#sniper angst

[rorichuu]

hii can I get a support class where the reader is mad and they accidentally hit them and then they cry cause they regret it :((((

SHARPER THAN WORDS.

pairing: support class x gn!reader

authors note: ooh, yes okay, I love this—I love a little angst... thank you for sending this in, friend! :) + READ DISCLAIMER!!!

disclaimer: death is mentioned in Sniper's and deeply exaggerated for the drama (aka life is more precious)... Medic's is the only romantic one, I feel like it fits better with the dynamic I was going for :((( I hope this clears up the confusion!! enjoy!!

MEDIC:

Medic's absence was hard to ignore, stuck in his operation room, experimenting on god knows what... spending night after night without him until the ungodly hour he finally rested. You sat in the rec room, bouncing your foot as your thoughts raced. Impatient, you let out a frustrated groan, launching yourself from your chair and walking towards his office. Your hand slowly opened his door, the creaking not evident enough to Medic. You frowned and leaned against the doorframe. "Hey, hon?" He let out a small hum, back slouched at his desk as he wrote continuously on sheets of paper. Assumably, his experimentations. "Gonna come to bed soon?" You asked, walking over to him with your hand on his shoulder. Medic dismissed you as he walked over to his operating table, continuing his work on the cadaver. You clenched your jaw and crossed your arms, visually upset now.

"Medic." Your voice was low and poisonous, he felt your tone run through him alarmingly. Medic turned his head, eyes observing your figure.

"Ja, Liebling?" (Yes, darling?) His eyebrows furrowed now, his hands now extracted from the body. "What is wrong, z'vy are you out of bed?" Not understanding why you were so upset, he waited till you gave him a response. You let in a sharp inhale.

"I haven't seen or talked to you in days. God forbid, weeks!" Your voice raised and hands flew out, clearly upset. Medic shook his head, continuing.

"Schatz, (Sweetheart/treasure.) you're being a bit dramatic," he said, upset his work was being interrupted. "Please, go to sleep. Es ist spät." (It is late.) He mumbled. Your head tilted to the side, offended of his tone.

"Pardon?" You squint your eyes, slowly advancing to where he was standing. Your hand was planted on the steel, medical bed, the other balanced on your hip. Medic sighed deeply.

"I can't talk right now, you know this," he glanced at you momentarily. "Work is work, it’s a responsibility." This was your final straw. Your lips formed a thin line, head pounding with a newfound anger... you were absolutely pissed.

Forcefully, you pushed your shoulder against his, his medical tools clashing against the metal as you stomped off. Though you couldn't see it, Medic stumbled on his feet and looked back at you as you walked away.

"Don't bother."

. . .

The night rolled by at an excruciating pace as you sat on the edge of your shared bed. The light of the lamp dim as it shadowed your face. Sleep avoided you like a sickness as you held your hands on your eyes. Tears rolled down your face, guilt washing over you as you left that argument on repeat in your mind. Though it twisted and snarled into something far worse than it was, far worse than you intended, you drowned yourself in that guilt like a drunkard.

You flinched, a small gasp leaving your throat when you heard the door click open. That familiar figure lingered at your door for a moment before catching your tear-soaked face. "Oh, Mein Liebe..." (My love...) He whispered, shedding his coat and throwing it on the bed carelessly as he fell to your side. His hand comforted you as it placed heavily on your shoulder, he held you tightly before embracing you in a hug. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Liebling... (Darling) Oh, forgive me." He whispered on, your shared guilt now found in your embrace. You looked up at the man, and he pouted at your diamond tears. Medic brought his hand up and wiped your tears away. "Y/n?"

"I'm so sorry for pushing you. I didn't mean it, it was mean of me. I swear, I didn't mean to hurt you." Though you were crying in his hands, the man let out a laugh. You sat confused, gulping as you hid your face in his palm out of embarrassment.

"Oh, my love. It shouldn't be you who should be apologizing. I wasn't there for you when I needed to be. Ich war schuld..." (I was at fault.) Medic apologized, lifting your face to his. "Please don't cry," his humored smile comforted you, reminding you to know the situation wasn't as drastic as you had put it out to be. "I will be here for as long as you want me to." He kissed your forehead and wiped your cheeks once more.

"Let us sleep, meine liebe."

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.

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SNIPER:

It was the end of the job, rain now poured heavily outside the windows as you tapped your foot angrily. You were leaning against the wall in the community room, the others noticing this as they slowly started to slip away from you. Everyone knew why you were upset, it happened on the battlefield... even the enemy team knew not to mess with you and Sniper's heated argument.

The door clicked open as the tall New Zealander walked in, his eyes quickly escaped from yours as he set his sniper down. You stared daggers into his back as he grabbed a mug of coffee from the pot. Sniper sighed and set the cup down with a clack. "Don't give me the silent treatment, Y/n." He spoke, the silence broken now. You took a deep breath before speaking.

"I don't need your help on the field, you know that," You spoke. Sniper huffed, shaking his head. "I can handle myself fine, and you know it." You pointed a finger at him as you walked towards the man. Your eyes are slight and glaring now. The man observed your argument before turning to face you.

"I know you can."

"Then leave me be, Mundy!" You exclaimed, the man lowering his head as he hid under his hat now. "My actions are my own. Those are my kills... and I can't afford to have you be responsible for my mistakes." You punched his shoulder as you spoke, stomping out and grabbing your coat before exiting on swift feet. As soon as the door shut, Sniper had let go of that breath he had been holding… for what seemed the entire time. Sniper stared at his gun, reflecting.

. . . flashback to the battle . . .

You held your weapon in your hand, eyes glaring at its violence as the outside began to curdle into muted noise. Anger was fueling your senses with little to no control. Your eyes lifted and finally caught Sniper's own, and you glared. And you knew why he was taking almost every kill of yours. You had stumbled once in battle, the enemy Demoman holding his signature blade to your chest as he stood over your injured figure. Holding it up high before plunging it into your chest. Suddenly, Sniper had taken out the Demoman, leaving you to respawn.

— What had angered you was that Sniper felt some sort of responsibility for you. To never let you go through that again. And having known and been close to each other for years; willing to lay each other's life for one another... he cared for you deeply.

To let you fall back into that pain, that horrid sight of you dying in front of him when he could have done something. It hurt him. Far more than he would have thought.

So he did what he could.

. . . present . . .

As soon as you left the room, your breath caught up to you. Your chest began to rise and fall quickly, that familiar burn in your throat making it hard to breathe. A sudden cry left your throat as you felt warm tears fall from your cheeks, begging for any kind of escape from your immediate regret. You swung yourself backward and opened the door back up. Sniper turned his head to find you wrapping your arms around his figure. His arms immediately found yours and took you in. "Oh, roo," He cooed, rubbing your back as he rested his head on yours.

Moments passed, and your crying died down enough for you to talk. Swallowing hard, you let out a big sigh, looking up at him sorrowfully. "I'm so sorry, Sniper. I didn't mean to—when I had hit you, I seriously wasn't thinking. I was so upset..." You found your voice hiking, your chest hiccuping again before the man leaned down and cupped your face.

"Y/n, I understand," He said to you. Leaving you biting your lip anxiously. "We do things we don't mean ta' when we're upset, and I would never, ever hold that against you." He sent you a small smile, quick, but unmistakable. You hugged him once more. "I just wanted to protect ya." You looked up at him again.

"I know. But you won't lose me, please know this."

"I trust ya, I always have ... but the fight is over now, yeah? We understand and don't need ta' dwell onnit now." The man said before ruffling your hair.

.

.

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SPY:

"God, why do you think you're so great? Do you really think you're better than everyone else!" You and Spy have been arguing back and forth till the clock ticked to the newest hour. Voices rise, fingers pointing, and all by you. Spy listened and gave you simple responses; you felt each dagger of his short 'answers' kill at your heart slowly.

He stood with his head high. And even though he was hurt by your anger and sorrow, he showed nothing but a furrowed brow. Believing he was annoyed by you, you sniffled and exclaimed: "Why won't you speak to me? Am I really that low to you?!" You choked out a sob with your response. You had lost sight of the argument. Your words were vulgar, mouth moving without second thought. Cheeks hot with anger and eyes threatening to spill tears. Spy broke little by little seeing you like this.

Écoutez-moi..." (Listen to me...) He spoke low, hand reaching out before you slapped it away.

"No!" You exclaimed, Spy clenched his jaw, leaning back to give you space from the sudden throw. "I... I'm tired of feeling like I'm under you!" You hit him. You flinch, regret washing over you, your hands shaking now. Spy went to hold you; to calm you from your sudden anxiety. You tried to pull from him, but his hold was firm. Slowly, you dropped your hands, falling into his hold as you mumbled slurred apologies. The Frenchman shook his head.

"Breathe, Y/n." He hushed, voice soft as you softly cried on his shoulder. Taking your time to calm down, Spy noticed your breathing begin to slow. Proud of you, he held your shoulders and guided you to sit down... swiftly getting you a glass of water for you to drink. You took it graciously, gradually drinking it as you felt yourself calm down. The man sighed, sitting beside you in silence. You sniffled.

"I'm sorry." You whispered, feeling your eyes begin to water again. The man shook his head.

"No need to be," he responded simply. "I never knew you felt this way, and I'm glad you communicated with me." You put your glass down, laying your head in your hands. You draw out a groan.

"No… when I hit you, I shouldn't have hit you, and I did," Spy rested a hand on your back, slowly rubbing to soothe you. "I'm so sorry."

"I'm not hurt. I'm okay, mon ami," (my friend) he took a deep breath. "I have never once felt you were below me, Y/n. Nor anyone."

"Not even Sniper...?"

"Ehh, well..." You laughed at his response, wrist wiping the last tear away from your cheek. Spy lets a small smile rest on his face as he leaned back, thankful your spirits were back up. "But I mean it, don't doubt I think otherwise." He stood and brushed off his suit, as he always did before standing. "Take as much time as you need."

"Thank you, Spy." The man nodded before hearing the door click open, both of you looked over at the entrance.

"Hey, Spy! I know Y/n was havin' a rough time and was wondering if you knew where they..." Scout stood awkwardly, his stature still; unmoving. "Oh."

"Scout, leave."

"Right, just a moment, big guy," Spy rolled his eyes as Scout held a boat with a taco in it. Flavored with your favorite toppings. "Y/n, you can have the last taco." The boy sends a wink and finger guns before escaping Spy's wrath.

(Spy was appreciative… :)

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rorichuu!

. . .

TAGLIST: @simp999

[jen-with-a-pen]

𝗙𝗜𝗟𝗧𝗛𝗬, 𝗜𝗠𝗣𝗘𝗧𝗨𝗢𝗨𝗦 𝗦𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗦

summary: After what you assumed would be a successful mission, things veer off-course and you're stuck with Bucky Barnes in Istanbul with no way out until morning. The tension between you comes to head and nothing will be the same again.

parings: Protective!Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Sniper!Agent!Curvy!F!Reader

word count: 6.5K

warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, canon-level violence with just a bit more blood, guns, reader is a sniper/sharp-shooter, hate-making out, degradation, fighting, insults and cursing, teasing/banter, reader and bucky don't know how to talk about their feelings (or to eachother), spanking, doggy, angry-horny, rough-ish sex, pent up anger, pent up sexual tension, power dynamics, protective!Bucky, vague hinting to Bucky's PTSD, no use of y/n, reader is tagged as curvy and is described as such but body description is kept to a minimum

a/n: this work is for @targaryenvampireslayer's Blind Date Writing Challenge! My prompts were "enemies to lovers" and "Again! Please, again!" I am incredibly thankful to Suz for letting me participate. I haven't been able to participate in a challenge since forever ago 😅 ALSO! This is my first time writing enemies to lovers, as well as curvy!reader! even though i'm curvy myself, i hope i did okay ♥ This work is not beta-read. all mistakes are my own. If any mistake is glaringly obvious, please feel free to message me and let me know! p.s. I listened to a lot of PVRIS + Nothing But Thieves writing this, can ya tell? p.p.s. the amount of willpower and struggle with my muse it took to finish this is... a lot. i think she scratched my cornea at some point.

If I’ve missed any tags, PLEASE let me know!

gif by @unearthlydust | dividers by @cafekitsune | warning banner by me ♥

my ao3 | my masterlist title from: You Know Me Too Well by Nothing But Thieves Read this fic HERE on ao3! ♥Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always♥

𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙪𝙚

Bucky Barnes has always hated you, and you have always hated Bucky Barnes. At least since you first met, that is. 

Being the newest recruit– and only sharp-shooter–  to grace the S.H.I.E.L.D. Direct Action Team’s roster since signing on the Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, the hostility was almost immediate from the second you walked in your first day. 

You couldn’t help cringing– which would be quickly followed by raging annoyance and a slight migraine– without remembering your first time training with Bucky. He made it crystal clear he didn’t trust your previous experience or trainers, let alone your sniper training. Within the first week he ground your spirit into dust with his leather combat boots, quashing any attempts to defend yourself. And it’s not like you weren’t familiar with his history, either; he’d broken every single last sharp-shooter that came to the team before you, a hardass ex-assassin with an introverted mean streak who happened one of the top snipers in the United States Army during World War II. Old dogs certainly can learn new tricks, though, and it was extremely apparent when it came to Bucky Barnes.

When you finally had enough midway through the third week, you snapped at him after he corrected you for the umpteenth time on your foot positioning, pointedly informing him you weren’t built like you could take on a goddamned semi-truck with one hand.

Once you finished, he silently handed you a pistol and challenged you to a shoot off. One-handed. You considered it a tie. Tony considered the training range off-limits until he got government permission via S.H.I.E.L.D. to replace every single shooting target and torso dummy in the compound– including the extras.

After that, the two of you weren’t allowed in the gym, on the same mode of transportation, in the infirmary, or the training range without someone else to supervise with a tranquilizer gun at the ready and within arm’s reach of said supervisor. More often than not, though, the ‘someone else’ was either Steve or Natasha– depending who won the coin toss before training that day– and the tranquilizer gun wasn’t really more of a tranquilizer gun than it was a slight sedative to calm each of you down enough for either Steve, or Nat, to drag you out without kicking and screaming at each other. Granted, it only happened one time– a workout competition-turned-sparring match that lasted the better part of four hours– but everyone else agreed to keep it around. Just in case.

You learned, however, exactly how much ketamine it took to down a raging super soldier with a vibranium arm. You couldn’t help but make horse whinnies under your breath every time you passed Bucky in the compound for at least a week. 

With a year of domestic missions underneath your belt, S.H.I.E.L.D. constituted you ready to travel with the DA Team on international missions and operations. You were elated, excited to prove your worth and wit to everyone; especially Bucky, because maybe then he’d be at least keen enough to start showing you a drop of respect.  

Then there was the fallout of when you both learned you’d be sent on the next mission. Together. Albeit with Natasha and Clint– but together. 

Fury said he didn’t have a choice. Tony claimed it was out of his hands. Natasha, while protecting a cowering Steve from the flames and daggers shooting out of yours and Bucky’s glares, flat out told you, “either you both learn to work together, or neither of you are working DA missions again,” adding, with gritted teeth and a pinched bridge, “The whole team thinks you’re a fucking pair of walking time bombs. I don’t wanna use the damn ketamine gun again.”

The next thing you knew, you were on a plane to Turkey with your rifle, wits, and the waiting promise of separate hotel rooms upon arrival. 

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A reddened sun dipped over the Istanbul skyline, swathing the city in shadows. Dusk was imminent as you ascended the rusted fire escape and stepped onto the roof of the abandoned building; the dilapidated outside was perfect enough to designate it as the main stake out location. You sighed in awe at the view, catching the remnants of the sunset while pausing for a brief break before switching into ‘work mode.’ 

“Stop fuckin’ around, get into position,” Bucky said through your ear piece. Shit. You forgot he could see your video feed via the harness crossing over your chest and the cameras Natasha set up on the roof and the building next door. 

“Sorry, Sarge, thought I’d enjoy the view before I dome some fuckin’ war criminal from a thousand yards away,” you huffed. The line went silent, save from what sounded like very faint cursing amidst the static. You rolled your eyes, swinging the gun bag off your back, unpacking and assembling and loading, preparing for working on yet another thrilling Saturday night.

You silently prayed the hotel had a decent bar with decent hours.

Dropping into a prone position, you were thankful for the custom-fit tac suit that hugged your body as your hips and thighs scraped against debris littering the roof as you positioned the scope of your rifle, placing your hand delicately on the trigger. 

“In position,” you muttered, adjusting into a more comfortable, ready-to-bail position in case things went south. When you shot prone, it felt as if the mission at hand weighed just a bit heavier than others. More unbearable. The tactical suit and additional weapons attached to your aching body rivaled that of cinder blocks chained to your legs, weighing you down to the ocean floor in an attempted drowning while you tried to stay above water.

It's never gotten easier, but it's never been harder. 

The past two days had been filled with inconsistent sleep, hiding out, and keeping watch, all while under the watchful eye of Bucky. Bucky, who was watching you from inside the stakeout building, who threw a super soldier temper tantrum about having to figure out the ‘nonsensical logistics’ of how to stream a fucking live video feed, who barely bothered to say a word to you while meeting Natasha at the location that morning– aside from graciously allowing you to borrow his weapons cleaning kit. 

“You didn’t bring your own?” He cocked a judgmental brow at you, looking you up and down like a creature that crawled out of the Black Lagoon. Steely sea-blue eyes met yours, sharp and bright. Challenging. The collar of your tactical suit had instantly tightened.

“Figured we both use the same stuff, might as well bring the one to save space,” you shrugged, cocking a hip. 

Bucky’s eyes flitted to your pronounced curve before you straightened, swallowing. 

“Fine. Go nuts,” he sighed reluctantly, gesturing for you to sit in the guarded seat across from him. You sensed his piercing gaze follow you, feeling the same heat creep up your neck and cheeks just like all the other times he watched you. You chocked it up to an intimidation tactic, because it sure as hell worked.

You shook Bucky out of your brain. You needed to stay focused.  

“Copy. Target is en route to position, t-minus two minutes. Make it clean and make it quick.” Natasha's voice was cool, calming you and the usual racing thoughts in your head during these types of missions. You preferred her over anyone else to be your spotter since your first time out in the field, but this time she was assigned to be the plant, luring the target away from the rather innocent party-goers so they wouldn’t be splattered with brain matter and skull fragments courtesy of you.

Though, you had to admit, in the right scenarios, that was one of the more satisfying things that came with being a sniper.

“Don’t fuckin’ rush it,” Bucky chimed in.

You rolled your eyes, ignoring him. “Copy, Nat, just keep dangling the carrot.”

“You know I’ll do more than that. Out.” You could hear her wink. 

Two minutes might not seem like much, but missions like these can make it feel like a lifetime. Part of you hoped Bucky watched every second. The other half hoped you could smack the doubtful smirk off his stubble-ridden face– the same exact one he had whenever he watched you train. It was like he wanted you to fail. Like he was expecting it, anticipating it. 

You pinched your wrist. Now was not the fucking time. 

You brought the scope closer to your face, targeting the window Natasha would be bringing the target in front of. The crosshairs helped even out the scene while you lined up the shot right between the bedroom’s curtains. You readied yourself, focusing on breathing and controlling the rise and fall of your chest, steadying your bottom half. You blinked, then, and through the sights you spotted the golden shimmer of Natasha’s dress reflecting off the room’s low lighting. Finger on the trigger, delicately squeezing as the target’s head entered into the crosshairs, stepping unknowingly into the middle of your aim, mere seconds left to live, left until he rots in his deserved place in hell. 

Exhale. Inhale. Hold. Pull.

The target dropped in mere milliseconds as the shot reverberated throughout your body, the sound thankfully muffled by your ear pieces and the silencer. The recoil of the rifle dug into your shoulder, fighting against the rest of your body anchored by stiffened muscles. You exhaled, shaky, still, pushing the scope from your face and resting your head on the cool metal of the stock, allowing it to sear into your burning forehead.

“Confirmed kill. Target down. Meet you back at the hotel, over,” Natasha’s breathless voice crackled into your ear. 

“Copy. On my way down. Bucky do you–”

White hot pain suddenly seared through the back of your skull, slamming you face-first into your rifle. You clutched the back of your head, whipping around to be greeted by the dark void of a gun barrel. You froze, blood draining from your face, stomach free-falling as your gaze traveled up to meet crazed eyes and a twisted face. The man– your assaulter– was clad in black with hints of a tattoo running up his neck like blackened veins. No doubt the symbols hidden under his collar belonged to the syndicate run by his boss. The boss you just killed.

He snarled, yellowed teeth glistening in a maniacal grin. “You’re going to pay for that, little bitch,” he spat and nodded to your rifle as he shoved the barrel in your face. The metal practically branded you like marking a cattle for slaughter.

“Try me, prick,” you gritted through ringing pain and a locked jaw, snarling at the man as you rose, slowly, the barrel unmoving as the gun followed your position.

His grin widened. He began pushing you backwards towards the edge of the roof. Quickly, you kicked your foot out, catching his ankle and grabbing his wrist, pointing the gun at the darkened sky as you clawed at his fingers to release it from his grasp. A deafening shot rang out as you wrestled, sending an elbow straight into your jaw that shoved you away. He aimed for you again as you pulled a knife from your waistband, hurling it at any limb you could hit. It nailed him in his thigh, deep enough you knew it hit bone. He dropped the pistol in favor of his leg, allowing you enough of a break to kick the gun off the roof, sliding it off the opposite edge and down the fire escape.

You stood. You noticed the flicker, the fire, in the man’s eyes as it raged, burning brighter than the streetlights below. He yelled as he lunged, knocking you down again. Hard. Lungs deflated, pain seared through your spine, leaving you sputtering and gasping, grasping desperately for anything: his arms, his legs, your knife, your knife in his leg. Your head spun from the impact, rage and bile boiling in your stomach as arms and legs kicked and thrashed. The man grabbed you by your hair as if to scalp you, limping his way to the edge of the roof, dragging you along inch by inch. You deadened, going limp, hoping to make it that much harder for him to drag you with a knife in his fucking femur. Your stomach dropped as the wind picked up and the distance from the fire escape grew farther away. You knew what was in store: a five-story drop onto the hard street below. 

With impressive strength for a man who was actively bleeding out– and bleeding all over you– he swung you around by the fistful of hair in his hands, dangling your bottom half off the edge of the roof. You fought the panic beginning to set in, thrashing your feet around in an attempt to find some sort of foothold as your hands scrambled to grip the ledge. To add insult to injury, he slammed your head down, skull and jaw dropping with a dizzying thump. A gruff laugh erupted from his chest, and he spat at you. You glanced hesitantly over your shoulder. The world stretched and morphed the longer you looked; your eyes saw a fifty-foot drop while your brain saw a thousand foot death sentence. You willed your sore neck to turn back to the man, only to fight the scream that bubbled up your throat at the sight of a miniature pistol pointed execution-style at you. You ceased any movement, eyes widening, grip tightening on the inch-thick ledge of the roof that held you from becoming a human pancake.

“Looks like you’ll pay after all, bitch!” He grinned, cocking the pistol and preparing to fire. As he squeezed the trigger, as you squeezed your eyes shut, there’s a muffled shot, and then a warm, oozing feeling running down your face and neck. Hesitantly, you opened your eyes, greeted by the sight of the man’s jaw slackened as his eyes began to roll back in his skull. A singular bullet wound centered on his forehead leaked brain and blood and bits of bone. He’s shoved over, body falling like a rag doll and spilling onto the roof. He’s quickly replaced by a seething, panting Bucky with a pistol pointed where your would-be-killer stood. Your eyes widened as your chest constricted, fingertips grinding against the edge as your arms burned and begged to be pulled to solid ground. He lowers the gun, lips parted, eyes boring into your soul like he’s seen a ghost. 

“Sar–Bucky, I’m fuckin’ slipping here!” you yelled as your left hand began to give way to gravity. The entirely reasonable request seemed to piss him off even more as he cursed, dropping his gun and grabbing harshly onto your arms, yanking you back up. He dropped you onto the roof in a heap. While your muscles screamed and you hacked up your lungs trying to regain normal oxygen levels, the annoyance you harbored for Bucky returned just as quickly as the gratefulness you had for his rescue faded once he turned his back on you, heading to the fire escape. 

“Thanks, Bucky, but Jesus fucking–”

He whipped around, blue eyes flashing crimson– a warning sign to choose your next words extremely carefully. 

“Clean up n’ get the fuck down. I’m leaving with or without you in ten fucking minutes,” he seethed, fists clenching onto the fire escape bars. You winced at the groaning sound the metal emitted as he bent it out of place, imprinting his palm prints into the bars.

“Bucky, I– What do–” you stuttered. Thoughts were racing as you looked between him and your would-be murderer decaying in his own drying blood a few feet away. You looked back at him. His eyes, swimming with something unrecognizable, mixed with fear and anger plaguing his features– like he remembered something so vivid, so real, that he was reliving it again.

“Just,” he turns his back to you, voice shaking, “get down here.”

He disappeared, leaving you to clean up the mess.

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The back alleyway was lit with a single, softly glowing flood light that led out to the busy streets. Bucky, who was already waiting for you with a furiously tapping foot, surveilled you with a stuck-snarling lip as you jumped down from the fire escape. The gilded plates in his hand leading up under his sleeve glinted with the violet-tinted vibranium. 

There's a moment, a beat, shared between you as you stood to look at him. You stared at one another, gazes unwavering and refusing to break, to blink. The shadows surrounding you began to move as if they were dancing on Bucky's face, sharpening his jaw, his features. He stayed on you, eyes flitting ever-so-slightly over your form. 

Your face burned.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Take a fuckin’ picture why don’t ya?” 

You rolled your eyes. “Could say th’same for you.” 

He grumbled something– probably cursing you– under his breath. As he opened his mouth to hurl an insult your way, both your phones pinged.

♦ Natasha: Taking last flight out of IST. Jet coming early AM. Lay low. Don’t kill each other. Please. Talk soon.

You swallowed a groan. 

“Fuckin’ great,” Bucky muttered, loud enough for you to hear. 

“Uh, okay. Fuck you, too, then,” you shot at him defensively. Knee-jerk reaction. Pinching the bridge of your nose and kicking yourself, you dropped the subject. Not the fight you wanted to pick at that moment. “Let’s– let's just call a cab and get to the hotel.”

“No. I have a bike. And we’re going to a safehouse.”

“Bucky, it's dark enough, my bag is–”

Suddenly, he was much closer than a mere second before, backing you up against the wall of the stakeout building. He beat you in height by a decent amount, but him towering over you really put it in perspective. His broad shoulders heaved, vibranium arm whirring in overdrive as he jabbed a plated finger at you, his face inches from yours. 

“I. Don't. Fucking. Care,” he stabbed each word into your sternum. “Bike’s down at the other end of the block. We're taking it, or you can fuckin’ walk. Doesn't matter to me.” 

You wanted to take his finger and break it.  

You glared, focus shifting between his startlingly bright blue eyes and the strange closeness of his face to yours. It was like you were seeing him– like, actually seeing him– for the first time in high definition. All of his details– the small scars by his hairline, the slight crookedness of his nose, crow’s feet and worry lines beginning to etch themselves into his skin, the indent between his brows– overwhelmed you as your eyes darted all over his face. You snapped back to his glare and were suddenly very conscious of your own facial expression that failed to rival his. You set your jaw and furrowed your brow.

You doubted it was convincing.

“Fine.” 

He stepped back and started striding down the alleyway with you at his heels. Your grip on the straps of the gun bag burned your palms as you tried to keep up with Bucky’s annoyingly long strides. At the intersection between the main street and two shops sat a garage; it appeared closed for the night, but was still open to Bucky, apparently, who pulled a key out from under an unsuspecting plant. He unlocked the large metal door, lifting it to reveal a tiny space that was barely big enough to house the large motorcycle and a workbench scattered with parts and tools. He strolled in like he owned the place and grabbed one of the helmets hanging off the motorcycle’s handles, handing it to you with an outstretched arm as he saddled himself onto the bike. You looked from him to the helmet, mouth agape and brow arched in confusion. 

When you didn’t take it, he rolled his eyes and shook it at you.

“C’mon, we don’t have all night.”

“When the hell did you–”

“I’ve got my ways. Now c’mon, put the damn helmet on,” he huffed, leaning back on the seat. His thick thighs clenched and straddled the gunmetal-body of the motorcycle. You held back the shiver that ran up your back as you crossed your arms, hip cocking out in defiance. In the briefest of pauses, Bucky stilled, and you swore you caught his eyes scanning down your body, your curves and full figure, before snapping back up to meet yours. He scoffed, smirking to himself and shaking his head.

“The fuck are you laughin’ at?” Your face turned hot, prompting your arms to hug tighter over your chest. You felt off balance. 

He said nothing and tossed the helmet to you. Your arms uncrossed and reacted much faster than your brain did as you barely caught it, slipping it on. Pointedly sighing, you relented and climbed onto the bike as Bucky put his own helmet on, sliding the visor down. In the shortly-live silence, your breathing echoed his, the air weighing heavy with anticipation. You were suddenly hyper-aware of every single little touch, every tiny movement made, every breath taken– like a bucket of ice water getting splashed on you, you were present for what felt like the first time that night.

The bike roared to life and Bucky leaned forward to fit his body closer to the handles. 

“Might wanna hang on,” he yelled over the noise. You hesitated, probably for a second too long for Bucky’s liking as he looked behind you and rolled his eyes (you knew he did, even behind the stupid visor.) He reached behind his back and grabbed your wrist, pulling you against him and wrapping your arm around his waist. Your free arm followed suit, tightly embracing him, heart pounding in your chest at the sudden act. You lurched forward as he rode out of the garage and began down the street; the location was a mystery to you, other than you knew it was one of the regular S.H.I.E.L.D. approved safehouses in Istanbul.

Weaving through the other bikes and cars, you couldn’t help but lean closer into Bucky, watching the lights and sights pass by in a blur. Fingers fanned over his abdomen as you held on, feeling the firm leather tac jacket against your skin– which became firmer upon pressing into him and feeling like you were palming a brick wall. Knees fit together at the sides of the bike, shifting ever-so-slightly whenever he braked or shifted. Worst of all, as you hugged your chest into his back, you had a front-row seat in viewing the way his broad shoulders twisted with laser-like precision as he drove.

It took every ounce of energy not to let go and fall off the bike. 

‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗

The four-flight trudge up to the safehouse– more like safeapartment, actually– was a miserable one, especially with twenty pounds worth of gear on your back and a highly impatient super soldier on your ass telling you to “hurry the fuck up.”

“Again: ‘m not built like a fuckin’ freight train, here, Bucky,” you panted as your legs struggled in rounding the fourth and final landing. He didn’t bother to wait for you, instead turning wordlessly off the landing, heading down the hallway to the door with the keys jingling against his vibranium hand. You caught up to him, standing awkwardly off to the side as he fumbled with the sticky lock, and you couldn’t help but watch the way his hands moved. The way the vibranium prosthetic moved as fluidly as his flesh and bone, the way the plates glinted in the dimly lit hallway, the way his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own. 

Bucky swung the door open, pulling you out of your trance. He flicked on a light switch to reveal a small apartment complete with a cramped living room, couch, small T.V., and an open kitchen in the back. A hallway diverted off to the left, presumably to the bathroom and–

“It’s a one bedroom,” Bucky muttered, stepping into the apartment. You looked at him incredulously. 

“You– you’re kidding, right?” you asked, closing the door behind you and dropping your bag off to the side. 

“No. Why would I?” Bucky turned to you, cocking a brow with hands set on his hips, revealing his undone tac jacket and the tightest fucking dry-fit shirt underneath. It was practically a second skin, hugging against his abs you felt earlier. You stared slack-jawed at him like he didn’t just hear himself speak.

“Because there’s only one fucking bed?” 

“Yeah. And I’m taking it. You get couch duty,” he stated matter-of-factly. His crooked smirk prodded at your nerves.

You scoffed and mirrored his stance. “What? No! I did the work today, you sat around and just… watched.”

His face hardened. “I sat and just… watched?” he repeated, tone challenging you as he took a step forward. 

You swallowed. “You heard me.”

One second, you were ready to hurl another choice word at Bucky. The next, you were slammed against the back of the door. Hard. 

Bucky had rushed you, grabbing your arms with bruising force and forcing them up, pinning your wrists on either side of your head. You yelled in protest, failing to squirm out of the cage that was his body. 

“Look at me right fuckin’ now,” he demanded, lips curling into a snarl and bared teeth. His voice turned, a complete 180. Dominating, commanding, enraging. When you didn’t obey instantly, he slammed your wrists against the door again.

“Look at me!” 

“No! Fuck– Get off me!” 

With your feet still free, you started kicking him, eliciting what sounded like a growl that rumbled from deep within his chest. Bucky passed your wrist in his metal hand off to his flesh one, pinning both hands above your head while shoving a thick thigh between both of yours– right against your core. An uncontrollable yelp escaped from you as he pushed. Heat pooled in your lower stomach, and it took every bit of control to stop yourself from clenching your thighs together automatically. The fire Bucky ignited only grew, imaginary flames roaring in your stomach and racing up your limbs. His prosthetic hand snaked up your neck and squeezed your chin, squishing your cheeks and lips, forcing your eyes to him.

You felt lightheaded. Bucky– fuck, nobody– ever grabbed you like that; like you belonged to them. To him.

“You’re gonna listen to me, and listen good,” he shook your face, “I saved your fuckin’ life tonight, ‘member? When you were defenseless and as good as fuckin’ dead on that roof? You made me shoot that piece of shit point blank. You made me almost shoot you.” 

His voice shook and he looked away, biting his lip then coming back to you. “I fuckin’ saved your life when you should’ve saved your own. If it��d been any later– if I’d been a second later–” He steadied a breath, shaking his head and scoffing a laugh. He focused back on you with wildly electric blues. “I saved your life. Therefore, I get the goddamned bed tonight. Got it?”

You stared at him for a second longer before nodding gently. The energy building between you was enough to burn the entire building down if someone lit a cigarette. A smirk slowly bloomed across your lips. He released your chin, hand sinking down to rest against your collarbone. 

“Is that all, Sergeant?” 

His Adam's apple bobbed.

“What did you just call me?” he whispered, sliding a vibranium palm around the column of your neck, plated fingers resting on your pulse point. He twitched. Inches.

“You heard me.” 

The air, thick in the apartment, felt charged. 

“Needja t’say it again. Can’t hear too well,” he slurred, licking his lips. Eyelids fluttering, hands squeezing. Centimeters.

“Whatever you say,” you lilted. Millimeters. “Sergeant.”

Lightning struck. Everything ignited, setting fire to both of you as Bucky’s lips seared into yours. Hard, sloppy, desperate as tongue and teeth swapped secrets like old friends. He was unexplored territory, yet he felt so familiar. His prosthetic slowly relented the grip on your wrists, dropping to your shoulder, sliding down your chest where he greedily groped and slid over every last peak and dip of your body: tits screaming for release from your suit; hips jerking in short bursts at his every movement. He grabbed your ass and pulled you closer, forcing your thick thighs to spread wider as his own pushed further against your arousal.

“Been–” Bucky smacked your lips, kissing hungrily across your cheek and biting down your neck, “Shit– Been wanting this so– long, fuck–” He pressed into you, his cock harder a gun in his waistband. You couldn’t hold onto the intensely lust-filled moan that spilled from your throat much longer. Bucky grinned against your neck, lapping and sucking and marking your skin like he owned you. Like he could do whatever he wanted to you. 

And you let him.

“Gotta get this shit off you,” Bucky mumbled into your neck as he shed his own jacket, face not leaving your skin. Rough hands grabbed onto you and ripped away the buckles and buttons of the jacket that kept your body from him. A deep groan rumbled inside his chest as he threw the top half of your suit to the side, drinking in the beautiful sight of your body, hugged in all the right places by the cami that was riding up your stomach while your tits gasped for air, spilling out, fighting against your sports bra.

“Holy–fuck, holy shit.” 

Bucky Barnes was speechless. And you were the reason why. 

He stopped as your wrists came down from above your head and fell down your frame. 

“God, you’re fuckin’ beautiful.”

Your heart stopped.

“You’re telling me.”

Another charge surged and you threw yourself at Bucky, sending both of you stumbling through the living room. Hands grasped and groped. Fingers busied themselves with removing clothing, undoing pants to throw one way and stripping shirts to toss another. You were magnetized to him, carding through his cropped chocolate hair, hooking your arms behind his neck– which was still bare and practically begging you to mark it in every way you knew. Stumbling over an end table, knocking into the wall that led down the hallway, dragging one another to the bedroom only to pause when you whined at Bucky to shut the door. 

Both of you were near-naked, relishing in each other’s skin by the time you made it to the bed, falling on it with him on top of you in a heap. Bucky hiked you further up the bed, dropping you onto the several pillows that made it feel like Cloud 9. You looked up at him straddling your hips with legs that seemed to spread wider the further down he sat. Eyelids fluttered while your pupils adjusted to the dark bedroom. What lay before was a scene out of your wildest fantasy. 

Bucky sat back on his hips, hair spiking out in wild tufts, cock aching to break free from the confines of his briefs as he stared back at you hungrily. His tongue jutted out to wet his lips, dragging the bottom half back into his teeth while his lust-blown pupils trained directly on you. You truly hadn’t registered the god-like, sculpturesque muscles leading down his chest and over his rippling abs that finished in a very defined ‘V’ below the waistband of his briefs. The veins bulging in his arm and hand were enough to send you spiraling. Everything before you left you speechless. Wanting. Needing.

Bucky slid painstakingly slow hands over your hips, up your waist, your ribs, slipping curious fingers underneath the hem of your sports bra. He didn’t rip it off like you expected, however. 

He looked at you. Really looked at you. “You–” his Adam’s apple bobbed, “y’know this’ll change everything. Right?” 

You nodded, eager, confident. “Yeah. I– I know.”

“You wanna do this?” He tugged harder.

“Yes.” Another tug. Your tits begged for release. 

“And you… got protection, er–” he hesitated, cocking a brow.

“Pill. I–I’m on the pill,” you breathlessly assured him. You added with a shrug, “I assume you didn’t bring any…”

He scoffed a laugh. “You weren’t exactly on my list of things t’do.”

“Well I hope I’m a top priority, now.”

“Number fuckin’ one.”

The elastic tore as he ripped the fabric, finally releasing your breasts from their constraint. Bucky discarded your ruined bra and turned back to you. His hands gravitated automatically to your chest, kneading, squeezing; thumbs and index fingers on both sides felt around for your nipples and pinched the sensitive buds, eliciting a squeal from you and another rush of arousal flooded your core. 

Bucky hummed while locking his lips onto a pointed peak, mouthing and nipping and sucking. You mewled, running a hand up the back of his head and through his messy hair. His vibranium hand started downwards, sending your senses into overdrive as metal fingers teased the hem of your hipsters that met the crease in your thigh. He released your swollen nipple with a pop.

“Fuck you’re soaked, baby,” he moaned. Tugging your hipsters down your legs, he returned to leaning back on his hips. You’re breathless, panting, melting before him as he palms his thick erection. The girthy, leaking head poked over the waistband, aching to finally meet you. To feel you.

He stripped his briefs off, springing his cock free. You couldn’t tell if the uncontrollable moan that escaped from your lips was because of how mouth-watering he was or the thrilling worry that flooded your mind at the thought (and soon-to-be very real act) of fitting him– all of him– inside you. You glanced at him, catching the way his eyes darkened into something sinister, something hungry and uncontrollable. His jaw hardened as he pumped himself, leaking precum droplets onto your thighs. 

“Get on your fuckin’ stomach,” he commanded. You obeyed, willing to do anything in your power to quell the iron-hot ache that made your pussy throb with want. The second your palms hit the mattress he grabbed you, hands bruising your love handles and ass as he yanked you back to him, shoving your face down into the pillows. With your cheek pressing into the mattress, face squishing into your elbow, all of the oxygen was pulled from your lungs. A beat of silence filled the void between you before a loud SMACK followed by a stinging pain radiating from your ass. 

SMACK. “That was for the back talk.”

SMACK. “That was for scarin’ me t’night.”

SMACK. “And that was for makin’ me have to wait this long to fuck your stubborn ass.” 

Drool dripped from the corner of your mouth and onto the sheets as you chewed your lip, trying (and failing) to dull the harsh, hot pain. Hands gripping your hips, bruising and rough, he yanked you back to meet his front. His cock jammed in between your cheeks as he grinded on you, kneading your ass to mold around him. 

“You’re gonna take me,” he rasped, low and throaty. “All of me.”

You felt him line himself up with your entrance, his girthy head poking and prodding at your entrance. A beat. Hesitation from both of you before he finally snapped forward, plunging into you, filling you, stretching you wider than you could’ve imagined. Once inside, he paused, shifting inside you, cursing breathlessly at the perfect fit. You groaned and desperately shifted your hips in silent hope that Bucky would fucking move. The stretching, the fullness, everything gnawed at your insides that were begging for release. For pleasure. 

“F-fuck Bucky, please–!” He slowly, painfully, rolled his hips in small, dragged-out thrusts before pulling out of you with the most self-control you’d ever see from him and jamming right back into you. 

“Fuck! Again! Please, again!” 

He obeyed you; his hips gradually began to pick up speed, thrusting erratically into you. 

“Gimme your arm,” he gritted between hissed curses. Your brain was on a three-second delay between hearing him and when you started to twist; too slow for Bucky’s liking, he growled, bending– and, in turn, stuffing himself until his base scraped your ass– to grab your arm, pinning against your back with a stern hold. The pain, the pleasure, the all-of-it fanned the flames inside you, growing hotter and hotter and threatening to implode. 

“‘M so close, baby, so–” he gasped, “Fuck, where do I–?”

“Back,” you answered, muffled against the sheets. “My back, I– ah!” You clenched around him, locking him in place as the implosion erupted within you. White-hot flashes of intense pleasure shot through your veins like a lethal shock. You screamed. You trembled. You felt the most all-consuming release rock you to your core, all while Bucky drilled into you harder, faster, his own coil on the brink of snapping. His hips began to stutter into you while you rode your high, mewling when it was time to pull from you in a hurry, his fist furiously pumping the last few seconds. A pleasured cry came from his body as hot ropes shot onto you, painting your skin in warm bursts, cum pooling where your spine arced. He groaned. Fist slowing in pumps, he fell onto the covers next to you in a heap as you cautiously lowered your back.

For a minute it was just your labored breathing echoing one another. The smell of sex lingered in the air, the distant sounds of the streets below and within the quiet building were muffled by the walls of the bedroom. It felt like forever before the bed shifted. Bucky stood, fumbling around on the ground for his discarded briefs. Kneeling back onto the bed, you flinched at the suddenly soft touch of fabric as he cleaned you up, wiping your skin until satisfied. He tossed the boxers back onto the ground somewhere unseen, rolling over back to his place next to you. You couldn’t help the smile on your lips, biting it back as you flipped over to look at Bucky, who was already staring at you with a soft smile. 

“Thanks.”

He shrugged in response. “Looks like we both needed it.”

You nodded. “Does this mean ’m still sleeping on the fuckin’ couch?”

“Hm. No, I’ll let you off the hook,” he said, grabbing the covers and pulling them over you both.

“I think I like being off the hook better than being on it.”

“Mhmm, sure,” he hummed. The covers shrouded you as he placed a metal hand on your cheek, rubbing his thumb in soft circles as he pulled you in for another electrifying kiss.

[rose24207]

Through the scope

Summary: Lando, unaware that his wife is the mysterious sniper who has been secretly protecting him, becomes obsessed with uncovering their identity while she struggles to keep her double life hidden to ensure his safety.

Genre: Mafia!Lando, violence, a little fluff

TW: Mafia, sniper, gun violence, ambushing, threats, death

A/N: yay finally winter break! So done with all of my exams, glad that they’re done now! English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

P2

Masterlist

Lando sat in the backseat of his blacked-out SUV, the city lights reflecting off the windows as his driver navigated the narrow streets of Monaco. The meeting tonight had been tense—another power struggle, another potential ally trying to push boundaries.

His empire was secure, but it wasn’t without enemies. Lately, those enemies had grown bolder, their attacks more calculated. Yet, somehow, he’d managed to survive each ambush, each attempt on his life. Not because of luck, but because of something—or someone—lurking in the shadows.

There was a sniper.

A ghost that no one could track, no one could see, no one could identify. This sniper had saved Lando’s life more times than he could count over the past year. From ambushes to failed assassinations, they were always there, protecting him. But why?

No one knew who the sniper was. Not even Lando.

One year ago

The air was cold and biting as Lando stood in the middle of an abandoned dockyard, his breath visible in the dim glow of a single hanging light. The weight of the situation pressed down on him like a vice.

This meeting was supposed to be a negotiation, a simple exchange of information, but it had quickly spiraled into a trap.

Around him, a dozen armed men stood in a loose circle, their faces twisted in cruel smirks. They were confident, cocky even, and why wouldn’t they be? Lando was outnumbered, outgunned, and isolated.

“Not so clever now, are you, Norris?” sneered Marco, the leader of the group, stepping forward with a smug grin.

His gun was pointed lazily at Lando’s chest, as though he didn’t consider him a threat at all.

“You’ve been running this city too long. It’s time someone put you in your place.”

Lando’s jaw clenched, his mind racing. His gun was holstered at his side, but even if he went for it, he wouldn’t last long against this many opponents.

He forced himself to keep calm, his expression betraying none of the panic bubbling beneath the surface.

“Funny,” Lando said, his voice steady. “You think you’re the one who’s going to take me down?”

Marco chuckled, gesturing to his men. “Oh, I think we’ve got this handled. You’re all alone, Norris. No one’s coming to save you.”

Lando’s fingers twitched, hovering near his weapon. If he was going down, he wasn’t going down without a fight.

But before he could make a move, the first shot rang out.

It wasn’t his.

One of Marco’s men crumpled to the ground, a clean bullet hole through his forehead. The group froze, their laughter and bravado evaporating in an instant.

“What the—?” Marco began, but another shot cut him off, taking out the man to his right.

The sound was sharp and precise, each shot echoing through the dockyard. Panic erupted among Marco’s men as they scrambled for cover, their confidence shattered.

Lando ducked instinctively, his eyes scanning the area. The shots weren’t random. They were calculated, deliberate. Someone was picking them off one by one, and they were damn good at it.

“Sniper!” one of the men shouted, his voice shaking.

The group scattered, but it was no use. The sniper was relentless, their aim unerring. Within moments, the circle of enemies had been reduced to just Marco, who stood frozen, his gun trembling in his hand.

“Who the hell are you?” Marco screamed into the night, his voice cracking.

Another shot rang out, grazing Marco’s hand and forcing him to drop his weapon.

Lando watched in stunned silence as Marco fell to his knees, his eyes wide with terror. Whoever this sniper was, they weren’t just good—they were protecting him.

Marco whimpered, his bravado gone. “I surrender! I surrender!”

The sniper didn’t fire again.

Marco stayed on the ground, trembling, as the silence stretched on.

Lando slowly stood, his hand resting on his gun but not drawing it. He turned, scanning the rooftops and surrounding buildings, searching for the person who had just saved his life.

“Who are you?” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

There was no answer.

“Still thinking about your guardian angel?”

The soft voice broke through Lando’s thoughts. He looked up to see you standing in the doorway of his study, a glass of whiskey in your hand.

You were dressed casually, your hair tied back, a faint smirk on your lips. You’d always had a way of grounding him, of pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts.

“They’re not an angel,” Lando muttered, taking the glass as you handed it to him. “They’re a sniper. And they’re damn good at what they do.”

You sat on the edge of the desk, watching him carefully. “You sound frustrated.”

“I am,” he admitted. “Whoever this is, they’ve saved my life more times than I can count. But I don’t know why. I don’t know who they are or what they want.”

“Maybe they don’t want anything,” you suggested.

He frowned, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Everyone wants something.”

You tilted your head, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe they just like you.”

Lando snorted. “If they like me so much, why not introduce themselves?”

You shrugged, hiding the flicker of amusement in your eyes. “Maybe they’re shy.”

That night, Lando found himself in yet another precarious situation. A rival gang had caught wind of his movements and set an ambush as he left one of his warehouses.

The gunfire erupted without warning, bullets ricocheting off the armored SUV. His driver swerved, but they were pinned down, trapped between two groups of attackers.

Lando drew his gun, ready to fight his way out, when the first shot rang out.

A single, precise bullet hit one of the attackers, dropping him instantly. Then another shot, and another.

From his vantage point in the car, Lando couldn’t see the sniper, but he could hear the chaos unfolding. One by one, his enemies fell, their ambush dismantled with surgical precision.

By the time the shooting stopped, the street was eerily quiet.

Lando stepped out of the car, his gun still in hand as he surveyed the carnage. His enemies were dead or incapacitated, but there was no sign of the sniper.

“Who the hell are you?” he muttered, his voice carried away by the wind.

Back at home, you were waiting for him in the living room, a book in your hands and a blanket draped over your lap.

Lando walked in, his expression tense, his suit jacket dusted with debris from the night’s events.

“You’re late,” you remarked casually, not looking up from your book.

“Got held up,” he replied, dropping into the seat across from you. He studied you for a moment, his gaze lingering. “There was another ambush.”

You finally looked up, feigning concern. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Thanks to them.”

“The sniper?”

He nodded, running a hand through his hair. “They were there again. Took out the entire ambush like it was nothing.”

You leaned back, setting your book aside. “Maybe you should stop questioning it and just be grateful.”

Lando shook his head. “I can’t. It doesn’t make sense. No one does this for free, and yet, they’re always there, always saving me. It’s like they’re watching me.”

You smiled faintly. “Maybe they are.”

Weeks passed, and the sniper continued to intervene whenever Lando was in danger. He grew more desperate to uncover their identity, but every lead ended in a dead end.

What he didn’t know was that the sniper was closer than he could have ever imagined.

It was you.

For years, you had lived a double life. By day, you were Lando’s loving wife, his partner, his confidante. By night, you were a shadow, a ghost that moved through the city with a sniper rifle in hand.

You had your reasons. Reasons you couldn’t tell him, even if you wanted to.

Protecting him was your way of ensuring that he survived the dangerous world he ruled. You couldn’t bear the thought of losing him, even if it meant keeping your secret buried.

One night, Lando stood on the balcony of your shared penthouse, the cool breeze ruffling his hair. He was deep in thought, his mind consumed by the sniper once again.

You joined him, wrapping a shawl around your shoulders as you leaned on the railing beside him.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you said softly.

He glanced at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of frustration and admiration. “I can’t stop thinking about them. The sniper.”

You looked out at the city lights, your expression unreadable. “What about them?”

“They’re always there,” he said, his voice low. “Always saving me, no matter how dangerous the situation. But why? Why would someone do that?”

You turned to him, your heart aching as you saw the turmoil in his eyes. “Maybe they care about you more than you realize.”

He frowned, his gaze searching yours. “Do you think I’ll ever find out who they are?”

You smiled faintly, reaching out to touch his hand. “Maybe someday. But for now, isn’t it enough to know that someone out there is watching over you?”

Lando stared at you for a long moment, his expression softening. He didn’t know the truth, but deep down, he felt a sense of comfort in your words.

For now, it was enough.

Thank you for reading!

[pickledsodapop]

I uh. I realize I forgot to post this other poster I made HELP. Have some father son angst featuring spy and scout

[0hlilith]

I have more, Fellas… Hear me out,

What if… after the events of “The naked and the dead” Scout discovers that Spy is his dad, AND that Sniper knew that too? And way before him? He's mad of course! But... … who else can he tell it too? His Ma' is thousands of miles away! And his brothers no where to be found! and besides Sniper… with who could he talk to? What if the rest team knew too?

What if they just didn't bother to tell him? What if they just see him as just a team-mate And not a friend? Or not an actual member of the team? Just a person that they're Gonna work with for just a few years? What if they have to pick a side and they choose Spy over him? What is he gonna do? Cry about It? He’s 27 for god’s sake! He’s tough! He’s not gonna cry about that his own Team that watched him on his best and worse moments, that watched him slowly get better as a merc and person that he himself almost considered them as a Family, choose the cranky old Spy of him! He’s better than that!… … Right?

[soyunstar]

SPEEDINGBULLET BUT IN THIS SCENARIO

I AM NOT GUILTY

I AM NOT GUILTY EITHER I AM JUST THE ARTIST…

angst is my weakness.

[as-is-above-so-below]

The Captain - Simon Riley x Sniper!Reader, Wife!Reader

Let's Have a Baby 2.0

summary: Ghost’s sniper wife (reader) joins Task Force 141 on an op, against his wishes call sign: Freyja warning: implied sexual content, MDNI Note: A special thank you to @lethalchiralium and @peachesofteal for workshopping with me, per usual, and for being the best beta! Enjoy and blessed be! << Previous | Next >>

Simon Riley did not cry when his first daughter was born.

He didn’t know how to process his grief amid his love’s agony and emptiness. She spent days on end, curled into the plush rocker in the corner of the empty nursery or lying flat on her back, staring at the white ceiling. His guilt was no match for her shame – as she clutched the tiny hospital blanket to her chest, sobbing that she couldn’t name her. Couldn’t name the daughter that they didn’t get to bring home.

Her wails – I’m sorry I’m weak, Please don’t hate me, I'm fucking useless – echoed in Simon’s mind when he named that baby. He knew, in his heart, that Freyja loved her with her entire being, everything she had. He knew that, if she could, she would have picked the most beautiful name, better than anything he could have come up with on his own. So he named her after his wife, so his daughter would never leave his mind.

When Joan Vanadís was born, Simon stared at her for hours. He memorized every detail of her soft features, inhaled her scent, and poured over her deep brown eyes and button nose. His wife barely got to hold her in her first day of life. Sure, he had cried, as many fathers do in the delivery room. He was completely unsure of how it was possible that he helped create this beautiful, innocent little person.

But his son, oh his son, was an entirely different animal.

Where Joanie came roaring into the world, Arthur Simon was quiet. Quiet like his father, but the spitting image of his mum, minus Simon’s curved nose (Poor thing, he thought). The gentle cry from such a delicate thing broke whatever terrified stupor he’d been in since learning that they were having a boy. The doctor placed the blue bundle on his wife’s chest, and he instantly broke down. The ‘big bad Ghost’ was a blubbering mess as their son’s small hand curled into her skin, his eyes closed, and his mouth curled into a frown. He hesitated, hand hovering over the boy until Freyja’s came and pressed his palm into the tiny body, much smaller than Joanie’s when she was born. The steady rhythm of Arthur’s little lungs working underneath his fingertips made something inside his chest snap and crumble into dust.

Whatever fear he had about having a son was gone. As he had promised their daughters, he again swore that he would be better. Better than his father. He promised he would raise Arthur the way he should have been.

In the months that followed, taking care of his son healed a piece of Simon Riley. A piece that needed the father he had fought so hard to be.

The newborn seemed to have that effect on people, particularly overgrown men.

Arthur’s godfathers and grandfather returned to England about three months after he was born. Johnny brought his partners by the second they stepped off the plane, not even offering time to dress down in civilian clothes.

König was the first in the house, carrying his and Roach’s duffels as Johnny snuck in a moment alone with their partner outside. Freyja appeared, almost making him jump out of his skin at her sudden appearance.

“Herrgott, Kapitän!” he cried, hand on his pounding heart. “You scared me.”

Freyja had Artie strapped to her chest, sucking happily on his pacifier as he stared up at her face. He was already a certifiable mama’s boy, always enamored with her and clinging to her at every waking moment (and then some). “Oh, thank god,” she sighed, unraveling the fabric from her waist and shoulders. “I need a nap.”

His eyes blew wide through the holes of his hood, and he quickly stepped back. “Nein, Freyja, ich will ihn erschrecken—”

“König, nimm deinen Patensohn.” She didn’t allow him any time to hesitate, pressing the baby against his chest. The Austrian immediately dropped the bags from his shoulders, wrapped one arm under the baby’s bum, and rested one large hand against his back.

“Freyja–!”

She was gone.

König desperately wanted to give him back. He couldn’t take the heartbreak of another kid, especially his own nephew, staring at him with pure terror, trying to get away to safety. But this child, a sweet thing, had easily and without hesitation reached for him when Freyja moved to hand him off. It was as if he already sensed that his mom would never hand him off to someone that didn’t have her full trust.

He had gotten used to Joan by that point, but she was almost a year old when he saw her last. And she was much bigger than the infant boy in his arms, done up in an (admittedly) adorable, light blue onesie, with stripes nearly resembling those of the Scotland flag (Soap most definitely bought it for that reason and that reason alone). What if he dropped him? What if he held him too tight? What if he moved and hit Arthur’s head on something? What if–

A small tug caught his attention, his mask shifting downward. König glanced down at the boy curiously pulling the thing toward his mouth, which he put a stop to. “Iss das nicht, welpe. Du weißt nicht, wo es war,” he whispered, using a finger to nudge Arthur’s fist away from his mouth.

They simply stared at each other, the man holding the baby’s gaze, surprised that the little one was tolerating it. Then in a shocking turn of events, Art jerked the fabric up and over his head, making cooing and gurgling sounds that resembled an attempt at a laugh. Both under the hood now, König froze for a moment, completely and utterly bewildered. No grown adult, let alone an infant, had ever warmed up to the giant so quickly, immediately. Artie made another noise, and beyond his control, tears started to flow freely down his paint-smudged cheeks, a huge smile lighting up their dark cavern.

As König sobbed and shook, he pressed his forehead against Arthur’s, trembling body clinging to his godson like a lifeline.

König didn’t know how long he stood there with gentle but clumsy hands palming his scars and features, reveling in the attention. He never wanted it to end. He didn’t fail to notice what felt like Ghost’s hand on his opposite shoulder, brief but definitely present; then, the familiar press of Johnny’s cheek between his shoulder blades and the imprint of his firm hands on his hips.

Yeah, you could say Arthur Simon had a gift for healing.

.

.

.

“Uh oh, Dada!”

Freyja chuckled at her husband’s exasperated expression, staring at the ceiling as the plastic cup bounced across the floor. Simon had spent the last ten minutes trying to slice up an orange for Joan, who, in that time, had thrown the loose cereal onto the floor, tossed her plastic fork across the room, and finally dumped the cup of water into his lap.

“Yeah, uh oh,” he sighed, bending to pick up the cup but not bothering with his now-soaked pants. “Lovie, I’m almost done. You have to be patient. We don’t throw things.”

“No!”

“Look, Joanie, here.” Simon broke a wedge off and held it out for her. Two little hands took the fruit, holding the rind as Joan gummed at the soft flesh. “Can you say, ‘Thank you, Daddy’?”

“No!”

“You’re welcome, baby.”

Arthur rested quietly in his mother’s arms with his cheek pressed against her breast as he dozed after finishing a bottle. Some mothers would have found Arthur’s level of attachment overwhelming; he rarely wanted to be put down, oftentimes crying out for her even when handed off to Simon. Similar to how Joanie gravitated to her father, Artie clung to her, and Freyja took pride in that.

When she looked up from her son, she found Simon had stripped out of his soiled sweatpants and now sat in only black boxer briefs. It was an unusually lazy day due to the poor weather outside. Simon got the kids up and fed at the usual time but didn’t do much to dress them, opting for fresh onesies. Joan’s was a dark navy, while Art’s was cream with mini tan teddy bears.

Joanie finished the orange slice quickly and placed the rind on her plate. She balled one hand into a fist and slapped the top with an open palm in a jerky movement. “Dada, more.”

“That’s right, ‘more’,” he praised, mimicking the sign for her. “Good job asking. Here.”

He placed the rest of her snack on the tray, and she immediately started nibbling at one. Simon leaned forward with his forearm on his knee, getting to eye level with the girl. “I’d really like an orange. Could you share with Daddy, lovie?” he asked while offering a hand. They had quickly learned to keep her hands occupied and practice hand-eye coordination in constructive ways, rather than letting her get bored. That was when she tended to start throwing things, as demonstrated by Simon’s now discarded pants.

She seemed to consider it, before dropping the piece she had already half finished in his palm and grabbing another.

“I meant one that wasn’t half-eaten, but this’ll do. Thank you.” He met Freyja’s eyes, his cheeks tight with laughter as he finished the fruit. 

The rain thundered against the glass windows, filling the space behind Joanie’s giggles at the funny faces Simon made. Her clothed feet kicked the legs of her chair. It was there – in their kitchen on a rainy Tuesday afternoon – Freyja realized just how content she was with the life they had built together. Observing her husband as he wiped the sticky juices dribbling down their daughter’s chin and pushed her blonde curls back; her touch brushing their son’s warm, squishy cheek with her thumb.

She soaked in the atmosphere a moment longer before speaking. “Simon?”

“Yeah, love?”

“I think Artie’s my last.” Her voice was quiet, almost unsure. They’d never really discussed just how many kids they wanted. Against his initial fears, Simon was a natural; he was just as much in his element taking care of their kids as he was on the battlefield. She didn’t want to take that away if he wanted more, but she honestly couldn’t go through it again. Recovering from a c-section royally sucked, but giving birth naturally was not an option.

Simon’s brows pinched together as he swiveled away from Joanie, searching her face. He watched how her careful fingers stroked Arthur’s face, her other hand wrapped around the baby’s thigh to secure him to her. Her touch slid down to his chest, measuring his tiny heartbeat and steady breaths. He often did the same with both of their children; the gesture grounded him in their reality, and he figured it did the same for her. “Alright,” he finally said. “I’ll call for an appointment to get snipped.”

He said it as if he were talking about grabbing a takeaway on his way home from work, which gave Freyja a slight shock.

“Just like that?” she asked, turning in her chair to face him better. “Are you sure?”

“You’ve given me three beautiful babies,” Simon cooed, reaching to drag his large hands up and down her thighs. Freyja melted into his touch, legs spreading so his knee could slot between hers. “S’the least I can do. If you’re done, so am I. I had a feeling, anyway.”

“A vasectomy just seems a bit extreme. Maybe we can just use condoms?”

He raised a brow at her with an upside-down grin, challenging her. “Do you wanna try that again, with feeling? Look me in the eye and tell me you’re never gonna let me cum in you, ever again?”

“...Birth control?”

“Remind me, how did we have our daughters?”

“I hate you.”

“But I’m right.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Still right, though.” Simon rose from the table and leaned over her, resting his weight on one hand next to her thigh. He slipped the other around the back of her neck and tilted her head up, stealing a long, slow kiss. He muttered, “I’ll go next week,” against her lips before resuming, tongue gently prodding her bottom lip.

Freyja broke away and glanced up at him through her lashes with a teasing look. “You sure you can last that long without sex?”

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Ghost, Soap, and Gaz shipped out to replace the other half of the task force a few days later. They were only gone for two weeks, executing the final excursion to retrieve a stolen weapons cache. König, Roche, and Price had done most of the leg work but decided that the sergeants and lieutenant were better equipped for the situation at hand. 

Johnny’s demolition expertise certainly came in handy this time around.

Still, Simon was sore and aching for the comfort of holding his kids and wife after what felt like the longest two weeks of his life. It was their first time leaving both babies with the other parent since Arthur was born.

Unlike his last time returning from a mission, the house was quiet, which allowed him time to take his boots off at the door and shed his mask. König’s car was parked in their driveway, leading him to believe the operative was spending the night in their guest room. Whether Roach was there too, he didn’t know.

The hall light at the top of the stairs flicked on, and Freyja appeared in a silky nightgown, standing on the last step with a tired smile and messy hair.

Simon stopped at the bottom of the stairs and hummed while his eyes roamed her body with a dopey smile.

“Welcome back,” she whispered, locking her fingers behind his neck to tilt his head back, giving him access to slot their lips together. Freyja moaned quietly at the firm hands on her hips and thighs, gripping and digging into the soft flesh. “How’d it go?”

He shrugged and pressed another chaste kiss to her lips, humming against them. “No snags. Soap got to blow stuff up.” Simon’s mouth trailed down her jaw, throat, and chest, gentle and loving.

Her fingertips brushed a gash on his cheek. Most likely from shrapnel, if its depth and jagged edges were any indicators.

“M’fine, love.”

“Joanie’s out cold, but Artie’s awake if you wanna see him. I just finished feeding him.”

That woke him up a little bit. A soft breath of air tickled the wet spots on Freyja’s skin from his silent chuckle. Simon’s arms wrapped around her waist, and he nuzzled his face in her chest as he soaked in her presence. They’d gone more extended periods without seeing each other, but whether they were apart for a week or a few months, he still missed her like crazy.

“She doing better in her room?”

“Much. She’s having some nightmares but goes back down eventually. She’s having a good night.”

“Mmm, in that case, I won’t wake her. We can surprise her in the mornin’.”

When Freyja turned to lead him upstairs, he couldn’t help himself as his hand swung up and connected with her ass, a sharp CRACK! resonating through the air.

“Simon!”

“M’sorry, couldn’t help it. You left yourself wide open on that one,” he teased, his voice low to not wake their daughter or guests. As expected, Arthur’s quiet coos reached his ears the closer they got to their bedroom. Simon dropped his gear by their bedroom door and approached the bassinet on Freyja’s side of the bed. The little boy stared in his general direction, wiggling like a (precious) worm.

The man beamed down at him and carefully slid his hands under Artie’s back with his thumbs hooked under the infant’s arms, lifting him out of the crib. “Hi, beautiful boy,” he mumbled, pressing his pursed lips against his cheek, leaving multiple kisses in the same spot. He held his son back out for a moment, a confused expression on his face once he pulled away.

“Where’d it go?”

Freyja shifted to her knees on their bed and rested her chin on his shoulder, peering down at their son. “What?”

“The baby scrunch.”

“Huh. You’re right. I didn’t even notice.”

“I just…last time I held him, he still curled up. I missed it,” he said, a grown man literally pouting.

“I know…” She let her hands slide down from his shoulders to his chest. “I’m sorry, Si. I know it sucks. Being away comes with the job, and that means we miss things. We’ve been lucky so far with Joanie, honestly.”

Arthur had quieted down, sucking his pacifier as he studied Simon’s painted face and clinging to his shirt.

A knock at the doorframe caught their attention, and all three turned to the source. König rubbed the sleep from his eyes, bare feet padding across the carpet until he reached them. “Hello, Lieutenant. Did the operation bode well?”

“Yeah, everything was just as you said it – was…”

The baby had started to whine again and let go of his dad, reaching for his uncle with grabby hands. The man’s face flushed, but he didn’t make a move to take the baby. Once the shock wore off, Simon took the initiative to hand Art off, and König gladly received him.

He immediately settled again, laying his head back in the crook of König’s elbow, humming softly against his pacifier. “Hallo, welpe,” he said in a hushed tone, rocking his nephew gently.

“Well, that’s new,” Simon grumbled, sitting on the edge of the bed to avoid awkwardly standing there. Simon wasn’t too annoyed, but he was somewhat sad. He had missed his babies dearly and looked forward to some serious attention. But his usually shy baby, who never wanted to be handed off to anyone besides his mother and occasionally Simon, was suddenly choosing their friend over him.

How much had he missed in such a short amount of time?

“I apologize, sir. I am as surprised as you are. He’s a good boy; I think we have been around so much the last two weeks…”

“König.”

“Ja?”

“Drop the sir. We’re not on base. I’m not mad.”

König blinked at him, confused. “It’s… Scheiße, wie sagt man ‘gebräuchlich’ auf Englisch? Ich weiß es nicht. It is normal to use sir where I’m from.”

Simon glared back. “And this is my house. You’ve done as my wife has said to gain my son’s affection. So now, you will do what I say to get back in my good graces after robbing me of my child. Are we clear?”

“I feel…bad. Please, take him back–”

He shook his head and stood again, scratching at the light stubble that had formed on his cheeks over the last few days. “And I’m telling you, no. It’s fine. I have to shower anyway.”

“Alles klar.”

taglist: @esthervalea, @miss-leto, @sweetestcowboy, @blueoorchid, @apocalypticseagull, @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction, @covenlovenn, @330bpm-whiplash, @gnoccheyy, @jaggernauticals, @dwkfan, @untoldshortsofthefandomsdoms, @bobfloydsgf, @maviee, @thomaslefteyebrow, @kyovy, @prodyng, @scout-fang, @avalkyrieofparis, @misshoneypaper, @berryjuicyy, @voteforpedropascal, @beakami, @addictedtothefictionalworld, @kaghost

Copyright © 2023 as-is-above-so-below. All rights reserved.

[deviationmaniac]

"You know how we deal with enemies fraternising like this, Miss Pauling? We kill them as punishment, and at some point, they will be afraid of their own friend's presence."

Still trying out my simple style, and what better than my two boys? The Administrator isn't the happiest that they've been buddy buddy.

[delakoks]

Inspired by the official comic

[cervinae-canine]

Me seeing people on twitter talking about morally grey characters like they're completely irredeemable and makes them abusive rapists as a result even though the bad actions they've done is only comparable to a Wile E. Coyote cartoon skit but gorier:

[cheemscakecat]

Found some more Pain for y’all

So, spoilers for the Tf2 comics that might never be completed.

Ya’ll remember what happened with Sniper and his parents?

So first his parents die, which is terrible enough because he called them every week and trusted them. But on top of that, he finds out they adopted him, and he can’t find answers on where he came from. And he spent six months dealing with that emotional baggage.

But thankfully, he’s right about Pauling knowing where to look, and go to New Zealand and meet his birth “parents”.

But his father is a national embarrassment that destroyed the country. His birth parents can’t stand each other. And on top of that, his imbecile father has the gall to ask him for money.

The lab was the only place that didn’t flood, and when “mom” leaves, she breaks a hole in the roof. And she left without her son or any of the people who came with him.

Something else important is that other teammates are there, including Spy. This was important enough to Sniper that the other teammates could know what was happening [Pauling could have lied to them]. Spy’s instinct when the room starts filling with sea water is to snap Pauling out of her Administrator disapproval panic.

If Medic hadn’t brought Sniper back with his mad science, this would have been it. A terrible demise after being left to drown by his garbage biological “parents”.

In my bucket scene analysis, I talked about how Spy wanted to do one last good thing for his team when they thought they were going to die. He wanted them to write down everyone’s last wish and fulfill them, so nobody died as depressingly.

I imagine it impacted his decision to lie about Tom Jones being Scout’s father. He saw what happened to Sniper here and didn’t want his son to die confused, disappointed and angry. Because he cares about Scout more than those two crappy New Zealanders cared about their lost boy.

[jermer10]

Fanfic Masterlist !! ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

a collective of all the fics i've written, updated as i post! ★ blog intro ★

list under the cut :P

Osomatsu-san:

★ OSOSAN general romantic headcanons | gn reader ★ OSOSAN brothers with an adopted teen sibling | gn reader ★ OSOSAN brothers trying to calm a stressed out reader | gn reader ★ OSOSAN reader falling asleep on them | gn reader

Team Fortress 2:

★ TF2 support mercs with a transmasc reader who's on their period | afab transmasc reader ★ TF2 support mercs with reader who experiences nightmares | gn reader ★ TF2 support team with a vampire reader | gn reader ★ TF2 mercs finding out their s/o is pregnant + raising kids hcs | afab reader ★ TF2 mercs with a pregnant s/o | afab reader ★ TF2 platonic yandere mercs hcs | gn reader ★ TF2 damsels in distress | gn reader ★ TF2 mercs with a southern s/o | gn reader ★ TF2 mercs with a clown/jester reader | gn reader ★ TF2 mercs with a fairy/pixie reader | gn reader ★ TF2 mercs with a reader who experiences panic attacks | gn reader ★ TF2 mercs taking care of a very sick reader | gn reader ★ TF2 falling asleep on their shoulder | gn reader ★ TF2 spy x punk!reader | gn reader ★ TF2 flustered scout | gn reader ★ TF2 scout x reader x sniper | gn reader ★ TF2 scout x transfem!reader | transfem reader ★ TF2 ftm!sniper x ftm!reader age regression | transman reader ★ TF2 softie soldier | suggestive, gn reader ★ TF2 forced confinement | suggestive, gn reader ★ TF2 mercs being pulled in by their ties | suggestive, gn reader ★ TF2 relationship hcs + miss pauling | suggestive, gn reader ★ TF2 mercs dating an enemy reader | suggestive, gn reader ★ TF2 yandere sniper drabbles | suggestive, gn reader ★ TF2 enemies to lovers sniper | suggestive, gn reader ★ TF2 pyro headcanons sfw + nsfw | nsfw, gn reader ★ TF2 yandere mercs with an enemy s/o | nsfw, gn reader ★ TF2 yandere scout x civilian reader | 18+ only, gn reader ★ TF2 male s/o with a weapon kink | 18+ only, male reader ★ TF2 medic having a male s/o with a weapon kink | 18+ only, male reader

★ TF2 working it out | sniper x reader | suggestive, gn reader ★ TF2 hey, stranger | scout x reader | gn reader ★ TF2 playing pretend | scout x reader | gn reader ★ TF2 fake dating - gone wrong not clickbait | scout x reader | suggestive, gn reader ★ TF2 sweater weather | heavy x reader | 18+ only, afab reader ★ TF2 in the trenches | soldier x reader | gn reader ★ TF2 his prize | sniper x reader | 18+ only, afab reader ★ TF2 in the midst of chaos | medic x reader | afab reader

[pookie-draws]

so yo girl got obsessed with tf2 out of NOWHERE

expect more maybe?? they're fun to draw :D

lov the sillies

(reblogs appreciated!)

[tf2-headcanons-polls-confessions]

god I love people carrying momentums of dead friends/partners/etc.

* Sniper with Scout’s dog tags around his neck

* Spy wearing Sniper’s hat

* Heavy caring for Archimedes & him always perching on his shoulder

* Soldier having Demo’s eyepatch around his wrist

* Pyro with Scout’s wraps tied in bows

* Engie using Pyro’s axe

* Demo carrying Sniper’s glasses in his pocket

* Sniper wrapping himself in Medic’s coat

* Engineer using the dead ringer

…good stuff.

Especially when it’s not directly stated that they’re dead. Love me some blue curtains.

[habitabel]

I need spy and scout fanfics that are the father son angst dynamic please guys I need to resolve some inner issues and this is the only way please guys if you have links or is willing to write them or even DRAW them please tell me

🙏🙏🙏

[warnersister]

Talking with your mouth shut.

König x Reader

Call of Duty x Reader

Warnings: angst, fluff, death, sniping, family deaths, mutism

Reader Callsign: Tasmanian ‘Devil’

(Not my gif)

When you first joined the 141 the group were all warned. Your last mission had been gruelling and painful and as a result of your trauma, you no longer spoke. This didn’t hinder your work, when they asked over the radio to check you were still okay they’d receive a moment of static or another type of noise you’d allow yourself to make, half of the time it was you knocking in morse code to confirm. When soap had asked if you’d speak to tell them if you were truly in danger, you’d just given an affirmative nod.

You spoke with your eyes. That’s what Konig had noticed. You always joined in the conversations just not with your tongue. At least that’s what he told himself when he found himself staring at you for long enough that you noticed and offered him a quizzical look with one eyebrow raised.

Konig was enamoured by you from the moment you walked through that door. And you may think that he refused to admit it - the love he held for you. But no, it was one of the very few pleasures he allowed himself. His austere and stern position towards himself simply melts away when you are near.

It wasn’t difficult to fall in love with you. Not at all. With the way your belt tightened your camos to your waist, and your black t-shirt hugging your body in all the right places, stance upright and rigid, muscles prominent enough to poke through your clothes, enough to make himself rut into his hand a lot more nights than he cared to admit. But what really enthralled him, were your eyes.

You were sleeping off the last mission when Ghost and Konig were talking about you. Ghost said your eyes scared him. “When she looks at me there’s just nothing. It’s like she’s dead behind ‘em. I wanna ask what happened, y’know?” He asked and Konig had nodded. “But then again I think that if I do ask she will drop dead.”

That’s not the look you gave him. Not at all. Every time you looked up at him they were bright and full of emotion. They could shine happily or burn with anger or roll sarcastically, but some of the time when you didn’t know he was looking, they’d be full of something he could relate to. They were full of pain and tears.

He knew you were crippled with pain. A weight heavy at your shoulders other than your gun. But like Ghost, he would never ask. If you wanted to ‘talk’ then you would. And if you never did he didn’t mind. He understood enough.

From day dot you had naturally gravitated towards Konig. The first person to never be surprised when you looked up at him and noticed his height, simply giving him a passive once-over and moving on. New mission? You were on his left. Spare time? Winning him at cards. Free night? Laid next to him looking at the stars while he pointed out constellation to you. You were always there and he was always here, ready for when you were ready to open your heart to him that he had done for you.

Tasmanian Devil was what they had named you, Devil for short. The small beasts had the same temperament that you held behind your eyes, they have a reputation for flying into a rage when threatened by a predator, fighting for a mate, or defending a meal - exactly what your bursts of rage represent. Konig liked to call you his little devil. He could tell you smiled under your mask when he said that, the only time you would.

This new mission contained teams of two. “Konig and Devil, we’ll send you to the north building, best sniping position for the house.” Konig said something and you gave a thumbs up before you turned to go get ready.

And here you were, laid on your stomachs side by side, snipers in hand and looking for the enemy target - a captain and his comrades. What they had failed to mention was that his comrades were his family. Wife and two children. A boy and a girl. The boy looked no older than eight, and his sister four. You inhaled sharply and exhaled a shaky breath, lowering your weapon. Konig lowered his slightly and turned to you, watching your eyes swell with salty tears, your eyeblack beginning to run. He had to admit, you looked gorgeous. But now wasn’t the time for that. He raised his mic so nosy ears couldn’t listen and he reached his left hand out to grab your hip and draw comforting shapes along it with his thumb. You buried your head into his neck, eyes shut tight so he couldn’t see them.

He raised his gun, grasped your waist tightly and took four shots then silence as he dropped his gun and used both hands to pull you into an embrace. He manoeuvred you to be sat in his lap and cradling you like a baby. Lowering his mic again, he spoke. “Devil got the shot. My weapon wasn’t required, over.” A voice returned. “Roger confirmation, wait at point Charlie as surveillance until further instruction. Well done Devil. Over.” “Roger, out.” Then his mic was returned above his helmet. You looked up at him, pain and questioning behind those tired eyes of yours. “Every good solider must struggle. I’ve got you meine liebe. I understand.” A loud and broken sob emitted from your throat as the first sound he had ever heard you make. He understood. He knew why you were in pain. Konig knows.

He pecked your forehead comfortingly through both of your masks as he allowed you to cry and calm down, and he loved the way you clawed at his chest and grabbed him like you needed him. Like a damsel in distress.

He never spoke of it when you got back to base and nor did your eyes. But you definitely got closer. Sometimes he liked to think that was the day you opened yourself up to him to let him love you. But those sometimes he also realised that was just his subconscious playing tricks on him.

It was loud in your head, looking at the Mountain Man. Oh how you wanted to tell him how much pain you were in, and how much he soothed it. How much you loved him. You wanted to scream it from the rooftops but your voice would not allow. Instead pleading at him with wide and desperate eyes hoping that someday he may recognise your expression and require your feelings. If only he knew.

Then the dreaded day came for Konig. The day that you would all return home to your families. The day that you would probably run into your lovers arms and leave him behind. The day the intoxicating dream he was living in would come crashing down and his heart would shatter into a million pieces. The chatter was loud on the plane, men excitedly talking about their families and their homes yet the two of you remained silent. Your hand slowly crept over to his and rested atop of his clenched fist which instantly relaxed when he felt your warming touch. His hand turned over and threaded his fingers with his own, thumb doing labs back and forth over your knuckle. He could allow himself to live in paradise just a bit longer.

Ghost shook hands with you all and exclaimed a ‘see you soon!’ as he walked over to a couple of elders and embraced the woman tightly. And slowly, everyone bid their farewells until Konig was all alone. But where did you go? He couldn’t remember seeing you leave. But then again, he was better off not having to see the man you loved. He turned to leave himself, when he stopped in his tracks. There you were, sat on a bench alone with your arms crossed and an unreadable expression covered by tears in your eyes. He slowly made his way over to you, sitting down and about to say something before you interjected.

“They are all dead, Konig.” You spoke in a small and raspy voice from lack of usage. “I’m waiting for my family to pick me up and I know they’re not coming.” His heart twanged with pain in his chest but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything, too entranced by the sweet sound of you. But it hurt him how much he related. “They shot every one of them and I was the one who found them. The worst part is it was my partner who killed them.” You said with a sniff, the image you walked home into relaying in your mind. He listened to you talk, just listened. Soaking up every minute he could have hearing your siren song. “I give my life for my country and it gives me nothing back. I am alone, Konig.”

“You have me, mein liebling. You will always have me.” You were quiet again, looking up into his faithful eyes and realised what you had been missing all along. Slowly, you reached for your balaclava and pulled it up and over your head until it fell into the seat beside you. Konig couldn’t believe what he was seeing. You were beautiful. He couldn’t believe that after all this time the woman he was in love with was so gorgeous. He mirrored your actions with a shaky arm, pulling his mask off and placing it in a similar place to yours. He was waiting for your horror, a scoff from your lips, disgust in your eyes. But instead, the softened as you looked at his face, a small smile growing as you did a quick once over, hand slowly reaching out to trace a scar on his jaw as he leaned into your hand, the touch-starved man yearning for affection. He reached his hands out to your face. “You have always got me, my little devil.” And he kissed you sweetly, tongues tying as you spoke through your minds, a voice finally restored to a broken broken marionette. You realised that with Konig, you would always be okay.