mind during the time.

Once it's over, you're headed to the showers and straight back to your bunk. That was more off-putting now that you're alone in your small room, thinking quietly to yourself about what had happened. You shouldn't feel this way, having thought you were over it a long time ago. Maybe it was something else that triggered you, or maybe you really aren't over it yet. Getting in a pin on the ground was one thing your past rival used on you as much as he could. You don't know the real reason behind his technique, but all you do know is how weird and creepy it felt like.

A heavy sigh escapes your lips once more, slumping down on your bed with no energy. Today's training was longer but not as exhausting as the one at camp. But you still feel very tired for no reason. You close your eyes and try to shut your brain off; instead, a lot of thoughts appear about your rival and that god awful training. You don't know why he's all of a sudden back in your mind. You don't know why you're thinking so much about it, and you don't know why you can't stop thinking about him. He was such an annoying and unpleasant person that you tried so hard to forget about, yet he can't seem to give you peace. Even when you're finally away from him.

After spending most of your day inside your bunk, trying to get your mind off old memories, it's time to actually try and do something about it. With slow steps, you make your way back to the training hall. It's dark out already, forcing you to walk cautiously around and not wake anyone. Eventually, you made it in and looked around for a punching bag… and something to wrap your knuckles with. You don't want to injure yourself after all.

It's dimly lit in the training hall, making it seem more cosy and relaxing. Especially with no one inside beside you. There are five punching bags to use in a row, but unfortunately no bandages or gloves for your hands. It is what it is, and you walk up to one of these punching bags to release some tension and stress. After getting into the stance, you land a few softer punches to get used to the feeling again. Maybe it's because you're alone in here, but it already seems too loud for you. Checking behind you, the double door is closed, so there's no way someone could hear you from their bunk.

You start again, using proper technique, and gradually become faster and put more strength into your punches. The punching bag suffers through your hard punches, taking it like a champ, all the while your mind zones out. Zoned out, all you can think about is your past rival back at camp. You don't remember his name; didn't even bother asking for it back then. But you do remember how creepy and annoying he used to be to you, for no reason. And that's enough for your punches to grow heavier and even quicker, the punching sounds are growing louder through the hall. Maybe your knuckles are hurting at this point, but you don't care. That bastard had no reason to treat you like that, leaving you confused, hurt, and probably traumatized.

It's only then when a gruff voice calls out through the hall, speaking to no one other than you.

»Didn't you have enough training for today?«

You stop in your tracks and turn around, seeing that familiar shadow again. Ghost.

Glancing down at your knuckles, you notice how red they look just from how hard you've been punching that bag for… how long already? You didn't keep track, but it seems like more than ten minutes, judging from your aching knuckles. Ghost has crossed his arms, glaring at you with tired eyes.

»Go back to bed, 's way too late for this.« He adds with a more weary tone and leaves no room for arguments, cocking his head slightly to the side. You sigh out rather disappointed, knowing you shouldn't talk back, but you also can't stop just now.

»But I just started...« You mumble and trail off at the end, already smelling how annoyed he is with you. He shakes his head, being as serious as before.

»I won't tell you again. Don't overwork yourself and go to sleep. Let your body rest. We've got trainin' tomorrow, too.« Ghost is not joking with you, probably being more stern than he needs to be. But he knows better than to let you work too much or stress over something for no reason. In his eyes, you're just a poor child who happens to have this fate and is forced to get along with it on your own. Too much alike himself. Eventually, your shoulders drop in defeat, and you nod in understanding.

»Fine. Sorry about that.« He doesn't respond back and just leaves, most likely going back to sleep, too. After considering his words and contemplating if you should just stay longer in here, you walk back to your own bunk like promised and fall against your bed. It's comfortable and quiet, dark as well.

But you notice a small med kit on your night stand, bandages and a cream for sore muscles beside it. You blink, thinking it's just your sleep catching up on you, but there is indeed stuff for you on that small table. Eventually, you apply the cream on your red knuckles and wrap them up, laying back on your bed. Maybe it really is just a normal base and rather peaceful. Maybe you could get used to this some time.

Having no energy to think any more about that, you fall asleep quite quickly this time. Even if you fell asleep quickly, it wasn’t a good sleep. A nightmare plagued you, most likely because of the trigger from earlier. A grey room with no windows, similar to your old training room in camp, several people around you, and loud noises everywhere. It’s incoherent nonsense, but you still understand everything clearly. The room is cold and rather dark for some reason; it all seems too much, but there’s nothing at the same time. Your body feels numb, and you’re wearing your bandages around your knuckles, some dried blood decorating the usual whiteness of the material. You notice it too late, but Mike has you on the ground already. The ground is even colder against your back, and you can’t do anything but lay and watch. He’s on top, which he often tried to do on you, and has your wrists and legs pinned tightly beside you.

Everything is so loud but also so quiet, it makes your ears ring. There’s a horrible stench of blood and sweat around the air, which makes it hard to stay still and fight back. Your moves are too slow, having no other choice but to stay like this. Your rival, Mike, slashes quickly through your throat, staying on top in a mocking way. It’s hard to breathe, you’re chocking on your own blood and squirming under him helplessly. The whole dream feels like a flashback, but worse. Too quick, too real.

You don’t remember much of what happened next, because the next thing you know is how you’re trying to control your breath and get rid of the sickening feeling from the nightmare. It’s not unusual you get dreams like this, but never to such an extent of being unable to breathe normally.

The digital clock on your nightstand tells you it’s time to get ready for the day. You couldn’t be more thankful for Ghost to lay the training into early afternoon instead of early morning. Because you know they’d notice if you showed up like this to the hall. Still on edge and tired, feeling as bad as you look right now. You keep trying to tell yourself that it’s normal to feel like this, hoping it’ll pass soon. Deciding to distract your mind, you go out to the park with your small sketchbook in hand. Maybe you will feel better in the fresh air while sketching something down that comes to mind.

But, of course, you never have a few minutes to yourself as a familiar figure comes by and stops in front of you.

»Drawing?« Gaz seems curious and tries to secretly subtly into your sketchbook.

»Sketching.«

»Ah. What exactly?« He carefully asks, knowing not to disturb a teenage girl when they seem peaceful at the moment. Gaz has past experience from his own family and friends, knowing how moody some are.

You hesitate to show him what exactly you’re drawing, and you just shrug in response.

»Just… anything.« That was a boring response to anyone, and he still wasn’t done disturbing your peace. He politely asks if he can sit by you for a while, sitting down on the same bench after you accept his kind offer. Gaz isn’t one to pry or mind someone else’s business, but today he’s really curious. Probably, because it’s been three days since you’ve been here and no one got to know you properly. Maybe they should work on their social skills instead.

»You sketch often?« Finally, he’s asking you about your hobbies. And finally, a normal question after years.

»From time to time.« That’s not true, you’ve been drawing since you remember and ever since. Drawing to kill time? Three pages full with doodles. Sketching something pretty? Two pages full with only that beautiful thing you saw earlier. Filling some pages to get rid of the anxiety? Done.

Gaz doesn’t quite believe your answer as well, noticing there’s only three pages left in there. Instead of prying more into it, he changes the topic slightly.

»So, what’re you drawing then? People?«

Without another word, you hand him your sketchbook, deciding it’s easier and probably faster this way. He takes it wordlessly and flips through the pages carefully. His eyes study the way you drew random people and objects, not having expected how good you’re at this. He glances at you before flipping another page, recognising the person almost immediately.

»Soap? You drew Soap?« You look down to his hands as he’s still holding it, seeing he found the first sketch of his teammate.

»I guess,« There’s no way out of this now, seeing he’s actually quite amused about it, »There’s more, actually.«

His smile widens, not having expected to see realistic drawings of his teammate. And there’s more? Today couldn’t get any better.

»More? You like drawing him or somethin’?« Gaz stops talking once he goes some pages forward, seeing some doodles of himself and Price. Even if it’s just some sketches or doodles, they look surprisingly well-made and semi-realistic. He looks towards you again, holding up that book of yours slightly.

»Can you draw Soap with a moustache?« Out of all questions he could’ve asked, he chose this one. Always picking the important ones. You need a full second to process what he’s asking before you find yourself speechless.

»What do I get for it in return?« Now, he’s the one without words. He considers for a moment as he tilts his head to the side.

»Depends on how well you draw.«

It’s then, when he can’t take himself seriously and chuckles.

»All jokes, I’ll get you a new sketchbook. Seems like this won’t do in a while.«

That’s a deal well struck with him. You can’t deny such an offer and start scribbling down a rough sketch of Soap, added with a moustache. Gaz watches the lines on the blank paper slowly resemble his teammate, grinning at the extra facial hair above his lip. It’s a sight to behold, being glad he could make someone draw a silly pic of this even more goofier SAS soldier.

Once you’re done, you show the page fully to him, and he can’t help but laugh at the drawing. Not because it’s ugly, but because it looks so much like him, and a moustache looks rather silly on his face.

»We gotta show it to him later.« You don’t see why not and nod, already seeing how absurd the situation will be later on.

After the more eventful interaction, it’s time for the usual training. This time, there wasn’t any difference in sparring, only feeling more tired than usual because of the nightmare last night. All you four did, was practice in the shooting range and go about sparring with Soap, leading with him improving your technique and showing some tricks. Of course, like no other time, you all went to the mess hall to eat dinner. You would have forgotten about the silly sketch of Soap if Gaz hadn’t reminded you beforehand to bring it over for dinner.

Sitting in front of the two teammates, Soap is laughing so hard that he’s clutching to his stomach. The drawing was really worth it, being amused at the sight in front of you. At least now, you could eat in peace without one particular person trying to get to know you better.

A familiar shadow appears in the corner of your eye, and you instinctively glance over. Ghost is approaching the table… with a Capri Sun? You look over once again, needing to take a double take to reassure yourself of what you’re seeing. And right, there he was, the scary-looking goth with a Capri Sun in hand.

It’s then that Soap also notices Ghost. Eventually, he stays standing next to the table and places the smaller but sweet drink on the table.

»Oi, what’s that?« The still amused scot questions him, as confused as you and Gaz. Ghost clarifies, finally not being an intimidating tree.

»Shitbox got me this instead of wa’er. Some of you can have it.«

Oh, so he can’t deal with a vending machine. If he weren’t your lieutenant, you would have made fun of him. Gaz nods and looks over to you after noticing you shift in your seat slightly. To him, it’s clear who wants it most. He wasn’t the only one noticing it, and Ghost shifts the drink towards you, mentioning it to you. Or maybe he just doesn’t think the two blokes deserve such a sweet drink and let’s you have it instead.

»You can have it.«

He grumbles before leaving for wherever he needs to go. It’s a bit weird to just receive something like this for no reason, especially from someone like Ghost. Glancing around, the two others seem normal about it, or they’re just good at hiding their real surprise. Eventually, you take the Capri Sun and draw in the orange straw into the packet. Oh, it’s cherry-flavoured. Your favourite.

Even when you thought your small happiness wasn’t so obvious, it turns wrong once Gaz speaks up.

»Taste good?«

You nod back in response and relax your expression as well as you can, not wanting to come off as too giddy for a sweet drink as such. They both grin quietly and continue eating with Price joining in after some time to eat beside you three.

----

It’s been a week there, and it feels less awkward now. You train and practice every day, sometimes sneaking in late at night to punch some bags. Capri Sun is something you get more regularly at lunch because Ghost can’t seem to figure out how to use the vending machine. In reality, he just likes to give you a small treat and see your eyes light up for a split second. It’s his small way to befriend you; it doesn’t matter if it seems silly or stupid, you appreciate it, and there’s no harm to it. You could compare it with an attempt to befriend a cat with treats, and it works well. Consider Ghost as a harmless guy who gives you your favourite drink- just because.

Gaz talks to you the most from the others, occasionally checking up on your new drawings and sketches, promising to get you a new one as soon as he can. He likes your drawings after all. He’s easy to talk to as well, having light conversations with you and a few jokes. Gaz is the most friendly and easygoing of them all for one. At least that’s how he is with you, but you’re sure he can be different too. Soap is as friendly as him, but for some reason you feel like you need to be careful around him.

The problem isn’t him, it’s no one’s fault, really. You know he’s just as nice and supportive, but it seems like the pin he did on you is still in your head. They can always out win you in a fight if you don’t pay attention, and the thought of it makes your skin crawl. Ignoring it most of the time, you trust them all equally. It’s better here than back in camp. If you can still call it that anymore.

Being here, made you realise how toxic it was back then. They don’t judge and punish you for making simple mistakes; they won’t even look at your scars twice or ask about them, and most importantly, no one forces you into something uncomfortable.

You feel safer.

Pushing the constant nightmares and headaches away, it really is more safe and peaceful here.

Today, after training, you cross paths with Ghost. You immediately notice that he’s carrying an almost comically large bag in his arms. Taking a closer look, you see it’s dry dog food. Dog food? Why would he need that? You never took him as someone with pets, and you never saw dogs around on base. Thank God you didn’t.

You nod briefly at him and can’t help it but approach him out of curiosity.

»Do you have a dog?«

He grunts, side eyeing you for a moment.

»Just gonna feed Riley. A K9.«

So, they do have military dogs. How come you never saw them? Back in the old camp, the dogs could roam freely on base. But they also weren’t really nice dogs, always barking and ready to attack anyone. Even you were once chased by a large German Shepherd, almost getting bitten if you weren’t fast enough.

You simply nod back, not sure what to answer to that. Of course, he could sense your shift into uneasiness and nudges your shoulder lightly while walking down the base with you.

»You should get to know some. They’re not scary, don’t worry.« That makes it better only for a moment before you fully process his words. There isn’t really a way you can deny his offer and nod slightly, following him wordlessly. He isn’t as talkative either, but you don’t think that’s a bad thing. You’re lost in thought once he speaks up, shifting the big bag of dog food into his left arm.

»Ever met a big dog? Anything?«

You’re standing outside his office as he asks, opening his door with a key while he waits for your answer.

»Kind of. Got chased by one.« He can’t help but pause for a moment at your blunt answer, eventually getting his door open and stepping in. You follow him in and close the door behind you, noticing a bigger German Shepherd sitting up on the ground. It’s tongue sticks out and seems to be happy about seeing you both, judging from it’s wagging tail.

The dog stays silent though, patiently waiting for their owner to give them some sort of permission. You stay standing near the door, watching the two silently, hoping it won’t do anything. Ghost puts the large bag down against the wall and steps closer to the dog, kneeling down as it happily walks to him and enjoys the few hat pats he gives. You watch them both interact, visibly relaxing slowly as long as the dog is near Ghost and gets fed, getting a few more pats from its tall owner. He turns to you and introduces you to the dog, his hand staying on the dog’s back.

»That’s Riley. A sweet girl- will be joining our next mission, as far as I know.«

That’s totally great. Yeah, sure, you could work with a big dog while having a fear of them. You nod either way, shifting on your feet as you watch the dog from the closed door. Riley munches on her food, seemingly content.

»She seems… nice.«

He can see how unsure you are about the dog, and he guessed he would need to get you used to dogs somehow. Ghost sits down beside Riley, nodding towards her.

»You can pet her. She’s friendly, won’t bite.« He is trying to loosen the tension with a small joke, only seeing how you glance at him before looking back at Riley. Eventually, you approach her with silent steps, being cautious of the still-eating dog. You kneel down beside Ghost, firstly just watching her with anticipation in silence. Riley is quick to realise you are close now too and lifts her head off the bowl of food, trying to get to know you eagerly. She takes a step towards you, and you stay still, not wanting to accidentally make her angry. Ghost beside you can’t help it but feel amused watching you be so stiff while also watching Riley to make sure she won’t make you even more scared.

Riley sniffs around the air shortly before leaning towards your hands on your knees, taking a sniff at them. Before you know it, she’s licking at them. You cringe at the feeling, leaning a bit away from her.

Beside you, Ghost grins under his mask, glad that you don’t seem to be scared and more amused at how you react to Riley’s sudden affection. Suddenly, the K9 is trying to lick at your face, but you turn away with a small groan. Ghost pets her on the back, commanding her to sit down for now.

It takes a moment for Riley to fully calm down, her tail still wiggling back and forth. Ghost hands you some treats and wants to show you what tricks this joyful dog can do. Riley follows his commands flawlessly, rolling over, laying down, playing dead, able to stand on her back paws for a few seconds.

You extend your hand to give her a few treats- the small cookies in shape of bones in the palm of your hand. She eats it out of there happily, probably having a blast right now.

Riley is a good dog, even when she wants to give you affection through licking your hand, which mostly feels weird, but overall she doesn’t overwhelm you like the past dogs in your life.

Ghost also seems to be satisfied with the end result, however, he couldn’t let go of your words earlier. Normally, he would mind his business, but this is a sixteen-year-old we’re talking about.

»So, you were chased by one?«

You glance at him shortly, unsure of how to explain it to him now. You try it out, explaining it to him as shortly as you can.

»We also had some K9’s on camp and I was chased by one because I wasn’t careful enough.« You don’t realise how shocking that sounds before he gives you a look of disbelief. He asks again, gently petting Riley behind her ear.

»Your own camp had dogs, and one chased you? Why’s that?« You only shrug in response, not sure yourself. The dogs were mostly trained to be aggressive and were held rather roughly.

»I believe they got extra trained to be as aggressive as possible.«

He only hums out in acknowledgement, letting go of Riley and standing back up. Every time he hears more about your camp it is when he loses five years of his life. You follow right after him, standing up and getting a last glance at the sweet dog.

»Go, get your shower.« He mumbles, reminding you of taking your shower since you joined him after training, finally able to rinse off your sweat. You nod and leave without another word, taking a quick rest before eating dinner in the mess hall.

a/n: Hope you had fun reading this, it was a bit longer than the last part. The next one is probably going to be just as long. I hope you enjoed it!

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szlez · 2 months ago

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Parody a.k.a Join The Navy

25th one for Suptober 2024 Remixed by @wigglebox and @thepagemistress based on Suptober by @winchester-reload.

Prompt 25. Parody

As it is actually a parody it is only fair to link you to the original art - a propaganda poster by Richard Fayerweather Babcock.

Make love not war, I guess 😉

To see my art without the fiery addition look here.

I'm pretty sure that it's inspired by yet another @masoena's Kinktober 2024 prompts.

Prompt 23. Uniforms (or lack thereof to be precise)

My other arts for Suptober:

Prompt 1. Autumn, Prompt 2. Spa Day, Prompt 3. Royalty, Prompt 4. Birthday, Prompt 5. Scars, Prompt 6. Electric, Prompt 7. Thankful, Prompt 8. Witch’s Brew, Prompt 9. Moon, Prompt 10. Mushrooms, Prompt 11. Myth, Prompt 12. Harvest Festival, Prompt 13. Monster Mash, Prompt 14. Fave Episode, Prompt 15. Sigils, Prompt 16. Falling, Prompt 17. Wings, Prompt 18. Family Business, Prompt 19. Dark & Stormy Night, Prompt 20. Limbo, Prompt 21. Cozy Treats, Prompt 22. Ladies, Prompt 23. Fever, Prompt 24. Branded.

Taglist.

Pls DM me if you want to be added to tag list or removed from it.

@aniona29, @denimshortsdean, @dotti55, @famouskidangel, @malicmalic, @squirrelsarecool, @writteninthestarsinyoureyes .

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soullessdianthus · 1 year ago

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𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭 | 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐄 | 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝐱 𝐊ö𝐧𝐢𝐠) 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑

Summary: A heated confrontation between Ghost and König occurs just before the takeoff. The colonel tests the boundries of sanity and good taste, when he finds Ghost on a battlefield alone. Displayed for him to take down with a single pull of the trigger.

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟏 | 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟐

A/N: Apologise for the delay as I mentioned I was on vacations and now I'm trying to catch up with the requests. Thanks for your patience! ( ˘ ³˘) Y/C ━ Your Codename Poorly translated German ━ correct me if needed!

Warnings: reader is eastern european coded, desc. of blood/injuries/unalive bodies, smut (very brief desc., slow and gentle sex, p in v, voyeurism)

Word count: 3.7k

YALL I RAN OUT OF KONIG'S GIFS WHAT THE HECK

The armory was bursting at the seams, when many KorTac soldiers came in and out, preparing for the upcoming takeoff. The racks usually filled with rifles were emptied, gear sets laying on the shelfs mostly gone.

The tall figure of the lieutenant obscured the privates dressed all in black. The yellow light dangling from the ceiling casted a shadow inside of the skull’s eye sockets. Black irises merged with the pupils of his eyes.

Ghost hadn’t put his vest nor the gun holster on yet. He left the room in which he and his lover slept in, then headed straight to the magazine. The man needed to clean his gun and sharpen the knives before the departure. It was a part of his routine, almost becoming a ritual of sorts. A brilliant soldier.

Ghost walked into the narrow alley. To his dismay there was already another person sitting on the metal bench against the wall. But not just simply another person, no. It was him, the king.

König sat with his legs spread open, casually. An assault rifle was held firmly, when his opposite hand cleaned the barrel precisely and slowly. The colonel wasn’t in a rush. Ghost could feel the man's cold, blue eyes following him until the Britishman stopped near one of the shelves with gear.

Simon took a gun holster in his hand and swiftly wrapped it around his massive thigh. With a quick movement, he secured the strap, before moving to putting on a tactical vest. Everything went according to Ghost’s liking, the cocky Austrian man kept his mouth shut.

Until he didn’t.

━ Your medic is a treasure, leutnant [ger.: lieutenant]. Would kill to have one this skilled on my team. And equally pretty too. ━ König chuckled under his black hood, his shoulders slightly shaking. Some would say it was a nervous laugh, but Ghost’s experience told him it was not. The colonel had a filthy mouth, that’s all.

A silence followed his blunt provocations as Ghost kept adjusting the vest’s straps over his jacket. Simon Riley was not easy to provoke with such jokes. However, his mannerism exposed his annoyance a little too much.

━ You know ━ the colonel continued pushing Simon’s buttons, checking his boundaries. Especially those regarding his girlfriend ━ you should be more careful with spreading such vulnerable pictures like the one you sent me yesterday.

━ Thought I made it clear she’s off your limits, no?

The tone of Ghost’s voice was firm and almost menacing, when he reloaded the handgun and put it into the holster.

━ Nicht wirklich [ger.: Not really] ━ König set aside prepared rifle and leaned over his own thighs, one forearm resting upon his lap. ━ Besides, isn’t your little union… ━ he paused, searching for a descriptive word, circling his wrist in the air ━ prohibited? It would be a pity to destroy a career in the army, ja?

━ Are you threatening us?

━ Do you feel threatened?

Ghost turned around to face the cocky bastard, now standing to his full height. Even then, the man with a skull mask kept his emotions in check. He knew better.

━ No.

━ Then it’s clear. ━ The colonel of KorTac said in a calm manner, grabbing the rifle, before slowly heading towards the armory’s exit. He didn’t turn around, not once. ━ I’m actually looking for more of those pictures.

With a steady pace König left the room, leaving the lieutenant behind. Alone this time.

The sound of clamped gloves could be heard, man’s veins on his palm popped out. Ghost gritted his teeth silently, trying to ignore that bloody moron. Lieutenant knew perfectly well that you were his. Only Simon could touch you, kiss you, protect you. But something about the Austrian man not giving up made him annoyed.

Especially because he was just fucking around with Simon, pushing him, testing his limits, joking about his girl.

It was you. You were Ghost’s weak point and König abused that recognition.

The knowledge that if the mission went smoothly, the Task Force would pack up and move was reassuring. So therefore Ghost would do everything in his power to make it happen. He wanted to leave Austria as soon as possible.

Not so long after the encounter in the magazine, the two cooperative groups were loading into the off-road, military cars resembling a van. They were really spacious.

When Ghost left the building of KorTac base and his eyes got used to the sunlight, he managed to locate you near one of the vans alongside… well, Colonel König. You were casually talking with him.

Gaz couldn’t go with you this time, even though he insisted he would be fine, he just got a little burnt here and there, that’s all. But Captain Price wasn’t having it and gave Kyle Garrick an order to stay in the hospital wing for that day.

You didn’t like the sight of fresh wounds forming on Gaz’s skin – burns were quite serious injuries, even blisters popping out. Perhaps the scars were not life threatening and won’t stay forever, but he had to give it a rest. He would heal eventually.

The lieutenant would rather have Gaz or Soap jumping around you than this stubborn Austrian man, who happened to behave or think… quite indecent.

Simon Riley knew how some men are and it wasn’t really hard to deduce what kind of man König was. If he only got the chance, he would lay his sticky hands all over you. Ghost couldn’t let it happen.

By the time the man with the skull mask approached the vehicle, you were already sitting on the bench next to him. God, why were you so casual about the colonel? The Britishman’s blood was on the edge of boiling.

“Fuckin’ hell”, he thought to himself.

━ How’s your leg, sir? ━ You asked, continuing a chit chat. All of the memories of last night’s ambush came back, your body shuffling in one place, trying to adjust in a tight space of the van.

━ Wunderbar [ger.: Wonderful]. Such skillful hands make wonders, Y/C.

The Austrian man was towering over you even in the sitting position. He was indeed a giant. König’s legs were far too close to yours, trying to to rub against Riley’s girlfriend.

That motherfucker was bold.

With a loud thud of his steps Ghost got in the van and walked all the way to the talking duet. He forced his way between the colonel and his teammate. Ghost sat letting out a loud sigh.

━ Thought you’re stayin’ with Gaz. ━ The grumpy lieutenant said, his dark eyes looking directly at you, completely ignoring the presence of a man on his right.

At this time, Simon felt an urge to place his gloved hand over your thigh – to feel your flesh, your heat, just that you’re real and his. A simple act of tenderness that he had to suppress. For now.

━ Negative. Captain’s orders.

You explained to Ghost that you were not supposed to go into the battlefield that day. Well, not directly at least. Every pair of medic hands would be useful after the mission has ended. The KorTac and Task Force had a stronghold to conquer. It was a tough one.

Tougher than they estimated at the very beginning.

And even though some would feel anxious with taking their loved ones to such dangerous places, Ghost knew you could handle it. You were a tough woman after all, not some fragile porcelain doll.

━ How copy?

One of his colleagues’ voices resounded from the radio on his broad shoulder.

━ Almost there.

König moved swiftly, yet quietly along the staircase leading to the rooftop. He heard clearly the sounds of machine guns and the yelping of dying soldiers nearby. The colonel moved smoothly in the darkness of the night, his black hood blending within the surroundings.

He was so intoxicated with the smell of gore, he didn’t even feel the pulsating pain, radiating from his freshly sewed wound. A little reminder of someone.

When he leaned over the corner of the hallway, he managed to take down three of the enemy's troopers, putting holes in their vulnerable necks, blood splashing around. König acted fast and effectively.

The Austrian man finally reached the rooftop and noticed the laid out sniper’s rifle and a bloodied corpse near the station. It looked like someone took the previous sniper by surprise and ended his miserable life.

Man with a covered face clicked with his tongue, disappointed. König made sure the area was safe for him to take the position, checking the other rooftops. He set aside his own rifle and laid down on the gravel ground.

━ In a position. Any other problems? ━ The colonel checked in the radio channel, waiting for the soldier’s confirmation.

━ No, sir.

━ Gut [ger.: Good]. Over and out.

König crawled closer over the rough texture beneath him and positioned himself near the rifle’s scope (and the still warm corpse). He had a perfect observing spot for the whole accommodation.

Turning the weapon gently he took a look over the main building’s third floor – he saw KorTac soldiers making their way to the ground floor after checking for the potential hiding spots of their enemy.

All of the shootings were dying out.

Then, moving to the smaller structure nearby, König noticed Captain Price securing the target in one of the rooms. Few seconds later an announcement echoed in his earpiece, breaking the short lasting silence.

━ This is Bravo 0-6, target secured. I repeat, target secured.

━ Kinderspiel [ger.: Piece of cake]. ━ Colonel smirked under his hood.

He decided to stay at the sniper’s position for a little longer, making sure that the area was safe to move around with a captured target. König moved the rifle’s scope towards the courtyard in the middle of the buildings. For a moment he couldn’t believe he was so lucky.

There he was – a ghost surrounded by the enemy, cornered at the square. All alone.

König pointed the cross to the man’s chest. If only the Austrian soldier pulled the trigger on the sniper rifle, he would eliminate the obstacle standing between him and his latest obsession.

But was he actually capable of doing it?

The thought alone of you crying in König’s arms, mourning your lover, sent shivers down his spine. His heart skipped a beat and his blood ran cold. Could he really make you suffer this much? At the end of the day, he was a heartless executioner.

The colonel inhaled through his teeth, trying not to move in the slightest and cleared his head. He pointed the rifle at his current target and held his breath in.

Steady.

In a matter of seconds, everything went so silent, he was able to hear the owl in the nearest forest.

Until there was a gunshot, scaring the birds away from the tree crowns. König pulled the trigger. And then another time.

The hired mercenary incoming from Ghost’s left collapsed onto the tile floor with a thud.

The colonel shifted the aim and hit the other two men coming out from the building, securing a lieutenant of TF 141. He observed through the little glass piece, how Ghost stabbed his opponent with a knife and then swiftly turned around to throw another one to the enemy guard.

When the area was cleansed, König swore that for a brief moment Ghost soul-consuming eyes were locked on him. Or at the sniper position at least.

He knew.

Needless to say, the man with a black hood liked to poke the bear with a stick, curiously waiting to find out – what would the bear do. Because at the end of the day, there was no one that could defeat the king.

Was he a depraved, rotten to the bone’s marrow person? No, natürlich [ger.: naturally]. A little twisted, but not a psychopath. Therefore he could not damage nor terminate the lieutenant from Great Britain. As far as his weird fascination with you went, he would not want to make you suffer by murdering your lover, ja?

When all of the enemies were gone (one way or another – by greeting the reaper or running away) the team gathered in the meeting point, a few klicks away from the fortress they just stormed. A couple of helos landed on the forest grounds.

From one of which you walked out.

━ Everyone in one piece? ━ You jokingly said, acknowledging most of the team being unharmed.

━ Apart from the Austrian bastards bitin’ the dust, we’re more than good. ━ Price told you, placing one of him palms over your shoulder. Only then he noticed the presence of KorTac colonel and apologized quickly. ━ No offense.

━ None taken, Captain. What is important is that we’ve a target in custody. Gute arbeit.

König slowly moved past the three Task Force operators and went inside of the helicopter. Side by side with other KorTac soldiers. One in particular patted the colonel's back. The operator had a patch with callsign “Horangi”.

They seemed to be good friends.

━ The fuck he just said? ━ Ghost seemed to be a bit offended that he didn’t understand what König said in his native language.

━ Good job. ━ You explained, eyes following the gigantic man who taught you this phrase.

The voyages by helos were definitely not your favorite. Sudden changes of pressure, turbulence and the dim lighting – it all made you so sleepy. Normally, if the flight was less crowded, you’d lay your head on Ghost’s shoulder and let yourself slightly drift off.

Hilariously not professional of you, but hey – since childhood you were able to fall asleep almost everywhere: in a bus, standing, half sitting, on bloody weddings even. And then, when woken up, you immediately came back “to the living”.

Thank God the flight back to the base wasn’t long and you didn’t take a nap in front of so many professionals.

Although not many soldiers needed medical attention, you went straight to the infirmary, while rolling the sleeves of your shirt up. Most of them needed to get their scratches cleaned. A piece of cake, right?

Well, not so easy nor calming with hyped up Gaz talking all the time behind your shoulder, playfully asking about the operation. The pain relieving medication was still in his bloodstream, providing him with too much energy. Really, he should have been asleep by now.

“Gosh, did they inject him with dosage for a horse?”, you wondered.

Normally, you liked him talking. You were a good listener and Kyle could talk to you for hours as you sat there in silence, taking every story he came up with.

But sometimes, after the long lasting missions you needed to clear your head. To ease the constantly running thoughts and just… calm down. And today was that day. You needed silence, but didn’t have enough resolution to tell your teammate to politely shut up.

So he kept bothering you, while you took care of the soldiers.

Captain was on a call with Laswell and Shepherd, meanwhile Ghost put the captured target in confinement. At least until the Golden Eagle decides what to do next with the man responsible for the latest terrorism in Austria.

Task Force 141 job was done, all that was left were formalities.

When you finally left the infirmary’s cleaned station and said your goodnights with Gaz, you returned to the room you and Ghost were sleeping in. Well, technically it was his room, but no one dared to check if the lieutenant was sleeping there alone.

It was still better than sleeping in barracks.

You weren’t surprised when you found the dormitory empty with no trace of your boyfriend there. He had to be busy. The vision of a warm shower was tempting, especially that probably most if not all of the other operatives were sleeping soundly by now.

You left everything that wasn’t necessary in “the dorm” and headed through the narrow hallways, your mind already imagining the streams of clear water running down your skin.

But the lit lamp in the common room on your right caught your attention. There shouldn’t be anyone there by this time.

You took a curious look through the door frame and saw the bulky man hunched over the paper splayed on the table.

━ Simon? What are you doing? ━ A simple question left your mouth as you entered the small room and left the doors slightly opened. Not on purpose, of course. It was a habit. A bad one.

━ Price dozed off after the call. Someone has to fill those papers. Fuckin’ ol’ man.

Ghost smirked under his balaclava and solid mask, when he stood up from the chair and moved towards his girlfriend. The two of you met halfway.

━ And he can’t do this in the morning?

━ We’re leavin’ by then ━ he stepped closer, his figure towering over you. By now, the lieutenant has taken off his gear too. When he placed his palms on your hips, a quiet laugh slipped through your lips. ━ What’s so funny?

━ You’re kind of old too.

━ Yeah? You think so? ━ Ghost teased you softly, before rapidly grabbing a firm hold onto your thighs, his bare hand squeezing the flesh just under your ass. Only a thin layer of clothes separated his coarse digits and your smooth skin.

With a quick lift, he hoisted you over his hips and came closer to the wall behind you. When your body was squeezed between your lieutenant and the wall, you caressed Ghost’s biceps and shoulders, soothing his muscles after a long day.

━ You think an ol’ man can do this?

He asked you, before burying his now exposed jaw into your neck, placing light kisses. Ghost’s movements followed the tendon up, licking a stripe with his warm tongue from time to time.

━ Fuck, Simon… ━ You practically whimpered, when he latched onto sweet spot on your neck. ━ Not here.

━ We’re alone, they’re all sleepin’, luv ━ Simon tried to reassure you, starting to work on undoing your zipper and button. ━ Come on, you’re so fuckin’ tensed.

He let you slide down the wall to stand by your own strength, it was easier to slip your trousers down this way.

That night you let him do all the work. Not like you had much to do, he was just faster than you. Eager, longing for intimacy.

Ghost slid down the hem of your trousers and underwear down, just a little and lifted you up by the wall again. But this time, you could clearly feel his hardening member underneath your own crotch.

Your cheeks were flustered and heart pounding fast. The closeness with Simon Riley made you excited every time you were this exposed to each other.

His hand sneaked down to release himself from his confinements, brown eyes kept on you and your beautiful features. Always.

Ghost’s left hand was grippind the plush of your thigh firmly, almost like he was holding onto his own dear life. Meanwhile, while Simon was unbuckling his belt and cargo pants, you snuck the hand under the black balaclava and brushed through his blonde hair. The tough man groaned into your face. He fucking loved when you played with his hair.

And vice versa.

You smacked your lips against his scarred ones, moments before he finally pushed himself into you, causing his precious girlfriend to moan straight into his mouth.

A sudden wave of heat overflowed your muscles, making you almost limp in his hold. Your arms entangled around his shoulders, when he kept rocking you upwards.

Ghost held you firmly by your thighs wrapped around his waist, bucking his hips into you in a steady rhythm. He wasn’t rushing anywhere, the lieutenant had a fucking eternity if needed to spend with you.

The pleasant feeling of your body around him and the sound of your voice was all he needed after such an intense mission. It was the best type of treatment for his wounds – the physical and emotional ones. He knew this from the experience.

You were his remedy. The cure.

━ Oh, Simon ━ you sweetly muttered, resting your burning hot cheek against his broad shoulder. ━ Like this. Please.

How could he deny this pretty request?

Ghost kept lulling you into the dreamy state, bouncing you on his length. When you managed to keep your eyes open, you remembered the slight gap you left between the doors and its frame.

It didn’t matter at the time, as you were keeping it fairly quiet. Only soft whimpers and a few guttural moans from time to time left the lovers’ lips.

━ There you go ━ Simon whispered next to your ear in a praising manner ━ all better, yeah?

He was right and you nodded with your head, rubbing against Simon’s clothes. You finally managed to relax.

And when your glossy eyes opened again, facing those opened doors, you saw the colonel peeping at the two of you. His black hood with bleached stripes were distinct in the lighting of the room.

He wasn’t even trying to be sneaky about it. The Austrian man was halfway standing in the common room and devouring the show you two put for him. Only his growing bulge made him uncomfortable with his own pants.

König’s gaze drilled into your vulnerable form and all strength you had left, was to stare at him in this dreamy fucked out state, your boyfriend put you in.

Your body was held by Ghost against a wall, securely. Limbs going numb from pleasure, tears of joy gathering in the corners of your eyes, under the fluttering eyelashes.

And all you could do was just clinging to Simon’s strong arm.

You considered a version of events, where all of this was only a hallucination. That the colonel wasn’t really there, standing in the doorframe. God, at least he wasn’t doing anything indecent.

But if this was all true, if König was watching you two fuck, it was the most beautiful day in his pathetic life.

TAG LIST: (apologies if I missed someone) @nijiru @squidsal @thefightingdragon @emily-roberts @btszn @ladymacbeth1987 @kingjulian0o9 @leonasbunny @bladedriot yamishibai09 crystlizabeth breezum malninen i-feel-violated strawberryscals maladaptivedaydreamingbum kmcmpmd thefightingdragon cumbermovels am-just-a-simp bbq-titties cheezitwh0re

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johnwickb1tsch · 2 months ago

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The Girl Next Door - VIII

A Constantine x FemVampire!Reader (feat John Wick!) fic based on this imagine. all chapters warnings: nsfw, blood, biting, violence divider by animatedglittergraphics Wick pics midjourney art from pinterest, OP unknown

8. confess your sins

Before Wick can react John hits him with some kind of spell that knocks him off his feet, shatters two windows, and breaks the mental hold that had mind-fucked you so completely.

You freeze with shock–John has to grab your arm, wrenching you towards the door. “Wait! What are you doing?!”

“Saving you, obviously!” he snarls back, taking the stairs two at a time.

The unholy growl that emanates from the upstairs apartment sets your hair on end.

“But he didn’t come here to hurt us!”

“Then what was all that blood on the floor? It tripped the alarm in my wards–God, I thought he was killing you!”

You are shouting all this at each other as you are running down, down, down. Constantine does not go for the exit, but seems to have another destination in mind.

“Where are you going?”

“Beeman’s reloading my shells!” You don’t know what that means–does it have to do with that weird steampunk shotgun? “I hope he finished the dhampir loads,” John mutters, pulling you along through the machinery under the bowling alley that looms like mechanical spiders. It’s eerie down in the basement, dark and quiet.

“Beeman!” John shouts. “I’ve got a situation!”

There’s no answer.

“Beeman!”

The quiet of the subterranean level is broken by the sound of soft footfalls. Wick, stalking you both in the dark.

All manners of weird and wonderful things hang from the ceiling. Jars and baskets filled with raw ingredients from all around the world. You round a corner to find John standing by a long and cluttered workbench. Beeman is nowhere to be found.

With a clenched jaw John searches the work table, hefting the gun from the night before and loading it with sharp, precise movements, shoving home golden canisters inscribed with ancient runes and occult symbols.

“Constantine!”

You turn with horror to find the looming silhouette of Wick standing at the end of the dark aisle with his feet spread, the naked blade of his sword glinting silver in the low light. Those eyes glow such an unearthly blue, dancing like lightning. He is magnificent, terrible to behold, and you are as captivated as you are terrified.

“You always bring a knife to a gunfight?” taunts John from behind you, the shotgun shouldered.

“I want the pleasure of cutting you into pieces,” answers Wick in a tone that sends a chill down your spine. You believe him, and this is not good.

“Please,” you say, putting up your hands and daring to step between them. “It was just a misunderstanding.”

Both men snort in answer to that.

“Step aside, y/n,” says Wick, like he expects to be obeyed.

“No.”

“Let the man answer for himself. I’ll make it quick for you. A mercy killing.”

“No,” you refuse again, standing your ground. You take a step towards him. “He just thought you were hurting me.”

“I was hurting you? In that rat’s nest up there that reeks of your tears?”

“That doesn’t…matter.”

“It matters to me,” Wick states, and as unhinged as that is…it kindles some small, completely unhelpful warmth in you.

Perhaps foolishly, you take another step. “If you hurt him I’ll never forgive you,” you tell the dhampir, and you mean it from the bottom of your heart.

“Never is a long time, malyshka. Someday you’ll thank me for setting you free.”

“No.”

“Move,” he growls again, and you rack your brains for something to offer this maniac that might get through to him.

“I’ll come visit you in New York,” you say, your tongue dry in your mouth, fear trilling down your spine. “But only if you calm down.”

As it turns out, this was probably the only thing you could have said to get through to him in this state. He tilts his head, considering it, and the neon brightness of his eyes dampers to glowing cerulean blue.

“Is that a promise?”

“If you promise not to hurt him. Ever.”

“What?” protests Constantine from behind you. “No! Y/n, he’s crazy!”

Wick turns the blade in his hand, considering your offer over the apparent delight it would be to quarter John Constantine. You guess these two must have a history you have no idea about–this much bad feeling can’t be coming over you.

“Breaking a deal with me is a bad idea, vampling,” the dhampir warns.

“Likewise…dude,” you retort, as though you could offer even half the consequences this man could wreak. But your bravado inspires a slight curl of lips from him. You can just see it, in the dampered glow of his eyes.

“Very well.” He sheathes the katana down his back. “When my business here is finished, you will come with me.” He steps towards you, and now John puts himself in front of you, the gun still raised.

“I’m not agreeing to this deal. She has no idea what she’s getting into with you.”

You see Wick bristle, ready to go to war again, and you reach for John’s arm. He tries to resist you, but he forgets that you are actually stronger than him, and you force him to lower the gun.

“You didn’t want me anyway, John. What do you care?” You don’t mean to sound so petulant about it, but it’s been a rough month, and it all comes out in those last four words.

The demon hunter looks down at you like you’ve grown a third head with those soulful dark eyes held wide, his teeth grinding, utterly furious. It’s the most emotion you’ve seen from him, maybe ever. And maybe you’re the one with the preternatural strength and speed, but you never see it coming, when he grabs you by the neck, and his mouth crashes over yours.

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thirtysomethingloser92 · 1 month ago

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Chapter 2: The Darkest Fairytale, In The Dead Of Night.

Summary: After multiple failed attempts at retirement, you keep getting pulled back into action by Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes. Despite the constant bickering and teasing, there’s an undeniable tension between you and Bucky—something everyone else sees except the two of you.

When a new threat involving stolen Inhuman tech emerges, you reluctantly join Bucky and Sam for one more mission. As the stakes rise, your playful banter with Bucky deepens into something more, and the emotional walls you’ve both built finally begin to crumble.

Warnings: Swearing, Violence, Smut.

The air crackled with tension, the ground shaking beneath your feet as you sent another of Thanos’ soldiers flying into the dirt, the impact forming a crater that mirrored the turmoil inside you. Blood trickled down the side of your face, your chest heaving with every breath, but you couldn’t stop. The battle raged on, pulling at every last reserve of strength you had left. Your body screamed for rest, but your heart kept you moving.

You felt him before you saw him.

A familiar presence, steady and unwavering, just on the edge of your awareness. You turned, and there he was—Bucky. His rifle fired off sharp, precise shots, covering you without missing a beat. For just a moment, the chaos around you faded, replaced by the overwhelming relief that he was here. Beside you. Alive.

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed hard, choking back the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. “You took your sweet ass time,” you rasped, your voice rough from the strain of fighting, but the teasing tone still slipped through.

Bucky didn’t look at you right away, his focus still on the enemies ahead as he reloaded his weapon with practiced ease. “I was busy,” he shot back, the corner of his mouth twitching in a familiar smirk.

Your heart clenched painfully in your chest. God, you missed this.

“Slacking off, more like it,” you quipped, forcing yourself to keep the banter going, like old times. “You always leave me to do the heavy lifting.”

Bucky shook his head, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “I mean, why else would I keep you around?” His voice was dry, but there was something softer beneath it, something you hadn’t heard in a long time, “You irritate the hell out of me.”

Then, the moment hung between you, heavier than the battle around you, heavier than the years of war and separation. Something had shifted. The banter stalled, and suddenly, words didn’t seem enough to fill the space between you anymore. The sounds of battle faded into the background, distant and unimportant for just a heartbeat.

You clenched your fists, your fingers flexing as if trying to channel the nervous energy that was now thrumming through you, but it didn’t help. Your breath hitched, and before you could stop yourself, you stepped forward, your hands shaking slightly as you reached up and wrapped your arms around his neck.

“I missed you,” you whispered, your voice cracking on the last word.

For a moment, Bucky froze. His rifle hung loosely at his side, his body rigid beneath your touch. You could feel the hesitation, the way his breath stilled like he wasn’t sure whether to pull away or hold on tighter. His metal arm hovered above your back, uncertain, as though he didn’t quite trust himself to hold you, as though he was afraid of what it might mean if he did.

But then, slowly, he moved. His arms came around you, tentative at first, almost like he was testing the weight of the moment. But once his grip tightened, it was as if something inside him broke free. He pulled you closer, his hands pressing into the small of your back, holding you like he’d been waiting for this—for you.

His breath was warm against your hair, ragged and uneven, and you could feel the tension in his muscles slowly ease as he held you. He wasn’t the same Bucky who once fought beside you—there were new scars, new ghosts in his eyes—but right now, none of that mattered. Right now, he was here, and so were you.

“I missed you too,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost like it hurt to admit it. But there was no denying the truth in his words, the rawness of it. He held you tighter, like he was afraid you might slip away if he let go.

You made your way up the long gravel driveway, the crunch of rocks beneath your boots the only sound breaking the silence. Behind you, Bucky and Sam trailed behind. The air was crisp, filled with the earthy scent of pine and damp soil, a stark contrast to the sun that hung high in the mid-morning sky, casting long shadows over the forested landscape around you

At the end of the path, nestled between towering trees, stood the safehouse. It was a modest structure, almost unassuming, camouflaged by nature and time. The house was a compact, two-story building, its weathered wooden exterior blending seamlessly with the surrounding forest. The paint had long since faded to a dull gray, chipped and peeling in places, revealing the raw wood beneath. Vines crawled up one side of the house, their green tendrils having claimed the walls as their own over the years.

It wasn’t the sort of place that would catch anyone’s eye, and that was the point. It was isolated, tucked far enough into the woods that it was nearly impossible to spot from the main road, but close enough to offer a quick escape if necessary.

As you drew closer to the house, the details that set this place apart from a typical cabin became more apparent. The front door, while appearing weathered and worn, was reinforced with thick metal bars cleverly concealed beneath layers of aged wood. The locks seemed ordinary at first glance, but you could tell they were far more advanced than they let on—high-grade security hidden in plain sight. Above the door, under the eaves, a small security camera was almost invisible, its lens blinking faintly as it tracked your approach. It was unobtrusive but sharp, recording every movement with quiet vigilance. There was likely a backup generator hidden around the back of the house, in case the power was cut. And inside, you could almost guarantee there were stashes of weapons and gear tucked behind false walls or beneath floorboards. This place was more fortress than cabin.

“Nice place,” Sam muttered, his voice tinged with sarcasm as his eyes swept over the house. He adjusted his pack, glancing at you with a mixture of amusement and skepticism. His sharp gaze, trained from too many missions in too many dangerous places, picked up on the same details you had. “Real cozy.”

You grinned, undeterred by his tone. “It’s cute. I like it,” you said simply, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder as the straps dug into your skin. The weight of it had been a constant companion for miles, but you barely noticed anymore.

Sam shot you a sidelong look, one eyebrow raised. “Of course you’d like it. It’s rustic,” he commented, his voice light but teasing. He had a way of poking fun at you that always seemed to walk the line between annoyance and affection.

You narrowed your eyes playfully and corrected him, “Homey,” you said with a nod, your tone making it clear you weren’t backing down. “Peaceful.” As you said it, your gaze drifted toward the treeline, the quiet forest stretching out in every direction. Despite the house’s fortified appearance, something about the isolation, the stillness of the woods, felt calming in a way you hadn’t expected.

Stepping up onto the porch, you paused, your eyes scanning the area. Something felt… off. It wasn’t a bad feeling, just a certain awareness, like the house was too still, too quiet. “Is someone here?” you asked, your voice low as you turned back to Sam and Bucky.

Bucky, who had been trailing slightly behind, stepped forward. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp, as always. He hadn’t missed anything. “Fury said we’d be meeting someone here,” he replied, his tone measured, as if this was just another routine mission. But there was a subtle tension in the way he stood, the way his metal hand flexed at his side. He was always ready for something to go wrong. You reached for the handle, fingers curling around the cool metal as you twisted it slowly. The lock disengaged with a soft *click*, and the door creaked open, revealing the darkened interior of the safehouse. You pushed it wider, stepping over the threshold and into the entryway. The air inside was warmer than you expected, carrying the unmistakable scent of cooking—garlic, onions, and something rich simmering on a stove.

Your brow furrowed in mild confusion. This place was supposed to be empty, at least until your contact arrived. But clearly, someone was here.

You paused in the middle of the entry hall, your boots scuffing the worn wooden floor. The smell of food lingered in the air, homey in a way that felt out of place in this kind of hideout. You let your bag slide off your shoulder, the weight of it thumping heavily onto the floor. The sound seemed to echo through the quiet house, and you could feel the presence of Sam and Bucky as they stepped in behind you, equally tense, equally curious.

The three of you exchanged a quick glance, the silent communication of people who had been through enough together to know when something wasn’t right. Sam’s brow arched slightly, his expression asking the question you were all thinking: Who the hell is cooking?

“Hello?” Sam called out, his voice carrying through the house.

For a moment, there was nothing but the soft crackle of something cooking in the distance, and then—

“Hello.”

The voice was feminine, thick with a Russian accent, and casual in a way that made you instantly more alert. You turned toward the sound just as a blonde head poked around the corner from a nearby hallway. Her hair was loose, a few strands falling into her face, and her expression was relaxed, almost amused as she took in the three of you standing there like you’d stumbled into the wrong house.

“Come, make yourselves at home,” she said, her voice a lazy drawl, as if this was the most natural situation in the world. “I’m cooking lunch.”

Before any of you could respond, she disappeared back around the corner, presumably returning to the kitchen, leaving you standing there in stunned silence.

You blinked, glancing first at Sam, who looked as surprised as you felt, and then at Bucky. He hadn’t moved, his body unnaturally still, but his jaw was tight, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something you hadn’t seen in him since the last time you crossed paths with someone from his past.

“Bucky?” you prompted quietly, noticing the way his metal fingers flexed unconsciously at his side.

He exhaled slowly, his lips pressing into a thin line as he finally spoke. “Yelena,” he said, the name falling from his mouth with a weight that made the air in the room feel heavier.

You frowned, looking between him and the corner where the woman had disappeared. “Who?”

“Yelena Belova,” Bucky answered, his voice flat, though his jaw clenched as he spoke. “She’s a Black Widow.”

The name hit you like a punch, and you immediately understood why Bucky’s entire posture had shifted. The Black Widows were notorious—ruthless assassins trained from childhood, their loyalty hard to win and difficult to understand. You knew Natasha Romanoff, of course, but this was someone different. And judging by the tension radiating off Bucky, there was a history here, one that ran deeper than what he was willing to say aloud.

“Great,” Sam muttered under his breath, crossing his arms as he glanced toward the kitchen. “Just what we needed.”

You cast another look at Bucky, but he didn’t return it. His gaze was fixed on the hallway, his mind clearly elsewhere, caught between the present and whatever memories this woman had dragged back to the surface. His silence said more than his words ever could.

You inhaled deeply, trying to ground yourself in the moment, but the unease lingered, sharp at the edges of your awareness. The comforting scent of food—rich and savory—still filled the air, but now it seemed oddly out of place. It wasn’t just the smell that felt foreign; it was the entire situation. The warmth of the kitchen, the domesticity of a meal being prepared, didn’t match the undercurrent of tension that hummed in the background. It was as if the two realities were clashing, and you couldn’t quite reconcile them.

“Friend or foe?” you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper as your eyes flickered between Bucky and Sam.

Bucky’s expression remained unreadable, his shoulders tight. He shrugged slightly, the movement almost imperceptible. “Depends on why she’s here,” he muttered under his breath, his jaw clenched as if holding back more than he was willing to say.

“Assuming she’s who Fury called?” Sam offered, his voice carrying a note of skepticism as he glanced toward the kitchen where Yelena had disappeared.

Bucky hesitated, then responded, “Mostly friend.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, your unease deepening. “Mostly?”

Before Bucky could elaborate, Yelena’s voice floated in from the kitchen, cutting through the quiet tension like a knife. “Are you coming or not?” she called out, her tone casual but laced with a hint of amusement. “Or are you just going to stand there gossiping about me?”

You exchanged a quick look with the two men—Sam’s expression was a mixture of curiosity and wariness, while Bucky’s was harder to read, his eyes still narrowed in thought. Taking a breath, you steeled yourself and made your way toward the kitchen, the weight of Bucky and Sam’s footsteps following closely behind.

As you stepped into the kitchen, you couldn’t help but pause for a moment, taking in the scene. The space was small, almost cramped, but surprisingly cozy. The walls were lined with rustic wooden cabinets, their paint chipped and worn with age. A narrow window, partially obscured by a tattered curtain, let in a soft stream of sunlight that illuminated the room in a warm, golden hue. The countertops were cluttered with mismatched pots and utensils, as if someone had been living here for a while, despite the house’s remote location.

In the center of the room was a small wooden table, just big enough for four people. Yelena stood by it, casually placing bowls down, one after the other, as though this was some kind of normal family dinner and not a meeting between wary allies. The bowls were filled with what looked like a casserole—steaming, aromatic, and far more appetizing than you’d expected from a safehouse kitchen in the middle of nowhere.

The table itself was battered, its surface scarred with years of use. A single chair sat askew, its wooden legs uneven, while the others were mismatched entirely, as if thrown together without care for aesthetics. Despite the disarray, there was something oddly welcoming about it, a strange contrast to the high-stakes tension that had settled between all of you.

Yelena placed the last bowl down with a soft clatter, looking up at you with a smirk. “Sit,” she said, motioning to the chairs with a wave of her hand, as if this was her house and you were her guests.

Awkwardly, the three of you settled in around the table. As you eased into your seat, the wooden chair creaked beneath you, the air feeling thick with unsaid words. You glanced down at your bowl, the rich aroma of the casserole rising to meet you. Tentatively, you took a bite, surprised at how delicious it was—savory, hearty, the kind of comfort food you hadn’t expected. It felt almost surreal, eating a home-cooked meal in a place like this, with the looming presence of a Russian assassin watching over you.

Sam sat beside you, his expression one of bemused curiosity as he chewed slowly, clearly trying to make sense of the situation. Across from you, Bucky leaned back in his chair, his posture stiff, his eyes never leaving Yelena. He wasn’t eating—not yet. His gaze was intense, as though he was waiting for something, his jaw still tight with unspoken history.

Yelena, on the other hand, seemed utterly unbothered by the tension in the room. She took her seat, her movements fluid, graceful in a way that only someone with her training could manage. She took a bite of her own food, chewing thoughtfully for a moment before her gaze flicked up to meet yours.

“So, you’re the back-up Fury sent?” she asked, her tone casual, but you could sense the probing curiosity behind her words.

You swallowed your mouthful of food, glancing briefly at Sam and Bucky before answering. “Apparently,” you replied, your voice steady despite the strange circumstances.

Yelena’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “Interesting,” she said, leaning back slightly in her chair, her eyes sweeping over the three of you. “I knew Fury liked to keep his cards close, but this…” She gestured vaguely at the table, as if you were some kind of puzzle she was trying to piece together. “I didn’t expect the Winter Soldier and Captain America to be coming.”

Bucky's eyes darkened at the name, but he remained silent, his metal fingers tapping idly against the table. Sam smirked slightly, clearly amused by the situation, but didn’t say anything either. The weight of their shared history hung in the air, thick and heavy, and though you didn’t know the full extent of it, you could feel it pressing down on the room like a storm cloud waiting to break.

You took another bite of the casserole, the warmth of the food doing little to ease the knot of tension tightening in your chest. Each chew felt deliberate, like you were trying to ground yourself in the mundane act of eating while navigating the strange, precarious atmosphere that hung over the table. Every second stretched out, the weight of Yelena’s gaze heavy on you. Her sharp, calculating eyes missed nothing, and despite the casual air she tried to present, you could feel the undercurrent of something more simmering beneath her words. This wasn’t just small talk—this was an interrogation of sorts, a test to see what you knew, how much you understood about the situation you’d walked into.

“So,” she asked, her voice deceptively soft but with an edge that made your skin prickle, “what exactly did Fury tell you about this little operation?”

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you should speak, but Sam beat you to it. His voice was steady, though you could sense the same unease beneath his calm exterior. “Inhuman weapons going missing. Inhumans themselves going missing,” he stated, his words clipped, to the point.

Yelena nodded, her expression unreadable. “Yes, but I think this goes deeper than just some weapons and missing people,” she said, her tone carrying the weight of something more sinister.

A chill crawled up your spine at her words. You leaned forward slightly, your curiosity starting to eclipse the tension. “How do you mean?” you asked, trying to keep the edge of apprehension out of your voice.

Yelena shrugged, her nonchalance almost unsettling as she took another bite of food, chewing slowly like she had all the time in the world. “So while I was waiting for you three to show up, I decided to do my own thing,” she said, leaning back in her chair with the kind of casual confidence that only came from someone who was always ten steps ahead. She stood up, moving to the counter with a fluid grace that reminded you exactly who she was—a deadly assassin, a predator always watching, always calculating.

Your eyes followed her as she picked up a thick file from the bench, flipping it open briefly before walking back toward the table. There was something about her movements, the way she handled the situation, that made your pulse quicken. She was in control here, and the fact that you didn’t know what she knew gnawed at you.

“This is every Inhuman who’s gone missing that I believe is linked to this,” Yelena said, her voice cool as she slammed the file down on the table with a heavy thud.

The sound echoed in the small space, and you felt your breath hitch slightly, the weight of the file a physical manifestation of the gravity of the situation. You pulled it toward you, sliding your half-eaten bowl aside as your fingers brushed against the rough surface of the papers. The file was thick, crammed with missing posters, police reports, and data sheets, all staring back at you like silent accusations.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you flicked through the pages, the faces of the missing Inhumans blurring together in your mind. What was Yelena seeing that you weren’t? What was the pattern she had noticed that had eluded everyone else?

“What am I looking at?” you asked, frustration tinging your voice as you glanced up at her, your eyes searching her face for some kind of answer.

Yelena raised an eyebrow, her expression challenging. “You don’t notice it?” she asked, her tone almost mocking, like she was testing you, waiting for you to catch up to something she had figured out long ago.

You shook your head, flipping through the pages again, frustration building as you sifted through the documents. Reports, names, faces—nothing was standing out. “I don—” You stopped mid-sentence, your fingers freezing on the edge of one of the pages. Something clicked in your mind, a pattern starting to emerge as you stacked the papers back into a neat pile, going through them all one more time, this time with a sharper eye.

Yelena’s smirk widened slightly, her arms crossing over her chest as she watched you with a look of quiet satisfaction. “You notice it now?” she asked, her voice almost smug, like she was enjoying this little game.

You didn’t answer immediately, your heart racing as your eyes narrowed, scanning the reports again. The realization hit you like a punch to the gut, and you felt your stomach twist with the weight of it. “No one noticed this?” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else, disbelief coloring your tone.

Bucky, who had been silent up until now, shifted in his seat, his metal arm resting on the table as he leaned closer. “What?” he asked, his voice low as he scooted his chair closer to you, his eyes darting between you and the file.

You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. “There’s no men,” you said, your voice quiet but filled with a growing sense of dread. You pulled out one of the missing posters, holding it up before flicking through the rest of the stack. “None of the missing Inhumans are men. Every single one of them is a woman.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed, his gaze snapping back to the papers in front of you. Sam, too, leaned in, his expression darkening as the realization dawned on him as well.

Yelena nodded, her arms still crossed, a satisfied smirk tugging at her lips, though there was no real humor in it—only a hard edge of knowing. “Almost two thousand Inhumans have gone missing, and not one of them is male,” she repeated, her voice calm but carrying a darker undertone, like she was laying out a puzzle you were only just starting to piece together. “Why?”

The question hung in the air like a guillotine, sharp and heavy, slicing through the room’s tense silence. You stared down at the papers spread out in front of you, your fingers still resting on the thick stack of missing persons reports. The weight of the information pressed against your chest like a lead blanket, making it harder to breathe as the implications crashed over you, one after another. Two thousand Inhumans—two thousand—all women, all gone without a trace. The numbers alone were staggering, but the specificity of it, the fact that not one of them was male, sent a chill crawling up your spine.

Your mind raced, running in circles as you tried to make sense of it, but every question only led to more questions. Why only women? What was happening to them? And how had no one noticed this pattern until now? Fury hadn’t said a word about this when he briefed you. Were the disappearances that well-hidden, or had no one been looking closely enough? The thought made your stomach twist.

You glanced up at Yelena, pulse thudding in your ears. She was watching you carefully, her face unreadable, but there was something in her eyes—something sharp and dangerous, like she already knew just how deep this rabbit hole went. She wasn’t just showing you this to pass the time. She was waiting for you to understand, to see the gravity of what she’d uncovered. This was something bigger, something far more dangerous than any of you had anticipated when you first walked into this safehouse.

Your throat felt dry, and you swallowed hard before speaking, your voice a little rough around the edges. “So, years ago…” you began, trailing off as you gathered your thoughts. The words felt heavy on your tongue, like you weren’t sure if you should say them, but you pushed forward anyway. “Now, I might be out of line here, so bear with me.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Sam leaned forward, his attention fully on you now. Yelena stayed silent, still watching, her expression carefully neutral.

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of their eyes on you, but more than that, feeling the weight of what you were about to say. “Years ago, there was this theory. About Inhumans. It was mostly dismissed, just something people were throwing around, but…when there’s smoke and all that.”

The silence in the room thickened as all eyes stayed fixed on you. You could almost hear the gears turning in their minds, waiting for you to continue.

“It wasn’t official, more like rumors that started circulating online—conspiracy theories on the street that sort of thing. People were talking about the genetic differences between male and female Inhumans. The idea was that female Inhumans might have something… unique in their genetic makeup. Something that made them more powerful, more valuable. It was all just rumors, but the theory went that certain organizations, maybe even governments, were interested in… experimenting. Harvesting something from female Inhumans.”

You paused, feeling the weight of the words settle into the room like a suffocating blanket. You could see the skepticism in Sam’s eyes, but he didn’t interrupt. Bucky’s face remained impassive, though his jaw tightened slightly, the only sign that he was processing what you were saying. Yelena, for her part, remained unreadable, but there was a glimmer of something in her eyes—recognition, maybe. Like she’d heard this theory before, or worse, seen it in action.

Sam finally spoke, his voice low but steady. “You’re saying someone’s targeting female Inhumans specifically because of their genetics? For experiments?” He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as the words hung in the air, doubt lacing his tone.

“We’ve dealt with crazier,” you admitted, your eyes flicking between them, “and I don’t know if that’s what this is. But two thousand women, all gone without a trace? There has to be a reason. Something about them that makes them a target.”

Bucky’s voice cut through the tension, cold and sharp. “If this theory’s even remotely true, then Fury’s right. This is planned. Coordinated.”

Yelena nodded slightly, acknowledging Bucky’s words. She stepped forward and tapped the file with her finger, her gaze hardening. “It’s no coincidence. Someone’s been doing this for a long time, slowly, methodically. Not enough to raise alarms right away, but enough that by the time anyone noticed, they were already deep into whatever they’re doing.”

Her voice was steady, but there was an edge of anger in it, the only crack in her otherwise unflappable demeanor. She wasn’t just showing you this information because she was curious—she wanted to stop it, whatever it was.

You leaned forward, your heart racing as you flipped through the missing reports again, your fingers trembling slightly. The faces of the missing women stared back at you, their eyes haunting, as if they were silently pleading for answers you didn’t have.

“But what could they be doing with them?” you asked, not really expecting anyone to have the answer, but needing to voice the question all the same.

Yelena’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes dark as they met yours. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” she said quietly. “What do they want from them?”

The room felt colder, the implications of her words sinking in. Whoever was behind this wasn’t just abducting Inhumans—they were harvesting something from them. Experimenting, maybe. And two thousand women were already gone.

Sam let out a slow breath, his expression turning grim. “If this is some kind of experiment, we’re already way behind.”

“And they’re still taking more,” Bucky added, his voice low, his eyes hard as steel. “Which means they haven’t finished.”

The silence that followed was thick with dread, the weight of the situation pressing down on all of you. The casserole in front of you, once comforting, now felt like lead in your stomach, and you pushed the bowl aside, unable to eat another bite.

Yelena crossed her arms again, her sharp gaze sweeping across the three of you, the weight of her words hanging in the air like a challenge. “Are we going to sit here and speculate, or are we going to do something about it?” she asked, her voice cutting through the room with a tone that left little room for argument. “We need to find out who’s behind this. And we need to stop them, before it’s too late.”

Her words lit a fire in your gut, but the enormity of the situation still weighed heavily on your mind. This wasn't just a few missing people—this was thousands of lives, and there was something deeply sinister behind it. You could feel it in your bones.

Sam, ever the pragmatist, leaned forward, his arms resting on the table. “First, we need to figure out what exactly female Inhumans have that males don’t,” he said, his voice steady but with an edge of urgency. “If we can understand that, we might get closer to figuring out what they’re targeting.”

All eyes turned to you. You felt the weight of their stares, the unspoken question hanging in the air. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, shrugging as you met their gazes. “I don’t know,” you admitted, frustration creeping into your voice. You had lived with these abilities, but what made female Inhumans different from males? You hadn’t the faintest idea. “They don’t exactly give you a welcome pack when we get our abilities. All I got was a dozen broken cups and a broken rib when I fell through the wall.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow, a look of mild disbelief crossing her face. “You are an Inhuman, yes?” she asked, her tone laced with a hint of impatience, as if your ignorance was an inconvenience.

You nodded, feeling the slightest bit defensive under her scrutiny. “Yeah.”

“So all we need is a male’s genetic makeup to see the differences,” Yelena said matter-of-factly, as though it was the simplest thing in the world. She spoke with that same blunt directness that people like her often had—the kind that came from years of seeing the world’s complexities as problems that just needed solving, no matter the cost. There was no room for hesitation in her mind, “We’ve already got you here to be able to get a sample from.”

You blinked, staring at her incredulously. “Is medical consent not a thing here?” you asked, unable to stop the dryness from seeping into your voice. “Plus where the hell are we going to get a male sample from? I don’t exactly have a list in my phone of people to call.”

Yelena’s smirk returned, that same knowing, almost smug expression that made you wonder if she already had this all worked out before you’d even arrived. “In the labs,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“What labs?” Bucky asked, his voice low and skeptical as he crossed his arms, clearly not appreciating being left out of the loop.

Yelena let out a soft groan, rolling her eyes as if she couldn’t believe how much of the briefing had been lost on you all. “Do you not read the briefings Fury gave you?” she asked, her tone dripping with exasperation. She glanced between the three of you like you were schoolchildren who hadn’t done their homework.

You felt a flicker of embarrassment, but it was quickly overtaken by a wave of indifference. You’d seen enough in your time to know that plans never really went according to script, and scanning a few bullet points had always been enough to get the gist. “I glance over them,” you said simply, trying to keep your voice casual.

Yelena shot you a pointed look, and you could tell she wasn’t impressed. “Clearly.”

Sam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Okay, okay, so what are these labs?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “What are we walking into?”

Yelena leaned forward, resting her hands on the table as she spoke, her eyes sharp and focused. “There’s a facility not far from here, isolated, off the official record. It’s an old Hydra lab that was repurposed—government-run now, technically. And it just so happens they’ve been doing research on Inhuman genetics for years. Quietly.”

You felt a chill run down your spine at the mention of Hydra. Even though they were supposedly long gone, the remnants of their operations still haunted the world in ways that were both obvious and insidious. An old Hydra lab, now in the hands of the government? It sounded like a bad idea waiting to explode.

Bucky’s jaw tightened at the mention of Hydra, his metal arm flexing unconsciously. You could almost feel the memories stirring in him, the ghosts of a past he’d rather forget. “How do you know about this place?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Yelena’s smirk faltered for the briefest of moments, but only just. “Let’s just say I have my sources,” she replied cryptically. “The lab’s been under the radar, but I’ve been keeping an eye on it. If anyone’s got the genetic data we need, it’ll be there.”

“And you’re sure they won’t see us coming?” Sam asked, though you could tell by his tone he already knew the answer wasn’t going to be comforting.

Yelena shrugged, her expression indifferent. “I’m never sure of anything. But if we’re going to figure out why female Inhumans are vanishing, this is our best shot. We go in, we get what we need, and we get out before anyone knows we were there.”

You let out a slow breath, the weight of the situation pressing down on you even more. Breaking into a government-run lab, one with Hydra’s fingerprints all over it? It was risky, dangerous even. But what other choice did you have? Two thousand women were already gone, and whoever was behind it wasn’t going to stop.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he considered Yelena’s plan. “This lab… they’re not just going to let us walk through the front door.”

Yelena’s eyes gleamed with something close to excitement. “No, they won’t. But that’s half the fun, isn’t it?” You exchanged a glance with Sam, who looked just as wary as you felt. This entire situation was a gamble, a dangerous one, and you could feel the weight of it pressing on your chest like a vice. But if Yelena was right, this was the only solid lead you had. The thought of going in blind, not knowing what kind of horrors or traps you might face, sent a spike of anxiety through you. Yet, the alternative—doing nothing, letting more women vanish, letting whatever dark force was behind this continue unchecked—was far worse.

You took a steadying breath, trying to focus your thoughts and push down the unease. “Okay,” you said slowly, looking around the table. “So assuming the missing women and the stolen weapons are connected somehow… Why would they need the weapons? I mean, they already have hundreds of powerful people in their hands, right?”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, his expression grim and thoughtful. “Maybe the weapons are a way to keep them in line. You said it yourself, there’s hundreds of powerful people under their control now—Inhumans with all sorts of abilities. Could be they need the weapons as a fail-safe. Something to neutralize them if they get out of hand.”

The idea made your skin crawl. The thought of someone not just kidnapping these women but also holding onto weapons specifically designed to keep them subdued, as if they were nothing more than dangerous tools to be controlled, felt sickening. It was a possibility you hadn’t fully considered, but now that Bucky had said it, it made a horrible kind of sense.

Sam, who had been quiet for a moment, suddenly shrugged, his brow furrowed in thought. “Or maybe,” he said slowly, “they’re repurposing the weapons.”

Everyone turned to him, the silence thick with anticipation. You were the first to speak, frowning as you tried to grasp the idea. “Repurposing them? How?”

Sam leaned forward, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the table as he pieced the idea together. “Hypothetical situation here,” he started, his voice careful, as if he was still testing the theory in his own head. “They started by taking the women. Maybe they were looking for something specific. Something unique in their genetic makeup. After realizing whatever it is—whatever makes the women different from the men—they decide to use it.”

Yelena gave a small, amused shrug, her lips quirking into a smirk. “We’re already genetically superior, but go on.”

Sam shot her a look, not in the mood for her snark. “They figure out that the women’s genetics have some kind of advantage. Maybe it’s an enhancement, maybe it’s something that can be extracted or replicated. Then they start wondering: what if they can incorporate that into the weapons? Use whatever they’re harvesting from the women to make the weapons even more dangerous.”

A cold chill ran down your spine at the thought. You leaned forward, trying to wrap your mind around the terrifying implications. “So you’re saying… they’re not just taking the women for experiments or control. They’re using them. Their powers, their genetics, maybe even their blood—whatever it is, they’re weaponizing it.”

Sam nodded grimly, his expression dark. “It’s possible. Think about it—if they’ve figured out how to extract something from these women that enhances power or makes weapons more lethal, it would explain why they’re targeting them specifically. It’s not just about keeping them captive. It's about making them part of whatever twisted operation they’ve got going.”

The room fell into a heavy silence as the weight of Sam’s words settled over all of you. The idea was horrific—women being abducted, experimented on, and turned into living resources to fuel some kind of monstrous weapons program. The thought of what they must be enduring, what their captors might be doing to them, made your stomach churn.

Yelena’s smirk had faded, her expression sharp and focused now. “If that’s true, they’re not just building weapons. They’re building an army,” she said quietly. “And they’re using Inhumans to do it.”

Your heart raced as the pieces started to fall into place. The stolen weapons, the missing women, the government labs—all of it was connected. You could feel it in your gut. Whoever was behind this wasn’t just kidnapping Inhumans. They were turning them into tools, into something far worse than just captives. And if Yelena was right, this was only the beginning.

Bucky, who had been sitting quietly, suddenly spoke, his voice low and filled with a quiet fury. “If they’re using Inhumans to build weapons, then they’re planning for something big. You don’t go through all this trouble just to sit on an arsenal. They’re preparing for a war.”

The room fell into another tense silence, the truth of Bucky’s words sinking in. If this was about more than just control, more than just experimentation—if this was about war—then the stakes had just skyrocketed. And whoever was behind this wasn’t just a threat to the Inhumans. They were a threat to the entire world.

You could feel the tension building in your chest, your mind racing as you tried to figure out the next step. “So what do we do about it?” you asked, your voice quiet but determined. “If they’re building an army, if they’re using these women to power their weapons, how do we stop them?”

Yelena’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous light, her smirk returning, but this time it was sharper, fiercer. “We hit them where it hurts,” she said simply.

Sam frowned. “And where exactly is that?”

Yelena leaned in slightly, her voice lowering as she spoke. “The lab I told you about earlier. That’s where they’re doing the genetic research. That’s where they’re extracting whatever it is they’re using from the women.”

You nodded, feeling a surge of adrenaline starting to build. “So if we hit the lab, we cut off their supply?”

Yelena’s smirk widened. “Exactly. We go in, we get the data, and we destroy whatever they’re working on. If we can figure out what they’re using, we can stop them from making more weapons.”

Silence filled the table as you all took on the severity. “We plan today, we hit tonight,” Bucky said lowly. <><><><><><> Bucky stood in the doorway, his broad frame leaning against the wooden frame as he watched you methodically unpack your bag. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow from a single bedside lamp casting long shadows over the walls. You moved with practiced ease, laying out your weapons on the bed one by one—a few knives, a set of knuckle dusters, small items that could easily disappear into the folds of your clothing. Each item was familiar in your hands, your fingers tracing the edges of the blades with a calm precision that spoke of experience.

But Bucky knew better than anyone that the calm on the surface wasn’t the whole story.

He watched as you unsheathed a blade, testing its sharpness with a careful thumb, before sliding it back into its holster with a quiet, almost reverent movement. There was something about the way you moved—so controlled, so deliberate. It reminded him of himself in ways that made his chest tighten. He could see the tension in your shoulders, the slight stiffness in your posture that belied the storm that was no doubt raging inside you. On the outside, you looked like a well-oiled machine, a soldier preparing for the next mission. But underneath, Bucky knew your mind was racing, swirling with the weight of what lay ahead.

And it was his fault.

A pang of guilt twisted in his chest, sharp and unforgiving. He’d dragged you into this. Into something dangerous, something personal. He hadn’t wanted to—he’d tried to keep you out of it, tried to shoulder the burden alone—but you’d come anyway. You always did. And now, as you prepared yourself for the battle ahead, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had failed you. Failed to protect you from the darkness that seemed to follow him everywhere.

There was a part of him that hated seeing you like this—so focused, so hardened. It wasn’t that you couldn’t handle yourself. He knew you could. Hell, you were one of the few people he trusted to have his back. But seeing you like this, preparing for something that could very well get you hurt, or worse, because of a mission he’d pulled you into—it made something tighten painfully in his chest. You shouldn’t have to be here, shouldn’t have to fight this fight. Not for him. Not for anyone.

And yet, you were here. Just like you always were.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight as he watched you slide a knife into the sheath on your ankle. You were here because you cared. Because you didn’t want to see him go through this alone. And that, more than anything, made his guilt twist into something deeper, something more complicated. He didn’t deserve your loyalty. He didn’t deserve the way you looked out for him, the way you always seemed to know when he needed someone by his side, even if he’d never ask for it.

Bucky's gaze softened as his eyes traced the familiar lines of your face, watching the way your brow furrowed slightly as you tested the weight of the knuckle dusters in your hand. You were beautiful in a way that both calmed and terrified him. Beautiful in the way you carried yourself, in the quiet strength you exuded, in the way you faced danger head-on without flinching. But there was something else, too—something that made his heart ache every time he looked at you like this.

It was the vulnerability you hid so well, the weight of the world you carried on your shoulders even when you tried to hide it. It was the way your hands, so steady now, had once trembled when you’d told him about your own past, your own demons. Demons that, in some ways, mirrored his own. Maybe that was why he felt so protective of you, why the thought of you getting hurt in any way made his chest constrict with guilt and fear. You understood him in a way most people didn’t. You saw him—not just as the Winter Soldier or the broken man trying to make amends, but as all the pieces in between. And that scared him.

Bucky sucked in a quiet breath, pushing off the doorframe and stepping into the room. He didn’t say anything at first, just moved closer, his presence steady and grounding as he stood next to you. The air in the room felt heavy, charged with an unspoken tension. He watched as you packed the last of the weapons into your bag, your movements deliberate, almost mechanical. He could tell you were trying to stay focused, to keep your hands busy, but he also knew that wasn’t really what was going on.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice low and careful, as if testing the waters.

You glanced up at him, a familiar smirk tugging at the corners of your lips, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Of course,” you said, your tone light, almost casual. “Another day, another fight.”

Bucky wasn’t convinced. He could see through the bravado, through the tough exterior you always put on before missions. He’d seen it enough times to recognize it for what it was—your armor. He watched you for a moment longer, then quietly moved to the chair near the bed, settling into it with a quiet sigh. His gaze never left you, though, as you continued packing. He knew you were trying to stay busy, trying to keep your mind from wandering too far into dangerous territory. But he also knew you well enough to see the cracks in your calm exterior.

You’d been shaken since learning the details of the mission. He could see it in the way your hands moved—just a little more tense than usual, a little more deliberate. You’d done this dozens of times before, faced down impossible odds without flinching. But this time was different. The risks were more personal now, too close to home. This wasn’t just about the missing women anymore.

This was about how easily it could have been you.

Bucky leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze softening as he watched you. “But it isn’t though, is it?” he said quietly, his voice cutting through the silence like a gentle but firm nudge.

You froze for a moment, your hand hesitating over the strap of your bag. The words hung between you like a thin thread, fragile and dangerous to tug on. You straightened, turning to face him, your expression guarded. “Look,” you began, your voice sharp but not angry, more defensive than anything. “What do you want me to say? That I’m what, scared?”

The question lingered in the air, and for a moment, you let your guard down, just a fraction. The flicker of vulnerability in your eyes was brief, but Bucky caught it. He always did. You were scared.

You shrugged, pushing past the moment and forcing that smirk back onto your face. “I’m okay, Bucky. Really.”

He looked at you for a long moment, his blue eyes searching yours. He could see the lie behind your words, the way you were trying so hard to convince yourself as much as him. He’d seen this before. Hell, he’d lived it. The way you told yourself you were fine, over and over, until you started to believe it—at least on the surface. But underneath, the fear was always there, gnawing at the edges, waiting for the right moment to break through.

“I know you are,” Bucky said softly, his voice carrying a note of quiet understanding. He would play along, just like he always did. It was a game the two of you had perfected over the years—a silent agreement where you pretended you were fine, and he pretended to believe you. It was easier that way. Less messy. Neither of you had to confront the deeper feelings swirling beneath the surface. It was a dance you’d done countless times before, and like always, Bucky would be the one to keep a close eye on you, watching for the cracks in your armor, waiting for the moment when you needed someone to catch you.

You finished zipping up your bag, then turned to him, sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked under you while the other rested on the floor. You gave him a small, playful smile, trying to shift the mood. “So, on a lighter note,” you began, “during my brief stint of retirement—”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, smirking. “What time?”

You rolled your eyes, exasperated but amused. “Well, considering that I’m still retired and this is just a favor—” you reminded him, your tone dripping with faux seriousness.

Bucky pulled a face of exaggerated disbelief. “Uh-huh, sure.”

You crossed your arms, giving him a pointed look. “Anyway, as I was saying, I went on a road trip to Washington. I hadn’t been there since, you know… SHIELD, helicarriers, you trying to kill me.” You waved a lazy hand like it was no big deal, but your grin betrayed the humor behind the jab.

Bucky shook his head, letting out a soft, almost regretful sigh. “I was brainwashed.”

“I had my abilities for like, two minutes,” you countered, your voice drifting off as the memory came back to you. You remembered your first encounter with him—when he was The Winter Soldier. How Steve and Natasha had dragged you into their mission, how you’d gone hand to hand with Bucky, both of you relentless, neither letting up. You could still picture the cold efficiency in his eyes as he fought, the crack of each punch, the sheer force behind every block. The fight had been brutal, violent, and terrifying. “I had no idea what I was doing.”

Bucky gave you a look, his lips quirking up slightly. “I apologized,” he pointed out, his tone just a little defensive.

You laughed, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah. Can I finish my story? You’re gonna love it, I promise.”

Bucky settled back into his chair, gesturing for you to continue with a mock-serious expression. “By all means,” he said with a smirk.

“So, like I said, I went to Washington, and I thought, ��Man, I wonder if they’ve updated the Smithsonian since Steve ya know, ‘retired’—’”

“I thought you didn’t like history,” Bucky interrupted again, his eyebrow raised in challenge.

You shot him a dry look, one eyebrow arched. “You’re just gonna keep right on interrupting me, huh?”

Bucky lifted his hands in surrender, fighting back a grin. “Sorry, sorry.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but there was a playful glint in your gaze. “As I was saying,” you emphasized, “I went and took myself to the Smithsonian—”

At that exact moment, Sam strolled through the doorway, arms crossed casually over his chest as he leaned against the frame. His expression was all easy charm, but there was a spark of curiosity in his eyes. “What are we talking about?” he asked, his tone light, though you knew he was always looking for a chance to stir the pot.

You threw your head back in mock frustration, letting out an exaggerated groan. “How they’re about to make a Netflix series about me going postal because no one will stop interrupting me.”

Sam chuckled, clearly amused by your antics as he sauntered over to lean against the dresser, arms still folded, a smirk playing on his lips. He was enjoying this far too much. “Hey, sorry, sorry. Please, by all means, continue,” he said, the faux innocence in his tone making it obvious he wasn’t sorry at all.

You shot him a playful glare before glancing at Bucky, who was watching you with a faint smirk of his own. You took a dramatic breath, as if preparing for the biggest reveal of your life. “They’ve expanded the Howling Commandos exhibit.” You shrugged, “Looks kinda cool.”

At that, both men perked up slightly. Bucky’s brow furrowed with curiosity, the teasing air around him shifting just a little. “Oh yeah?” he asked, his voice a bit more genuine now. The mention of the Commandos always did that—brought something quieter, more thoughtful out of him.

You grinned, feeling the moment hang deliciously in the air as you let the suspense build. “Apparently, a woman named Connie donated some letters you wrote to her.” You sucked in some air through your teeth dramatically, your grin widening as you watched Bucky’s eyes narrow, clearly trying to place the name.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up, an incredulous smile breaking across his face. “Whoa, hold up—Bucky was out here writing love letters? Ol’ Winter Soldier, the romantic?”

Bucky’s face immediately hardened into a defensive scowl, but the tips of his ears were turning pink, betraying him. “I didn’t—” he started, but you cut him off, enjoying every second of this.

“Oh, no, no. These weren’t just letters,” you said, your voice dripping with mock seriousness. “They were passionate letters. Full of longing. Full of ‘I fought in a war, but the real battle is in my heart’ kind of stuff.”

Bucky groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re exhausting.” He commented shaking his head at you.

Bucky leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching you closely as you bantered with Sam. He could see the way you were trying to brush off the weight of everything—using humor to mask the tension that had been building since the mission brief. It was something he understood all too well. Deflecting, joking, pretending things weren’t as heavy as they were. He did it all the time. But he also knew that underneath the teasing, you were carrying more than you let on.

Sam, oblivious or just enjoying the lighthearted moment, burst out laughing, his voice filling the room as he leaned forward on the dresser. “Man, I have to see these letters. Bucky Barnes, the romantic. Who knew?”

You grinned, shooting Sam a playful look. “Oh, trust me, we’ll go spend the day when we get back,” you said with a sly wink, relishing the little jab at Bucky. “You’re gonna love it. Reading those letters and trying to compare it to the Bucky I know now? Impossible. I mean, they’re so... heartfelt.”

Bucky gave you a half-hearted glare, though his lips twitched with the hint of a smile. He was trying to play it off, but you could tell he wasn’t as mad as he pretended to be. “You two done?” he asked, his voice gruff but without any real bite behind it.

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” Sam grinned, leaning back again, arms still crossed over his chest like he was settling in for a long show. “Tell us more, though. What else was in this exhibit?”

Bucky groaned, rolling his eyes but not saying anything. He was used to this by now—the endless teasing, the jabs at his past. But you could see the way he was watching you, his eyes sharp and focused, like he was waiting for you to drop the facade. He knew you too well. Knew all of this was just a way to keep the conversation light, to keep from thinking too much about what you were all walking into.

You decided to pivot, your tone suddenly serious as you fixed your gaze on Bucky. “Okay, I’ll give you credit for this—”

Sam’s eyes widened in mock surprise, immediately cutting in. “Oh, hold up. Are you about to give him a compliment? Somebody mark the date and time!”

You nodded, keeping your face serious as you glanced back at Bucky, your tone shifting ever so slightly. “Have you seen his long-distance shooting record?”

Sam blinked, a mixture of surprise and curiosity crossing his face. “Wait, what?”

You nodded again, turning fully to face Bucky now. “Not bad,” you said, your voice carrying a note of genuine respect. “There’s a whole section on it at the exhibit. They’ve got targets he hit from crazy distances. It’s impressive.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed slightly, clearly caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. He wasn’t used to getting compliments, especially not from you. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sam beat him to it.

“Wait, wait, wait. Back up,” Sam said, holding up a hand, his tone incredulous. “Are you telling me Bucky’s a sniper legend? I mean, I know he’s good, but legendary?”

You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips as you looked at Bucky. “Well, when you’re fighting Nazis, I guess you pick up a few skills.”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, clearly not used to this kind of praise. “It’s not a big deal,” he muttered, his voice low. “Oh, it’s definitely a big deal,” Sam said, leaning forward with a grin that stretched ear to ear, clearly enjoying this moment far too much. “I mean, I knew you were good, but this? We’re talking about museum-worthy accuracy here, man.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but there was a quiet chuckle under his breath, something soft and amused in the sound. “You guys are killing me with this. Really, top-notch stuff. Hilarious.”

Sam crossed his arms, his grin widening with satisfaction. “Oh, we know,” he said, his tone dripping with mock arrogance. “But back to the main event—love letters, Barnes? Seriously?”

You couldn’t help but join in, your grin playful as you chimed in. “Hey, it was wartime,” you said, glancing over at Sam with a shrug. “My grandparents always said that despite the war, it was a whole different time. People fell in love hard and fast because they might not have tomorrow.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, smirking mischievously. “So what about you?” he asked, leaning in as if he were about to uncover some scandalous secret. “You ever sweep anyone off their feet with some heartfelt letter? Maybe a little romance on the battlefield?”

You laughed, shaking your head before he could even finish the thought, already anticipating where this was headed. “Me? Please,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes dramatically. “Could you imagine me sweeping some poor asshole off their feet? I’d probably trip them over. I’m much more of a ‘stumble into someone and hope they don’t notice I’m a mess’ kind of person.”

In the background, Bucky’s laugh broke through, warm and unguarded, the kind of laugh that came so rarely from him. “Nah, you’ve got a certain charm about you,” he teased, leaning back against the dresser with a smirk that was equal parts amused and fond. “A kind of, uh—what’s the word—chaotic energy.”

You shot him a mock glare, arms crossing over your chest in faux indignation. “Oh, thanks, Barnes. That’s exactly what every girl wants to hear—that she’s a natural disaster.”

Sam, never missing an opportunity, jumped in, clearly having the time of his life. “Hey, he’s not wrong! You’ve got that whole unpredictable, keep-‘em-on-their-toes vibe. Some people are into that, you know?”

You scoffed, grabbing a nearby pillow and chucking it at Sam, who caught it with ease. “You’re full of it, Wilson.”

Sam was still laughing, his grin never faltering. “No, no, I’m serious! It’s like... you’re the kind of person who’d accidentally knock over a bookshelf, but then somehow make it look like you did it on purpose. There’s a strategy to your chaos.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head as you waved him off. “Great. So I’m a charming disaster. That’s really working wonders for my confidence.”

Sam raised his hands in mock defense, his grin wide and playful. “Hey, I’m just calling it like I see it. You’ve got personality, that’s all I’m saying.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. The banter with Sam was easy—light-hearted and fun, the kind of back-and-forth that made everything feel just a little bit lighter, even with the weight of the mission hanging over all of you. It was normal for you and Sam to mess around like this, and you were comfortable in the rhythm of it, not thinking too much about it.

But what you didn't notice was the way Bucky had gone quiet.

Sam, however, wasn’t as oblivious. He picked up on it almost immediately—the subtle shift in Bucky’s demeanor. The way his easy smile faded just a little, the way his eyes lowered as he leaned back against the chair, retreating into himself. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t something that most people would catch. But Sam knew Bucky better than most. He could read him like a book, and right now, that book was telling him something was up.

Bucky’s jaw tightened ever so slightly as his eyes flicked to you, lingering longer than they should. It wasn’t just a passing glance—it was the kind of look that held more than just casual interest. There was something deeper there, something quieter. Something Bucky wasn’t saying.

And it wasn’t the first time Sam had noticed.

Since coming back from being dusted—since being thrust back into a world that had moved five years without him—Bucky had changed in ways that weren’t immediately obvious. To everyone else, he was still the same old Bucky Barnes: stoic, brooding, and reserved. But Sam had spent enough time around him to see the cracks forming beneath the surface, the subtle ways Bucky’s once hardened exterior had softened.

It was in the small moments when Sam caught Bucky watching you, his expression unguarded, like he forgot for just a second that someone might see. Back when they were first regrouping after the Blip, Sam had noticed the way Bucky’s entire posture would shift when you entered the room. At first, he thought it was just Bucky being cautious—observing, like he always did. But the more Sam watched, the more he realized it wasn’t wariness in Bucky’s eyes when he looked at you. It was something else entirely.

There was that one time, when you were all holed up in some dingy safehouse between missions. You had been pacing, frustrated about something that had gone wrong, your voice sharp with irritation as you vented to Sam. Bucky had been sitting on the other side of the room, seemingly uninterested, quietly cleaning his weapon. But Sam had noticed the way Bucky’s eyes followed you, his movements slowing as he listened to every word you said. And when you’d finally thrown yourself onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, Bucky had glanced over at you, his expression softening in a way that was almost imperceptible. Almost.

Sam had even noticed the way Bucky’s mood would shift depending on how you were feeling. If you were having a rough day, Bucky would be quieter than usual, his eyes tracking your movements like he was waiting for the right moment to step in. If you were in a good mood, cracking jokes and teasing him, Bucky’s responses would be a little sharper, his banter quicker, like he was trying to keep up. But it was when you weren’t around that Sam noticed the biggest difference. Bucky was always more withdrawn when you weren’t there—more closed off, like he was missing something essential.

It wasn’t just about attraction, either. Sam had seen that before, the way people looked at each other when they were interested. This was different. This ran deeper. It was in the way Bucky seemed to need you, the way his edges softened when you spoke to him, even in passing. The way his gaze would flick to you when he thought no one was looking, his expression quiet, contemplative, like he was memorizing every detail.

Sam hadn’t said anything, of course. Bucky wasn’t exactly the type to talk about his feelings, and Sam wasn’t about to push him. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t noticed. It was hard not to notice when Bucky’s entire demeanor shifted around you.

It was the kind of quiet, unspoken affection that ran deep—deeper than Bucky probably even realized. The kind of feelings that had been building slowly, over time, in the small moments between missions, in the comfortable silences and the shared glances. And Sam, ever the observer, had been there to witness it all.

So when Bucky’s gaze lingered just a little too long during moments like this, Sam wasn’t surprised. He’d seen it before. He’d seen it in the way Bucky’s eyes softened when he looked at you, the way his body seemed to relax ever so slightly when you were near. It was a look Sam had seen on Bucky’s face more times than he could count now—a look filled with quiet admiration, with something unspoken and profound.

And maybe Bucky wasn’t ready to admit it to himself yet. But Sam knew. Sam had always known.

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