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skzdarlings · 2 months

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bodyguard: the first guard | part one | chan/reader

masterlist.

(part one of the previous story.)

part one | part two | part three | tba

( read on AO3 )

A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh's daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: sequel to the bodyguard (felix/reader). this is a new reader perspective. please note this story will contain a great deal of physical violence, some committed against the reader and some committed by her. this will include fighting, training, torture, and parental abuse. there will also be explicit sexual content. chapter word count: 7500 words.

enjoy <3

B E F O R E

Felix takes his place in formation. He is the youngest in the youth regiment at only ten years old, but he is no less competent. They all belong to the same special-ops program, a group of specially selected children raised for armed service. They are in the employ of Mister Miroh – and he says they will save the world.

The world is full of shadows, dank black holes and grimy stains so embedded that no regular agent can scrub them out. The young subjects of the soldier program are not regular agents. Their existence is their mission.

Felix has no life outside of the house of Miroh.

He stands straight. He looks forward. His feet are the appropriate width apart and his hands are folded behind his back. He holds this position as the trainers scour the lined formation, studying the young soldiers and reprimanding any flaw.

They need the best soldier for this mission. This is the most important assignment the regiment will ever receive. Felix has trained his whole life for this.

“Miroh has many enemies,” speaks the head trainer. It is a familiar speech, more important now than ever. “But our target is his local rival. This enemy family has been a corrupting force for generations, taking through inheritance what it has not earned. Miroh is not like The Enemy. Miroh is a solider like you. He came from nothing, fought for scraps, and built his own business one brick at a time. He understands the world and he will fix it through you. You will be his hands in the places he cannot reach. Your role is an honourable one.”

A trainer passes Felix. Felix straightens his spine that last infinitesimal degree. They touch his shoulder but do not reprimand him. It makes his pulse hammer with anticipation.

Felix is one of the best. There is a possibility they will pick him, if only because the actual best has a habit of—

“Oh, cheer up, mate,” Chris’s voice comes from a few rows back. “You know what they say: all work and no play makes—”

He is interrupted by a whoosh of air, probably a trainer punching him in the stomach. Felix closes his eyes so he does not wince.

“Bang Christopher Chan,” the head trainer says, his voice booming across the facility floor. “Step forward.”

Felix hears a frustrated sigh, then Chris stomps through the lines to reach the front row. Everyone looks at him.

He is an unassuming character. Not very tall but deceptively strong. Curly black hair and dimpled cheeks. Felix remembers that smile, the lilting and friendly, “Call me Chris,” when Felix was just six years old and first thrown into the regiment.

Bang “Call Me Chris” Chan is the best soldier here. Or he would be, if he did not hate the honour.

Even now he is glaring. Like the rest of them, he is dressed in combat clothes, the pitch black of Miroh. Unlike the rest of them, he stands with a lazy hunch in his shoulders. His dark hair is dishevelled and he scowls like a petulant teenager. He is thirteen going on fourteen but he is far from a normal teenage boy. Even compared to the rest of them, Chris is something special.

“Bang Chan,” the head trainer says. “You have been chosen for this assignment. Congratulations.”

Felix is not surprised. When Chris is forced to apply himself, it is abundantly clear he is the best soldier in the program by a huge margin. Felix is also not surprised when Chris responds with his usual verve and ire.

“Yeah, uh, you can go ahead and shove your congratulations up your ass, mate,” Chris says. He crosses his arms stubbornly. “Even if we kill this guy, do you really expect us to believe that’s the end of it? You’re putting us in the middle of a fight we didn’t start.”

He addresses the soldiers behind him just as much as the trainer. He even glances at Felix who glares back at him, unimpressed with the rebellious dramatics. Chris never learns. He gets more chances than the rest of them because he is so good. If he wanted, he could be unstoppable. He could use his strengths for good.

Instead, he just looks at the trainer and shakes his head.

“Nah,” Chris says. “You started this fight. I’m not ending it.”

A few of the adult guards move towards him. The gathered soldiers take a collective breath, watching with anticipation. It is common knowledge that thirteen year old Bang Chan can take a regular adult guard in a matter of seconds. When it comes to Chris, the question is not who will win, but will he fight at all?

He stands there like he has no intention of fighting. But before anyone can grab him, the door opens.

Miroh enters.

The room is so tense and silent, his footsteps reverberate like thunder. Miroh is every inch a soldier even in his blazer and tie. He walks with purpose, his face intent.

Walking behind him, keeping decent pace despite her smaller frame, is his daughter.

Miroh is a fighter who does not believe in unearned inheritance, so his daughter is trainee soldier like the rest of them. She is the same age as Chris. She trains with the regiment, one of the better agents, but she was not in contention for this particular job. People have tried to kill The Enemy before and it did not work, resulting in the death of innocents. Miroh wants a strong heir and he is not above putting her through the same grueling regime as the rest of them, but he will not recklessly risk her life.

It is fair to Felix. Miroh’s world makes sense. He believes in it. He believes in him.

So he is rapt as Miroh approaches.

The adult guards fall back and the young soldiers stand at attention. Miroh’s jaw is set with grim determination. He stares at Chris.

Chris drops his crossed arms. He is smart enough not to run his mouth at Miroh directly, but his frustration is clearly simmering beneath the surface. His fingers curl and uncurl in little fists.

Miroh stands in front of him. He speaks loud enough to address the entire room.

“I do not begrudge your desire for information,” Miroh says. “You’re soldiers, not animals. I acknowledge that you wish to know about the long-term goals for this company. But that is not your job or your purpose. This business is deliberately compartmentalized so if one cog in the machine fails, the apparatus does not cease to function. The results of your missions speak for themselves. What we’re doing is good work. That is all that matters.”

“Says you,” Chris blurts. Even he looks surprised by his own retort, though he does not take it back. He looks Miroh in the eye.

Miroh looks back. Then he reaches into the holster beneath his long coat and draws a gun. It is smooth, second-nature. Miroh is used to getting his hands dirty. His steady hand points the gun at Chris.

The trigger has not been pulled but the trainers already flinch. They know Chris is the best and they have worked hard to shape him, even if his stubborn mind is not molded as easily as his body.

Chris, himself, does not flinch. He stares down the barrel, unrelenting.

“You don’t want to do that.”

The soft interjection makes everyone pause. Heads turn and eyes dart, everyone’s attention transferring to the thirteen year old girl in the shadows.

Miroh does not lower the gun but he looks at his daughter. Chris looks at her too. Felix is not sure who is more bewildered.

The girl, herself, is calm. She has indubitably mastered a stoic countenance, not a hint of emotion anywhere on her young face.

“He’s the First Guard,” she states simply. “This is not worth killing him over.”

The First Guard. The other kids in the regiment sometimes call Chris that, though he doesn’t like it so it is usually behind his back. Chris does not like that he has been singled out. Chris does not like anything about the program.

This is Miroh’s second attempt at the youth soldier program. The operation raises soldiers from childhood to fight, to withstand pain, to feel no fear. This training is supplemented with medical treatments, hormonal injections that are only effective if administered in the crucial developmental years of childhood. It aids in building a body for soldiership, to take a hit just a little harder than most.

Chris is the only survivor from the first round of injections. He survived every test that followed. He is stronger for it, even stronger than the rest of them. He is a singular asset. He will never be replicated.

Thanks to The Enemy, none of them will ever be replicated. The Enemy recently attempted to recruit Miroh’s developers and killed them when he did not succeed. Detailed knowledge of the treatment died with them.

Miroh can never accomplish anything with his enemy on perpetual offense. Felix knows the stories like the rest of them, the generations of corruption wrought by a single wealthy family with its iron fist wrapped around the country’s throat. Miroh wants to free them. Felix knows if they kill this one man, if the household is left to rot in the hands of its weak successor, then Miroh can finally set everyone free.

It is a noble honour.

Chris does not see it that way. He never has. Maybe it is different for him, having watched those other children die. Felix understands it was a sacrifice, but a necessary one. The Enemy cannot be killed by a regular soldier. So many more innocents will die if he is left unchecked. Surely that is worth the price of a few soldiers. Wars have casualties. It will be worth it.

It has to be worth it.

Bang Chan, the First Guard – call me Chris – takes a deep breath. It sounds frustrated. He glares at Miroh’s daughter who is unaffected.

Felix looks between them. Then his gaze lands on another soldier in the formation. Seo Changbin is in the first row, a boy one year older than Felix. Not the best soldier, not second best, but not the worst. His most notable trait is his humour and his friendship with Miroh’s daughter. They are close – at least as close as anyone can be down here.

Changbin is looking at her right now, his gaze searing with intensity. Their eyes meet briefly and he shakes his head, a small motion, just enough for her to see. Despite his clear warning to stop, she is not dissuaded from addressing her father.

“With all due respect, sir,” she says to Miroh, “Eliminating Bang Chan would be a mistake. He’s the best soldier in the operation.”

“The best,” Miroh says. He presses the barrel of the gun against Chris’s forehead. Chris goes tense and everyone takes a breath.

His daughter is still unmoved. She is a quiet character in general. Felix has barely heard her speak never mind argue. She keeps her head down and goes about her work obediently. She is a good daughter and a better soldier.

Maybe that is why Miroh hesitates.

“He is not the best if this is how he conducts himself,” Miroh says.

“Father, aren’t you the best at what you do?” she asks without hesitation. “Surely a proper soldier like you should be able to control a little boy. Are you saying you are not capable of that task? It takes no skill to shoot a teenager. What message do you send to the rest of us if you have to resort to desperate measures to keep your own army in line?”

The silence is deafening. Even with a gun plastered to his forehead, a little dimple of amusement pops in Chris’s cheek. Changbin exhales. Felix is sick of standing still but he holds his form despite the growing tension.

The seconds feel like hours. Eventually, Miroh lowers the gun.

“Guards,” he says. The adult guards are immediately at his side. “My daughter has faith in our order. I would be remiss as a father to fail her.” He looks down at Chris and speaks with a snarl in his upper lip, “Let us all try our best to succeed.”

Miroh snaps his fingers and points at Chris. The guards swarm him, two of them taking an arm each. At least Chris is smart enough not to struggle. He is an indomitable force but he does not have an army at his call. He lets himself be seized.

“Take him to the Cell,” Miroh says.

An instinctive hiss leaves the mouths of a few soldiers. They have all been trained to withstand various degrees of torture, but the Cell is one of the worst. Even Felix shudders at the mention of it. It is a small windowless room buried deep in the bunker of the training facility, a small prison cell with no light and no warmth. Everyone has taken a turn in isolation, camped on the hard ground in the damp and cold and dark. Down there, minutes feel like days, days like years. At least literal torture causes sensation. The Cell is a great black nothing.

Chris does not argue, knowing it would be useless, but he does glare at Miroh as he is hauled away.

“Take her too,” Miroh says.

With a snap of his fingers, two more guards surface and grab his daughter. Her stoic expression finally fractures, true surprise bursting on her face.

“Me?” she asks.

“As my daughter, your perspective is acknowledged and appreciated,” he says. “As a soldier, you need to remember your place. Throw them in together. Double the people, double the time.”

Felix would not want to be shoved in that tiny space with another person. Certainly not if the trade was double the duration.

But then, Felix does not like company. He does not understand the exhausted look on Changbin’s face. Changbin isn’t being punished, so why would he feel anything?

Felix watches. He holds his form even where others begin to wane.

The guards and their prisoners leave. The door closes and Miroh looks over the regiment.

“Who’s the second best?” Miroh asks.

There is a beat of silence, the scene settling. The trainer finally clears his throat and looks down at his papers.

“Lee Felix Yongbok,” he says in that booming voice. Felix’s heart soars just as high. “Step forward.”

Felix marches forward, keeps his eyes ahead. Miroh approaches him. Felix does not flinch, not even when Miroh circles him like prey.

“He’s young,” Miroh says. “What do you have to say for yourself, boy?”

“I want to do good,” Felix answers. “I’m ready.”

They put a gun in his hand and a beanie on his head. He enters the world looking like a normal ten year old boy.

He puts a bullet in the head of The Enemy.

He suspects one day he will be back for the son and granddaughter.

He hopes it will be soon.

P R E S E N T D A Y

Despite your father’s remarkable propensity for making you feel like a child, you are a grown adult. You are intelligent and conniving and dangerously competent. In some ways, having been raised like a soldier beneath his merciless iron fist, you are more steadfast, more severe. Your life is carved into his, your fates tethered as one to his success. You are your father’s daughter, a Miroh, irrevocably a product of his upbringing.

You do not show weakness. You do not throw tantrums. You might spend twenty minutes in the lobby bathroom, splashing cold water on your face, and you might spend another five minutes shining your shirt buttons, then ten more folding and re-folding the lapel of your long coat – but walking into his office almost forty minutes late is not the same thing as throwing a tantrum.

You think you’re composed until you walk through that door, then the week’s anxieties expand in the cage of your chest. You are capable but you are not stupid. Miroh might be your father but he is a totalitarian man of influence and it would be foolish not to be wary of his power.

You are more apprehensive than you appear, but you march in there like a soldier, shoulders back and head high. You inherited your father’s marble expressions and stone stature. No one would ever guess your palms were so clammy, your neck hot and damp with sweat.

“I’m here,” you say by way of greeting. You are not characters to indulge in artificial small talk. There is no affection here and pretending otherwise is a waste of everyone’s time.

“I won’t bother with pre-amble,” he says, predictably. ”You know why you’re here.”

“I do,” you say. “And I don’t agree with it.”

“I know you don’t.”

The argument ends just like that. You knew it was a dead-end protestation before you opened your mouth, but you had to say something. You are adamantly opposed to your father’s latest imposition.

A personal, twenty-four hour bodyguard. For you.

The decision was not made lightly. Your father’s business rival perished just under a month ago, the bloody circumstances extreme and mysterious. Until Miroh can ascertain what truly transpired at that house on that fateful night, then he cannot be too careful when it comes to guarding his own legacy.

Your father is a military tactician and business man. He is in the habit of bracing for every eventuality with a detached, pragmatic determination. Of course he wants you watched. This bodyguard assignment is imperative in protecting his house.

“I have a security team,” you say.

“They are insufficient,” he replies.

“I trained them myself.”

“They are too numerous.”

“I’ll cut down the roster.”

“Rotations open vulnerabilities.”

“And who’s to replace them?” Your patience snaps. “One of your dogs?”

“You are also one of my dogs,” he says, voice soft for such a venomous retort. It stings like a slash across your chest. “I would not disparage them.”

“Oh, of course, my apology.” You speak with the same false gentility. “What a thoughtful master you are.”

“I must be,” he says, “because the dogs still come when I call.”

There is so much contempt in his voice. He looks at you with more hatred than he ever directed to his worst enemy. It makes you want to leap across this room and throttle him with your bare hands, like you can shake the animosity right out of him.

You are too old to feel like a little girl on the verge of tears, demanding to know why her father does not love her. You have long since accepted there is no easy answer to that question. You would say that Miroh is simply not capable of love but you know that is not true. He can love. He just doesn’t love you.

You are the perfect heir, his exact replica in ability and countenance, but it is not enough. It will never be enough. No matter what you do, no matter how faithfully you obey him. You have bloodied your hands in the shadows while he takes the public credit. You have helped build the reputation of the family name. You have given him everything.

He rewards you with this.

You are not stupid. Regardless of his excuses, he does not want you under surveillance for your protection. You both know your personal training puts you leagues ahead of the overwhelming majority of agents. Your security team is a superfluous accessory as is.

Miroh has just witnessed the collapse of a previously impenetrable legacy. This does not put him at ease. The battle technician accounts for every possible manoeuvre. You know he foresees his own downfall just as easily as he sees his success. Unseated before his time, reputation annihilated, replaced by someone as savage and persistent as him.

A bodyguard will not protect you from the world. It will protect Miroh from you.

For all your inner turmoil, you are a steadfast rock, standing across your father in his office and exchanging a knowing glance. You are just like him. Of course he is scared of you. Of course he hates you. Of course he needs you.

The feeling is devastatingly mutual.

“Who is it?” you ask, calmly.

“Agent Slump, step forward,” your father calls one of the guards posted at the back wall. “This is your new bodyguard officer. He will accompany you at all times, day and night, including your office hours and service train—”

The agent steps forward as your father speaks. You draw your gun out of your chest holster and shoot when the man steps into your periphery. It blows through his shoulder and knocks him down, all in a piercing shriek that reverberates around the small room. The other guards flinch in the ringing aftermath.

You look at your father and re-holster your gun. You lay the lapel of your long coat back over your chest.

“He leaves something to be desired,” you say. “I would have thought you learned your lesson with these undertrained toy soldiers. Maybe a better bodyguard would have kept your wife alive.”

Your own mother died during complications in childbirth. Miroh remarried a few years later, a woman he genuinely seemed to cherish, a woman who was killed in retaliation for a deal gone sour. Nothing fills your father with more righteous fury than the mention of her. Miroh loved her almost as much as he hates you.

You know better than to retaliate with such childish rejoinders, but you want to hit him where it hurts, see something real on that stoic face. It garners you a flicker of rage, bathed in all that loathing, and it makes you smile.

“Let me know if you can find a competent replacement,” you say. “Until then, I have work to do.”

You turn heel and march to the door. The guards move out of your way despite lack of command. They have never respected you the way they respect your father, but they do fear you and it works the same way.

You are dressed for the office but after an unproductive hour spent stewing in agitation, you give up. The head of your security team accompanies you across town to the primary training facilities. Hidden in plain site, here Miroh has trained and developed some of his most deadly assets.

You are one of those assets. You spent your childhood in this facility, training among an elite selection of children, raised for the purpose of violence and victory. It was a unique program. It has never been revived, the medicant administered to the children lost and yet to be replicated.

You are one of the few still living.

Your training was relatively more lax. As Miroh’s daughter, the trainers could not let you die. But neither he nor they had qualms with letting you suffer. Miroh never admonished them and you never complained, at the time naively thinking that if you could prove yourself then he would care about you.

A foolish aspiration long since abandoned.

But the training has served you well over the years. It certainly comes in handy when you need to fucking punch something.

Your security team is comprised of regular soldiers so it does not take much to best them in a fight. The exertion is nonetheless liberating. You have always felt more at ease in action than behind a desk. Combat clothes are less stifling than formalwear. There is a reason Miroh never paraded you at parties the way his late enemy did with his late daughter. Your place is in a fight and always has been.

After a few rounds in the ring, you stop to rest. Your team knows when to leave you alone to brood. You lay back on the mat, flat in the ring.

There is a moment, as often passes, where you question your entire life. It has been a long, vicious fight, clawing your way to your position, that the road back out seems like an impossibly arduous task. Too much has happened, too much pain and loss. It has to mean something.

You cannot surrender now. The very thought has you reeling, physically painful to even consider.

This is where you belong. It is an irrevocable truth. You are a Miroh.

“Yah, murder princess,” comes a voice and the thud of booted steps. “Just three rounds? Tsk. You’re getting soft.”

You roll over, grinning even though you know better. You look up at Changbin who is dressed in similar fatigues, his bulky arms crossed over his broad chest, his dark bangs brushing his smirking face.

“I was waiting for a real fight,” you reply. “Looks like I’m still waiting.”

He barks out a laugh.

Changbin is one of the few survivors of your father’s special-ops program. Unlike others who were imported from your father’s overseas operations, Changbin was raised right here alongside you. You do not even remember meeting him; he has just always been there.

He is a few years younger but he always held your attention, both because of his skill and his ability to retain a sense of humour. It was an often sought breath of relief in the conditions of your training.

You look at Changbin now, grinning and more jovial than someone like him should be. It is a testament to his resolute strength that he can hold a dual personality inside him. He has always been that way. He can flip between a stoic soldier and goofy guy in the blink of an eye. It is part of the reason you have never let yourself entirely trust him. Though you are fond of him, he is like you: just a little too good at what he does.

“Haha, the princess thinks she’s a comedian now,” Changbin says. He nudges you with the tip of his boot. “If you want to make me laugh, you should try fighting.”

“Oh, I see.” You cannot help but rise to his bait, like always. He is a perpetual little brother even though he is not your real brother and certainly not little anymore.

You swipe at him and he jumps back. Just like that, the pair of you fall into a long practiced dance.

It is not the gentle footwork of a real dance, but a violent collision and parry of limbs. It is just as musical and in sync, and somehow almost as tender. You know each other’s weaknesses as well as strengths. You know how to beat each other and how to prolong surrender, where to give advantage so the other can continue. You used to fight until the trainers called a tie, saving you both from selection for the loser’s punishment. To everyone else, it looked like a fight. To you, it was a conversation and consolation. Even if you had been in solitude for weeks, in that moment you were not alone.

Changbin reads you now, in every swipe and jump and dodge. In your matching black clothes and matching strength you collide and converse. Your frustration strains in every vein and his enquires are plain in the deliberate pause of his complicated steps.

“Daddy problems, ah, murder princess?” he asks, grinning.

He catches your fist before it collides with that smirk, twisting your wrist so you are forced to follow with a heavy drop. You roll together, a back and forth until you individually spring to your feet and face each other. You wait for the next move with equal calculation.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you say, batting a hit.

“Really?” he asks. “Because there are rumours in the pig pen that the general was looking for a big strong soldier to protect his little princess.”

He lets you clock his jaw but it is a satisfying smack nonetheless. A drop of aggravation is wrung out with your sweat. You wipe your brow.

“There was a change of plans,” you say.

Changbin laughs. He is loud, always so loud for someone who can be so stealthy.

“Of course!” he shouts. “Keeping the doctors busy today, are you?”

He really knows you too well. It is mutual. You side-step a movement and body-check him.

“Guess that’s what the general gets for choosing from the pig pen,” you say. You infuse your father’s title with all the sardonic venom it deserves and pig pen with the same playful mockery as always.

“Don’t be jealous,” Changbin teases right back, catching your taunt as easily as he catches your punch. “If you keep practicing, one day you might be almost as good as me.” He has been making the same wisecrack for years, laughing to himself every single time.

“Funny,” you say dryly.

“I am the best,” he continues to tease, embellishing his movements with an unnecessarily dramatic flair. “I’m sure that’s why the general doesn’t want me on bodyguard duty, right? I need a real job, not protecting the princess.”

There are a few rapid-fire moves, too taxing for speech. Then you manage, “Right.” You take his offered opening and catch the back of his knee with yours. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with your probation after the last field mission.”

You expect to take him down but you do not expect the weight of his crash. It is not like Changbin to fully collapse under you, almost like he was truly surprised.

You are just as dazed by the impact. You loom over him, staring bemusedly, like you have no idea how he got on the floor.

It is not like Changbin to take a hit so personally. Of all your father’s soldiers, he was always the best at shrugging off his individuality in favour of a mission. He does not tend to dwell on his losses anymore than he lingers in his victories. The past is a heavy thing to carry into battle. He knows to leave it behind. There is always another job around the corner.

“You’re not still upset about that?” you ask.

The mission was shortly before the enemy’s downfall. Years ago, one of your father’s child soldiers betrayed an operation. Lee Felix switched sides and the enemy did not let your father forget it. But Miroh is an ever-calculating general who knows which battles are worth fighting. After one failed attempt at seizing the enemy’s daughter, he waited until the enemy came to him instead.

When he finally did, you caught him. You sent Changbin after his daughter and waited for the enemy’s imminent surrender. He retracted his operation but Felix, that loose canon of a traitor-turned-bodyguard, fucked the Mirohs a second time and disappeared with her. They all died a week later.

Changbin was noticeably uneasy after the job, but you did not think much of it. You were not worried about Changbin taking the mission too personally. Yes, Felix was a former soldier in this regiment, but Changbin is not sentimental. You chalked up his despondency to his loss. It is not like him to let a target slip through his fingers.

“Upset,” Changbin says. “Me?”

You know him too well. The joking tone is diminished, buried beneath the weight of his gloom. He tries to smile but it does not fit on his face, too big and too wide of a grin.

You tip your head, your regard scrutinous. You have no idea how to talk to him with real depth. You look at each other and understand it, but vocalizing it is another matter entirely.

Like he can read your thoughts, his face scrunches up and he says, “Yah, you, cut that out!” He shoves you as he gets to his feet, both of you stumbling. “I’m fine,” he says. “Come on, hit me again.”

You are certainly better at conversing that way.

You take a starting stance but you are interrupted when someone from your security team whistles. It is a warning whistle, the sharp tone a code for the arrival of your father.

You and Changbin straighten, turning to watch as Miroh approaches with a flank of armed guards behind him. They are all dressed for combat in their black uniforms and black masks. The half-mask is regulation for all field agents. It covers the bottom half of the face and serves as protection in the event of smoke from explosions or exposure to noxious aerosols and gasses.

It also undoubtedly turns a human soldier into a less-than-human figure. It obscures features, faces, flaws.

Sharp eyes stare at you, every face uniform and expressionless. There are half a dozen of them. Your father’s usual security detail trails behind them. Your security team eyes them in turn. The whole room feels like a pot about to boil over.

“What is this?” you demand.

“This is my adherence to our agreement,” your father says.

“Our agreement?” you ask.

“Yes.” He stops in the middle of the room, standing straight and steady. He looks at ease, like he barges in here with a small army every day. “You tasked me to find a competent replacement bodyguard,” he says. “So here is how this will go: whichever agent can beat you in a fight, right here, right now, will be your new bodyguard. If you defeat them all, I will drop the issue and leave the matter of your personal security to you.”

You look at his soldiers then at him. You force yourself to composure. It is not like you to instigate so much confrontation. You prefer to keep your head down and get the job done. Your father does not love you but he knows your work is reliable. Usually that is enough.

This entire escapade with the enemy has unravelled everyone. The house of Miroh should be more stable than ever, your father taking over assets left behind by the enemy, but the whole world feels changed. It is off its axis. You feel unsteady, your body braced for attack with no reprieve. You feel like you are looking at the world through someone else’s eyes. Everything feels wrong.

In difficult times, you fall back on training and soldier instinct. You are a battle technician, just as competent as your father. He is not going to drop the issue and this is a fair compromise. You can fight these guards. Half a dozen well-trained field agents is a handful but not impossible. Your body is built to be a little faster, a little stronger, to take a hit harder.

“Fine,” you say, a single grating syllable. You bite the word. Through clenched teeth, you add, “Let’s do this.”

You and Changbin exchange a look. He reflects your confusion, knowing you can easily take these guards, knowing Miroh knows that too. It makes you feel even more uneasy. Your father must be planning something but you do not know what. But you cannot control him. You can only control yourself. You can fight these guys. You can win.

You take a swig of water then stretch. The first guard takes a position in the fighting ring. You brace yourselves with a starting stance, measuring the other.

You wait, sweat dripping down your brow. You feel their eyes on you, every soldier, your father, your friend. Changbin stands off to the side, sitting in shadows.

It is where your kind belongs. You are not regular soldiers.

The fight begins and you take him down swiftly. Your game with Changbin was just that, a game. This is real. This is a battle. This is what your body was made to do.

One by one, you take out the agents. They charge at you, they swing at you, they even try to taunt you. You deflect it all. Your fist connects with a temple, your foot their knee. You pop joints and flip soldiers and springboard back to action.

You are getting tired by the last soldier but you do not let it show. You sweat profusely, breathing hard, but you run at him and take him down. Your bodies are a swirl of limbs and powerful movements. Then he is on the ground, groaning, and you are rising, victorious.

“Well?” you say. You cannot help but grin, elated from the sheer exertion of exercise, and proud of your triumph. There is a small, stupid part of you that hopes underneath everything, your father is proud too. That he must relent and admit you are good.

Miroh just stands there, unmoving and unaffected. It dims your smile, frustration returning. It simmers hot beneath your skin. It distracts you.

Pain explodes in your left cheek, so sharp and searing it turns the world dark for half a second. You see lightning flashes as you stumble, falling onto your side. There is another guard in front of you, one you did not even see enter the room. Did he drop down from the ceiling?

He is a blurry shape. You blink the stars out of your eyes, holding your throbbing head until clarity returns.

Then your stomach drops.

It is not a guard looming over you. He wears the same black combat uniform and the same half-mask, but everything about him is different, everything from his build to his stance to the ice cold slash of his dark eyes. Emotionless. Empty.

“Ah, I see,” you say, a breathless slur of words. You cannot stop your voice from shaking. “The First Guard. I should have known.”

There are only two living soldiers who can fight at your level. The only two survivors of your father’s special-ops program. One of them is Seo Changbin.

The other is Bang Christopher Chan.

He stands over you in his combat gear, unflinching and barely human. Even without the mask, you doubt you would see any humanity. There is not a single shred of the boy he once was. Chan was a problem for Miroh, once. That was a very long time ago.

That boy, Chris, is dead. He has been dead for years. The soldier in front of you is someone – something – else.

You get to your feet, slowly and shakily. He watches you. He does not speak and he barely blinks, his gaze a meticulous perusal, his body braced for anything.

Chan has the bloodiest, dirtiest hands of them all. He does your father’s worst missions, assignments with details that even you are barred from knowing. He is terrifyingly efficient, deadlier than any weapon in Miroh’s arsenal, and that is saying something because it is a substantial arsenal.

Your own hands are dirty but it is nothing in comparison. He is fast, he is deadly, and he feels nothing. He looks at you like a machine scans a calculation. A broken bone here, a fracture there. You are certain he is already picturing a hundred different ways to contort your broken body.

“Right,” you say.

You are a strategist. You know how to fight. You know when not to fight. But it is like instinct. You look at him and something says fight him.

You feel your father’s eyes on you. You are not sure who is teaching who a lesson.

You take a swing at Chan. He dodges it. He swings too, faster, but you anticipate it. You tuck and roll, moving faster than you have ever moved in your life. You are seldom pushed to the brink of your abilities like this. Even half your skillset is double what most adversaries possess.

But Chan is too much. You spend the fight on constant defense, blocking swing after swing, hit after hit. You take advantage of the smallest opening and crack your fist on his chest, only to realize he deliberately opened himself to it. He grabs your wrist and twists you around before you can retaliate. You are not used to such brute strength. You follow his twisting to prevent a sprain or fracture, which he anticipates. He grabs you by the throat and yanks you into him, right off your feet.

You choke, blue swarming your rapidly blurring vision. He slams you down on the ground, further disorienting you, still clutching your neck.

You dive somewhere deep inside your head. You collect yourself as per your training, then swing your knee up between his legs. It does not fully incapacitate him but it does discombobulate him. He lets go of your throat and you slide between his legs, jumping up behind him. He turns just in time to take a kick to the stomach, blasting him backwards to the end of the ring. He prevents a worse fall by forcing himself down on one knee.

You take the second he is down to catch your breath. You try to calculate your next move but your adrenaline is dwindling. Hopelessness settles in your chest. You cannot win this fight. At best, you can prolong it, but—

For the second time, you are blind-sided by pain. It shatters down the right side of your body, a winded shove that blows right through you. But it is not Chan. Chan is still getting to his feet.

You look up only for Changbin to bring his fist down in your face. It knocks you off your feet and you land with a heavy thud. Your heart races inside your aching chest.

You have never fought Changbin like this.

“What are you doing?” you hiss when he grabs you by the neck and drags you onto your feet. You come to your senses and fight back, but you are hurt and tired and he has been recuperating.

He punches you clear across the jaw and knocks you down again. The world tilts sideways, spotted with black and blue. Changbin drops on top of you. You cannot even wrestle him, so disoriented. He gets you flat on your front and pins you down.

Then he takes a second to whisper in your ear, “Stop fighting me, murder princess. Who do you want as a bodyguard? Me or that thing?”

If you were not so tired, you might have laughed.

Your life is so backwards. Changbin is helping you by beating the shit out of you. But it is undoubtedly helpful. He is right. If Chan beat you, then Chan would be your bodyguard. Your father would win. He would have one of his agents glued to your side. An agent you would never be able to shake no matter what you did.

But it is not Chan over you. It is your friend. Someone from the same shadows as you. Someone your father was not anticipating.

Changbin grabs you by the neck and yanks you up. You look at your father with blood dribbling out of your mouth.

“I win,” Changbin says.

Your father does not look happy. That should upset you. You and Miroh are bound as one.

But it gives you a thrill. His abomination of a soldier looms to the side, still staring at you, like he expects the fight to continue any second. You suppose Chan’s life is one big fight and always has been.

It doesn’t have to be that way for you, you think to yourself, a dangerous thought, one conjured by the feeling of your only friend holding you in his arms. It looks like a death grip to anyone else, purely technical, but you feel it, the way he cups your injuries carefully despite his bulk and power.

Miroh is scared. He is getting desperate. He wants you brought to heel. In doing so, he is only stoking your resentment.

That pot starts to boil over.

“Well?” you say, in a voice as rough as gravel.

“Yes,” your father says with a petty little snarl. “I suppose you have won, haven’t you?”

Changbin helps you off the ground. You suffer through your pains. You can feign steadiness for another minute, for long enough to retaliate.

You climb out of the ring. You pass the other injured guards. You walk right up to your father.

Miroh stares at you. You have identical glares, measuring each other. Two soldiers with the same fire in their blood.

You punch him. It is a nice sharp shot across the face, using all the strength you have left. You are one of the best. Despite your injuries, it is still one fucking hell of a punch.

Miroh falls back in an undignified sprawl, hitting the hard ground with a painful thud. He is good but he is not you. A fall like that would not have broken your bones the way it clearly fractures his arm.

“Until next time, father,” you say.

You step over him. His security team immediately surrounds him, helping him up. Your team comes to your aid as well. Changbin follows too, coming right up to your side. He grabs your arm and slings it around his shoulder, taking the brunt of your weight seconds before you would have collapsed.

You look back over your shoulder. The injured guards are tending their wounds. Chan is looming in the background like a living shadow. Miroh is clutching his arm and staring at you with fury pouring out of him. You walk away, smiling despite your injuries.

Your father should know better than to hit you.

You always hit back.

#bang chan x reader #chan x reader #bang chan x you #chan x you #bang chan fanfiction #bang chan smut #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids fanfiction #skz fanfiction #skz x you #stray kids x you

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willownwisp · 3 months

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love like a love song

a love sung, is a love that is lived.

author's note: hi, i'm opening my requests now so feel free to send asks for me! just peek at my nuh-uh list in my pinned for the things i'm okay with and fandoms that i write. also i still suck at titles, and pardon if my format isn't set yet, and my writing style changes. i'm an indecisive air sign also pls befriend me </3 it's so lonely in tumbles w/o friends the fic isn't dialogue heavy as i want to focus on feelings. <3 cw: nsfw mdni pls, SOFT AND FLUFFY, reader is a hopeless romantic and leon is hopelessly in love, fem!reader x di!leon kennedy, p in v.

What once was a sneaky mission to ease your midnight munchies turns into embarrassment when Leon, ever the alert and seasoned agent, catches you leaving his side, and unfortunately thwarting your plans as he follows the sound of your soft footsteps towards the kitchen. Finding you and wrapping his arms around your waist, the height difference making you nuzzle up into his chest and you smile up at him. Sleepy blue eyes, looking at you like you were his life line, and he's never shy to admit that you are. So you look at him like he's the only man in the world, you hope your memory etches every detail of his face because you are so disgustingly in love with each other, sometimes words fall short, and you want to love him with all that your body can show. You never learned how to dance, skipping prom might have been the best idea you've ever struck in your high school mind occupied with thoughts of wanting to be different, coupled with your averseness to boys. Leon doesn't dance, never learned to, the only dance he knows is a tango with death most of his life. Perhaps dancing in the palms of top brass? You pick. Yet the two of you both find yourselves in the kitchen at midnight, you in one of his old shirts, faded with time, Leon in his sweats swaying with you to the beat of nothing but the thrumming in his chest as he cradles you close to him.

It's laughably corny how the moonlight illuminates your eyes, the argentine glow of that lone moon like a spotlight as it peeks through the opened kitchen window. No words are spoken when he sways your body along with his as you are caged in his arms, you face him, and he stops in his tracks. If you were a cartoon character, you'd have hearts for eyes by now. Tired blue eyes looking back at yours, and you swoon, because you know you're his life line, and you're proud to be his. Leon captures your lips in a sweet kiss, you sigh in his mouth before your hands reach up to cup his cheeks, the feeling of his stubble on your skin is one of your favorite sensations, second only to him kissing you. Leon kisses you like tomorrow doesn't exist for him, he savors the taste of your lips that murmur sweet nothings when you think he's asleep, yet only pretending to, just to hear you. You're the only tender thing in his life, so he worships the softness of your skin, the gentle youth you had in you, because that will never be him. Your soft sighs, pleasant moans, are adorable to him, especially when you try to reach him, standing on the tips of your toes because you're cute like that. "Leon? Lovey?" "Hm?" "I love you so much my heart almost always wants to explode." You confess to him, and he swears he could cry, but not now. Leon scoops you up in his arms and lays you down the kitchen table unceremoniously. He covers your body with his and he kisses you all over, while you're wide-eyed and sighing whenever his lips land on your skin, leaving a trail of heat. Calloused hands slowly pulling up his old shirt to expose your bare breasts as he rains kisses down on you. Worship and devotion, Leon kisses the valley between your breasts, thumbs massaging your nipples while his kisses trail south. His fingers hooked on your panties before he gently takes it off of you. His lips follow south, pressing open-mouthed kisses on your inner thighs down to your calves. He grins at the glistening wetness on your pussy before he presses a chaste kiss on your clit, another one, and another one before lapping at your wetness like you're a goddess feeding him ambrosia. Because Leon is a starved man, but with your appearance in his life, his hankering for love, affection, company is quenched and more. So he loves you with his mouth until you cum on his tongue. Your fluids coating his stubble but he doesn't care. When his cock slips inside you, he doesn't move, not yet. He puts his weight on you, lacing his fingers with yours because he doesn't just have sex with you. He makes love, because you are the embodiment of love for him. You savor his fullness, and he delights in the way you clench around him. Sometimes he wonders if there is another way to be even closer to you, to be one with your very soul. His thrusts are slow, he doesn't focus on roughness. That was for when he's stressed, or when he has gotten home after an op and wants to feel you, to anchor himself in your warmth. You lazily wrap your legs around his waist and sigh, your hands bringing him down as you cup his cheeks to let his forehead rest on yours. Deep blue eyes that hold the deepest depths of his love for you, and you stare into that ocean and dive with him. When you cum, you cum together. Basking in that love with the beating of both your hearts and the syncing of both your breaths. After a moment of silence, Leon smiles and whispers: "I love you so much that my heart wants to explode."

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy #leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy smut #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy x you #leon x you #leon x reader #leon scott kennedy

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tanglepelt · 8 months

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Dcxdp idea 112

Clockwork is tired.

Tired of the GIW targeting his son mentee. Tired of the Fenton parent’s threatening his existence. Of agent O and K.

Tired of the flashes messing with the time stream.

They may “fix” it. But it was always still a mess.

When an identity reveal goes wrong. Well he acts. Before it escalated, before Danny’s parents attacked.

Appearing before insert any flash or multiple flashes/kid flash. Clockwork demands they babysit his ward if they want to keep messing with the fabric of time.

This is the following conversation.

Danny: i don’t need a babysitter

Clockwork: there are people hunting you down

Danny: i can avoid my paretns.

Clockwork: and?

Danny: agent k and o have terrible aim

Clockwork eyebrow raised: and

Danny: okay okay okay so an entire group of guys in white

Clockwork:

Danny: fine and the entire US government. But i don’t need a babysitter.

#danny phantom #danny fenton #dcxdp #dpxdc #clockwork will make use of the flashes #there are too many #so any member of flashfam is good #Danny just keeps making the situation worse for himself #naming all of them #Danny does need a babysitter #flashfam babysit #probs escalate the situation #cause the government did what?#on that flimsy science #was it even peer reviewed?#dcxdp prompt #dcxdp crossover #clockwork definitely showed off his powers #to be like. don’t mess with me

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clownd1ck · 1 month

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trouble, j. miller | chapter three

mob!joel miller x fem!reader

chapter summary: you meet your best friend’s girlfriend for the first time, and you’ve never seen someone shit their pants more. and joel is so fucking done with you.

chapter warnings: reader’s sole purpose is to be an agent of chaos, strong language, implication of violence from reader, abby anderson appears guys, javier encourages your behaviour and is so ACHEKUSG, google translated spanish (PLEASE correct me if it’s wrong), no beta again LOL, dare i say it soft!joel??

word count: 1817

{series masterlist}

you’re sat waiting in a cafe, foot tapping against the tiled floor to its own rhythm. the cafe is about a fifteen minute walk away from your college campus, a place that you and georgia had made your second home. the coffee was cheap so that college students could afford it, and you had to admit, it was some of the best coffee you ever had. your favourite iced coffee had just been brought over to you, alongside a cookie that was warm and gooey.

as the door opens and the bell rings, you look up and lock eyes with georgia, sending a smile her way. you’re quick to notice the buff blonde behind her, dressed in a grey shirt and black cargos, her blonde hair in a braid. damn, you’d have to ask georgia for a threesome one day…

“hey, babe!” georgia exclaims, embracing you lightly before letting go as she turns to introduce you. “this is abby anderson.”

you give abby a once over, analysing her body language, her face, her placement in regards to georgia. she appeared intimidating, but her hand was locked with georgia’s. she stood behind your friend, her body relaxed and her breathing even. abby gave you a look that was welcoming, friendly, almost as if she knew who you were and was trying to make a good impression on you.

smart move.

“it’s nice to meet you, abby.” you hold out your hand for her to shake it, and she does so. you notice the slight sweat in her palm, clear anxiety over meeting georgia’s best friend who may or may not have tried to run her friend’s ex over with a car she’s not even legally allowed to drive.

“you…you too.” she stutters out, and they both take a seat as you take a sip out of your iced coffee once you released abby’s hand.

“so, abigail-”

“-abby.” georgia cuts you off, and you give her a look with a scary grin.

“what are your intentions with georgia?”

georgia sighs your name, and gives you a pleading look. “can we please not do this? abby’s been treating me good, better than anyone else i’ve ever dated. please.” her puppy dog eyes win you over.

“fuck, fine. but i just need you to know-” you turn to abby “-you should know this too. if any harm is done, i will be under your bed with a pocket knife ready to slit your ankles if anything happens to her.” you point at georgia. your tone is patronising, mocking abby and you feel like a beast the way you feast upon her fear as she eagerly nods her head.

“good, now that’s out of the way. what do you study?” splitting your cookie in half, your lips forming an ‘o’ shape at the gooey delight, you take a bite out of one of the halves, looking abby dead in the eye.

“m…medicine.” there comes that stutter again, and you have to stifle a laugh because you’re sure georgia has filled her with stories about your behaviour towards anyone who has ever wronged her, but has then cut her own story off with “but she’s one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet once she knows i’m safe with you!”

you do warm up to abby throughout the next hour and a half the three of you are sat in the cafe, and you can tell she feels the same. she’s less tense, her face relaxed and no more stuttering. you see how openly affectionate she is with georgia, how soft she speaks and the admiration in her eyes for georgia’s simple existence. abby anderson is good for her, you can feel it.

the three of you walk back up to your college campus, and you catch the sight of a familiar man and his sexy porsche. joel leans against the car, arms folded over his chest, scowl on his face as he beckons you over with that little movement of his fingers.

you’re starting to feel seduced by that movement.

when you walk over to him, his head meets your level. “i’ve been waitin’ here for an hour.”

your eyebrows furrow, eyes squinting and your lips purse a little. “did you tell me you were here?”

“no.”

your eyes widen, shaking your head “so how the fuck would i know you’ve been waiting for an hour?”

“get your ass in the car.” he commands, and his eyes travel past you and seem to focus on something. you turn your body to meet where he looks, and the only reason why you pick up on it is because him and abby are staring at each other.

“what, have you never seen lesbians before? god, joel, this is embarrassing.” you roll your eyes and get into the passenger seat of his car. you don’t see the nod he gives abby, or the one who she gives back to him, because the second joel is in the driver’s seat, he’s out of the parking lot and driving to the club.

“i told you to only text me with work related things.” he starts, turning a street corner and you lick your lips when his hands clench onto the wheel.

“i do only text you work related things.”

joel gives you a quick look, his face conveying every emotion possible. “askin’ me if i think you’d win in a fight against the shark from ‘jaws’ isn’t a work related question!”

“i don’t see the problem here.” you shrug.

“you asked me at four in the mornin’!”

“and yet you responded, so you can’t complain.” you stick your tongue out at him as you soon pull into the parking lot of apocalypse, and you both get out, with joel opening any and all doors for you.

when you get to the v.i.p. section, you spot javier, and you immediately shout his name. when he turns around, he grins. “mi amor, i missed you.”

“missed you too, honeybunch.” you smile, hopping onto the bar top. “do you think i could win a fight against the shark from ‘jaws’?”

he looks at you, finger tipping up your chin with a smirk. “in a heartbeat, cariño.” his eyes scan your face, flicking back and forth as he takes in your features, and he lets out a low chuckle when you giggle.

“see, javier thinks i could win!” you shout at joel and he grumbles as he makes his way over.

he points at javier. “stop encouraging her behaviour.” he turns to you. “an’ you need to go get ready.” he grabs your hand, helping you jump off the bar top and steadying you as your feet meet the floor.

“goodbye, beautiful!” you wave javier goodbye.

“adios, bonita.” he bids, grabbing your hand from its previous position and gently kissing it, and it suddenly comes to your attention that you would not mind being between joel and javier, one fucking into your cunt and the other with his cock down your th-

“move your ass.” joel’s hand is firm against the back of your neck, but there’s something gentle about the way he touches you, hesitant almost. he guides you to the room with all the dancers in, and you make yourself at home, saying hi to adele, lucy, chelsea, destiny, and the rest of the girls as you get ready for your shift.

____

“i was thinking-”

“that’s not good.” joel cuts you off. you had barged into his office, lying down on his sofa and talking to him like he was your therapist.

your head snaps towards him, mouth agape in shock. “rude!” you throw a decorative pillow at him which he swiftly dodges, even with his back turned to you as he sorts through paperwork. “as i was saying before i was interrupted, i was thinking that you order me pizza.”

joel’s chair swivels round to face you. “an’ why would i do that when i’ve got chefs here?”

you groan. “‘cause i want a real greasy pizza from the place down the street.”

“tough shit, now get to workin’.” you whine at his words, kicking your legs against the sofa like a spoiled toddler as you reluctantly get off of it and walk out of his office.

the rest of your shift goes by in a breeze. it’s not busy tonight, so you spend most of the time by the bar flirting with javier. he even pours you a shot and shows you the blind spot, pulling you close to him when you take the shot like a champ.

the guests tonight were easy. you had gained a lot of money in tips, and you, destiny, and lucy were sat counting your tips at the bar by the end of the night. you were stood behind the bar with javier, leaning your chest against it and you knew he was getting a good view of your ass because you had purposely put yourself in this position.

“mama’s done good tonight!” destiny cheers, throwing her hands up in the air, her knotless braids swinging as she does so.

“same here!” lucy squeals and you join too. you had to have javi recount your money just to make sure you’d done it right.

“feeling like a millionaire already.” the shout causes the girls to laugh, and javier shakes his head with a smile. he gently pats your ass, telling you to go change so you can sleep.

you do as he says, linking arms with destiny and lucy as you change into your original clothes once you get back to the dancer’s room. you’re sat with adele, your head resting on her shoulder like a child with her mother when joel’s voice baritones through the door demanding you.

you give a swift kiss to adele’s cheek, bidding your departure to the girls before stepping out of the room.

when you look at joel, you catch sight of something in his hands. a medium sized pizza box, the order written on the top. just a plain cheese. you feel a smile itching its way onto your face because he probably did it based off the basics but a cheese pizza was your favourite kind.

“i did this so you’d shut up for once in your damn life.”

“you love when i talk.” you grab the pizza box out of his hands. “thank you.”

his hands return to the back your neck, but this time you swear you feel his fingers gently stroke the skin but you don’t want to say anything, too scared he might strip you of your pizza privileges.

so you prevent the quip of your lips ready to perk up, swallowing down your happiness as you make your way to his car, and start to wonder if maybe you should annoy him more often if it meant you got free food.

yeah, maybe you should.

____

a/n: reader who does not give a fuck and says what she wants x joel who’s just trying to commit a life of crime but there’s a menace in his way (ft. javier peña seducing reader and reader flirting with him)

btw guys if u want to be added (or taken off) my taglist pls let me know!! and if ur name is in white it’s bc i couldn’t find ur blog :((

taglist:

@dugiioh @amyispxnk @skysmiller @alyhull @noisynightmarepoetry @elliaze @dendulinka6 @zliteraturehoe @atyourmerci @al33naaa @mermaidgirl30 @lulawantmula @nana90azevedo @endlessthxxghts @getitoutofmymind @you-taste-so-sweet @blazeflays @iveseenstrangerthings50 @regalwhovianbrowncoat774 @aquanatalie @katw474 @ludwigxii-blog @eloquentdreamer @kyloispunk @txmel @din-jarring @daddysmilf0123 @sofiparallel @dunkinzjm @runningmom94 @ashhlsstuff @moel-jiller @isimpforfictionalmen @drewharrisonwriter @stormseyer @rodriguez31 @elliesswearjar @vvitchesh3x @joeldjarin @untamedheart81 @ellishamae25 @pedropascalfan221 @mellymbee @pedritosgfreal @yassspose @casa-boiardi

#joel miller x reader #joel miller fluff #joel miller x you #the last of us #joel miller angst #joel miller series #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller au #joel miller smut #mob!joel #mob boss!joel

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adventuringblind · 6 months

Text

Oscar the Matchmaker: Chapter Eight

Oscar Piastri x Reader x Max Verstappen

Summary: Reader travels back home to see her family with Max and Oscar. Things escalate a bit more then intended.

Warnings: religious things/trauma, sucky parents, talks of sexual activity

Notes: As someone who comes from a toxic church… this was much needed

Masterlist

Normally, Oscar is not a smug person. He doesn't rub things in people's faces (unless it's Lando). But in this moment, he allows himself to be a little smug.

The trio had made their way back to the females home for a weekend of their summer break. The last interaction he had with her parents was in formula two when they’d come to watch a race and got a glimpse of her terrible partners and her kissing around the corner.

He had to hold back his anger when he saw how uncomfortable she looked. Then he expected maybe her parents to do something about it. Instead they ridiculed her. Berated her. Essentially told her the devil had invaded her life.

She just stood there and took it. To the point where he stepped in and pulled her away because she looked distant. Numb to the world.

He hadn’t seen them since, and neither had she. Though he knows they talk occasionally.

Max, on the other hand, has never met them. Oscar had tried to give him a few pointers, but he'd already seen the fire behind his eyes. This was going to be a long weekend if Max had already settled for being an agent of chaos.

The trio makes their way to where their car is waiting to take them. The car where her parent are standing and waiting for them. Oscar wants nothing more then to see them pass out over their daughter and how well off she is. How successful she’s become without them.

She hugs them both when they get to the car. They look uncomfortable with the other two being around. “Welcome home. I thought it was just going to be you?” Questions her father. Oscar and Max both smile and go to shake his hand to introduce themselves, but he doesn’t reciprocate. Instead he frowns. And turns his attention back to his daughter.

“I said I wasn’t coming without them. If that makes you uncomfortable then we can always get back on the jet.”

“It’s fine- just be… decent, please.”

Oscar can hear Max inhale sharply. A look of annoyance crosses his features.

The Aussie is shocked that Max even agreed to such a thing. The entire point in coming here is to go to church with her parents, prove they aren’t possessed (or something like that) then leave. and frankly, max doesn’t seem like the kind of person to try to hold his tongue about his opinion for an entire weekend.

Their things go into the back and they climb into the (smaller then imagined) car. It’s certainly not something they normally travel in, but it feels like cuddling since its the three of them. So- Oscar can hardly complain much.

The majority of the ride is awkward small talk. Max eventually starts animatedly explaining something and in the heat of the moment his filter slips.

“Sorry- we don’t normally talk like that.”

“Good thing I can swear enough for the both of us then.” Max chuckles and the other two in the back start wheezing.

Yeah… it’s going to be a long weekend.

The house is relatively standard. Definitely not what they are used to seeing. Or at least, that’s what the female thinks as they they enter the house.

Her room has been emptied. It’s a little heartbreaking since they didn’t tell her. It’s like any trace of her existence has been erased. The bed is bigger then her old one and the room is void of any kind of decoration.

“Home sweet home.”

Max closes the door behind him. “I’m shocked they are letting us sleep together. They aren’t going to attempt an exorcism are them?”

all three of them toss their bodies onto the bed. “You have no idea how glad I am your here. It would suck to do this alone.”

“So- anyone up for purposely being as loud as possible and making the prudes out there think we’re having sex?” Max looks entirely to innocent. But Oscar looks even more so.

“Why fake it when we can do the real thing?”

“You two are terrible.”

The next morning is what she is absolutely dreading. Waking up when it’s still dark outside is not something any of them are good at. Add in that it’s for a religious event- They are rushing around getting ready.

It’s also sucks when they step out of the room, ready to go, the strength to face the inevitable.

“You’re not leaving in that.” Her father looks her up and down and her jaw tightens. The nerve of the man. She’s a fucking adult!

“I mean- she could be naked.” Oscar shrugs. It’s Max’s turn to keel over at a comment made. In reality, he’s not wrong. She wonders if it’s the lack of leggings for a dress that brushes the backs of her thighs. Or maybe it’s that he can see her shoulders.

Her parents start on some tangent that she tuned out about two sentences in. She makes eye contact with both boys. One looks exasperated like her and on the verge of just leaving early. The other is seething. Entirely red in the face.

Max’s hand hits the wall with an unrelenting force. “Sorry, I was compelled by the spirit… of anger! What the fuck are either of you talking about? either we leave here to whatever cult event this is, or we go home. But let her wear what she’s going to wear.”

The car ride is silent. Though she’s glad, because her nerves pick up immensely when they arrive. Max and Oscar pick up easily on her shaky hands. The product ends with her in-between them, the two males swinging her back and forth. She feels mildly like a child, but it’s calming, so she could care less.

The church is dead inside. Only a singular office light on. One that she dreads as she spent many hours inside of it. “Please tell me we’re not here to meet with the pastor.”

Her worst fear are come to life. Sitting on the sofa between Oscar and Max. Her parents on the other side and the pastor in a chair staring directly at her.

“I didn’t think you’d be back, y/n.” The voice she hates makes her shiver when it says her name.

“That makes two of us.”

“Are these your… friends?”

Max clicks his tongue. “Boyfriends.”

“It’s impossible to have two partners.” He sighs. Dissatisfied with Max’s correction. “You can’t possibly have a good sexual relationship between three people.”

Oscar coughs. “I beg to differ.” He shrugs and the pastor eyes him suspiciously.

“And why’s that?”

“I mean if you really want the details- just remember that you asked for it.” Oscar sits up in his seat and leans over his elbows. His hands now clasped in front of him. “Me and Max have a game we play that usually ends up in some kind of unpredictable scenario. I wouldn’t say we fight for control, we just race for it. She’s a bottom through and through and will do anything either of us says so that part is pretty easy. Plus, not to brag, but my rope work is getting better.” There is a few breaths of stunned silence as Oscar sits back into the couch.

The pastor looks at her parents. “Can we step outside for a moment?” Then the three get up and leave.

“That was the most brilliant display I have ever seen.l Max finally lets out the laughter he’s been biting back. “Did you see their faces? Priceless!”

“I don’t think my parents will ever talk to me again after this.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing? All they do is make you feel horrible about yourself. It might not be a bad idea to cut contact for a while.” Oscar draws circles on to her thing. The pattern being one of comfort that he uses often.

“Can we call a cab or something? I am very ready to go.” She sighs.

“Great plan! But first I think we should really piss them off.” Max’s suggestive smirk can’t mean anything good.

It doesn’t take the three long to locate her parents outside of the office. They gasp when they see what she looks like. A few lovely hickies down her neck and shoulder. Her hair misplaced in all kinds of directions. They say nothing about it.

“It’s been nice seeing you, but we’re going to head back to Monaco now. Also, please don’t try to contact me again.”

They jump into some kind of lecture, but it’s to late. The trio heads for their ride that’s waiting for them outside the doors

Max, however, takes the opportunity to flip them off as they walk away.

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alalaya2 · 1 year

Text

Decided to continue this enjoy

Part 2 Ecto hits the fan

While Tim found the hornet nest that would cause the JL to be up in arms ready to attack the United States government . There was a town in the west of Huntington ky on the ohio side of the river in Amity Park. The young King was looking up at the night sky he was floating high enough that most Ecto weapons wont hit him and if any GIW had a jet packs he would hear them coming with enough time to get away.

He had just turned 16 today and Clockwork has finally told him that he was now the king of the infinite realm. Things were going to happen soon and fast the realms themselves were gearing for war. If things didn’t change soon. Then he, as the king, would have to lead them to battle.

Danny closed his eyes let the light of the stars shine over him. It was getting harder to keep both the humans and ghosts safe from the GIW. They didn’t care who they hurt Star and Wes were still in the hospital from when a stray shot from agent O nearly killed them. If Danny had been a second late they would’ve been crushed by the tree Agent O had shot down. As it was Wes had a broken arm and Star had broken 4 ribs while both of them had a concussion.

Last year his entire class had discovered his identity after an incident with Vlad. They had all started to help him because members of team Phantom. His parents had interrupted Boxy’s and Lunch Lady’s bonding ceremony and now admitted that ghosts were sentient and not all ghosts were evil. He finally told him that he was a halfa two months ago so things were going well at the home front at least.

While his personal life was getting better it didn’t change the fact that he was not ready to be a king and he didn’t want to go to war. Phantom opened his eyes looking at a satellite and wondering if it was the Famous watchtower. Most of the tower had tried to contact the JL many times his first year as a hero. They had thought that the first time was a prank call and by the next call the GIW had started to put up an informal barricade. No other calls had gotten through.

Tucker had hacked their system and found out that by the end of the first year. No information about the ghost were available to anyone outside of Amity and anyone who was in Amity was heavily edited to the rest of the world Amity Parker’s didn’t exist. Danny’s first thought was to fly up to the watchtower himself and tell them what was happening. Sam had stopped him while Amity wasn’t public knowledge the Anti-Ecto acts were publicly available. This either meant they knew and agreed with them or they didn’t know and we’re being kept in the dark. Now he couldn’t leave even if he wanted to it was too dangerous for his people for him not to be around.

His ghost senses went off and he sighed. His rouges had been getting better at not being destructive but The GIW were also out. He looked down to see Ellie running from the GIW. protective rage thrummed through his core

Not My Daughter

He took off like a shot his core screamed as he saw Ellie take a shot to the back. Ectoplasm seeping down her back as she was still trying to get away.

“Papa!” She cried out as she saw him coming.

Dani now called Ellie had finally stabilized and had created a parent- child bond with him. He could feel the echo of pain from that bond.

“Ellie” he cried out looking at the GIW he noticed the had a net. “Ellie look out” he pushed her out of the way the net wrapped around him and a high electric current went through the net. The last thing he saw before passing out was Wulf grabbing Ellie and taking her to safety

#danny phantom #dp x dc #ghost king danny #tim drake #bones prompts #green lantern #feral Amity park #justice league #martian manhunter #GIW are screwed #Princess Dani Phantom

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your-eternal-lies · 1 month

Text

_ LOVE IS A CHOICE (chapter three)

Main Navigation || Please follow @your-eternal-library for all my fanfiction updates.

PAIRING — Bucky Barnes x Agent f!Reader SERIES SUMMARY — In your experience, relationships only bring drama and heartbreak, and you want absolutely none of it. That is, until an act of sheer recklessness brings Bucky Barnes back into your life.

WARNINGS — Angst, blood and injury, Hydra are assholes, torture, grief, nightmares, ptsd, everyone is just so darn sad. I won’t lie to you, my darlings, this chapter is rough.

LOVE IS A CHOICE

CHAPTER THREE

He always heard the screaming as if it wasn’t his own.

This time, it really wasn’t.

Hidden in the shadows, the Asset fights the urge to look away as his cruelest handler bends over the screaming woman, dragging the tip of a blade over her skin as if trying to carve the secrets directly out of her flesh.

The wounds from her last torture session haven’t even fully healed yet before they are torn open once again, fresh blood spilling onto the frozen concrete floor of her dungeon cell.

But the woman insists she knows nothing. She sobs it over and over, promising that she knows nothing of Natasha Romanoff’s defection.

The Asset stands motionless, unyielding and unflinching, blue eyes as cold as the ice. In all his years here, he has learned to spot when others are lying.

And this one is lying through her teeth.

He can’t understand why.

Self-preservation is the main language he’s learned to speak. Born out of pain, created by now faceless scientists who shock his veins and ice his blood, he is merely a tool at their disposal.

Leave no survivors. That’s the only rule he must abide by when he’s completing a mission. Women and children aren’t exempt from harm, regardless of how much he desperately wants to spare them.

But the Asset knows now. At the very least, he can guarantee their deaths are quick and painless. He is never granted the same mercy. It’s either them or him, and he doesn’t have the luxury to feel sorry that he picks himself every single time.

Granted, his handlers would probably kill her once they were done, but at least the agony would stop. He would personally give anything for it to stop. But, he can’t help but wonder… what could possibly be worth suffering through all that pain?

Despite himself, he is bombarded by images he can’t recognize. A boy with hair brighter than sunshine and eyes that could mirror his own, a suit of stars and stripes, the echo of a scream over the sounds of a running train.

“Soldat,” his handler’s gravelly voice pulls him back into reality. The Asset does not respond from behind his mask; he never does. “I’m taking a break. Keep an eye on the girl.”

Taking a break, he says. As if he hasn’t spent the last few days torturing a girl half his size, sheathing a still blood-covered blade in its usual spot in his belt. The Asset hides his disgust behind a veil of indifference, eyes seeing but unfeeling.

But as the days wore on, as the events of the previous ones kept repeating over and over, as the woman kept insisting she knew absolutely nothing, making it clear she was ready to die to keep whatever secrets she held close, something truly terrifying happens.

Whenever they left him alone with her, he would emerge from the shadows, something deep in his soul reacting to her sorrow. His eyes asked her questions his mouth never would, and she would lie there against that concrete slab, exhausted but unable to sleep, and tell him to survive.

“You must live,” she would insist, and he would find that over the course of their limited exchanges, his palm would somehow find its way against hers. “You’re not who they say you are.”

That was all it took. One small sliver of warmth and, in the previously hollow expanse of his chest, a heart he didn’t know still existed stuttered back to life.

And when the time came for her pain to resume, he found he did not want to move from his spot at her side. He wanted to kill every last one of them, anyone who laid even a finger on her, but she would remove her hand from his and silently beckon him to comply.

Ah, he thought as he did as she wished, forcing himself to listen to every last whimper and shriek, this was his punishment, wasn’t it?

He told himself then that he wouldn’t forget, no matter how much they tried to make him. He would remember her face, her voice, and the feel of her skin against his—even the metallic scent of her blood.

He would remember The Woman, he promised.

He would allow Natasha Romanoff, when she finally returned to Moscow with a wrath hot enough to scorch the frozen earth beneath her, to kill his handler with a swift flick of her blade. He would hide in the shadows once more, allowing her to pick The Woman up and carry her away.

“No!” She had begged, reaching out for him in vain, too weak to properly protest. In that moment, he wished he knew her name, wished he could caress her cheek with his one good hand, and commit the feeling to memory.

But then a swarm of footsteps brought more agents, more handlers, more carnage into the fray. Only when Romanoff was a good distance away did he step between the women and his very own captors.

The Woman still screams in the distance, with a new kind of pain that carves deep in his bones, her voice echoing off the concrete walls, the both of them understanding the gravity of the decision he’d just made.

It takes nearly a dozen guards to subdue him, after he’s already spilled the blood of another ten. They strap him down back into that blasted chair, the one that used to scare him, the one he went to impossible and devastating lengths to avoid.

This time, he allows them to push him into it. He accepts his fate, closing his eyes against the impending agony, wondering if The Woman is finally safe. Pain-free.

Or rather, just plain free.

And here he used to wonder, what could possibly be worth suffering through all that pain? It had been such a mystery mere weeks ago, now made incredibly simple.

The Asset is momentarily soothed when he thinks of The Woman’s face, but as the machine is turned on and unspeakable agony is torn from his throat, they make him do the one thing he said he wouldn’t.

They make him break his promise.

Because he forgets.

Steve feels like he owes you.

“You’re good, I’ll give you that much.” He remembers saying the day you met, only months after he came out of the ice, outside his small gym of choice tucked away in a quiet corner of Brooklyn, carrying that punching bag over his shoulder like it was a weightless sack of potatoes. “I’ve barely managed to shake you all day.”

You looked up at him then, out the driver’s seat window of your dark sedan, sipping loudly at a pink smoothie and squinting casually against the golden light of the setting sun behind him. Completely unfazed at having been made, you weren’t even slightly intimidated by his looming stature and, quite frankly, his even larger reputation.

Nor were you particularly disturbed by the fact that you’d probably been watching him throw punches all day, as if all that equipment had personally offended him somehow.

You didn’t even bother tucking away your SHIELD-issued tablet, which you had obviously been using to keep tabs on him. He knew now how easy it must have been for you to hack into the city’s CCTV cameras, let alone the gym’s—all mere child’s play for a spy.

The sun was setting on Agent 19’s first day on Captain America Babysitting Duty, and this was the most you’d seen of each other since sunrise that morning.

“Well, Captain,” you said, shrugging and tossing the tablet onto the passenger seat beside you. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

There was also an open file lying across the seat, complete with blown-up photos of him, pre- and post-serum, along with a full profile and background check.

“But I didn’t know you resorted to thieving these days,” you gestured at the punching bag on his shoulder. “I do hope you cleaned up after yourself, by the way.”

Steve almost smiled then, recalling the way the punching bag he’d ruined earlier leaked sand all over the floors. He, in fact, hadn’t cleaned up, too much in a hurry to leave your boss behind to bother.

“Like I just told Fury, I don’t need a handler,” he said evenly to keep from grinning. You scoffed then, rolling your eyes so hard he thought they might fall right out of your head.

“No offence, Cap, but do you think I wanted this job? One day in and you’re already a pain in my ass,” you pick up his file, flapping it in the air with frustration, sending papers scattering all over the interior of your car. “Does this sound like a good use of my time to you, when I could be out there kicking the absolute shit out of some bad guys right now?”

“You sound a little resentful, Agent,” Steve deadpanned, turning around to start the short walk back to his apartment before you could reply. He ignored you the rest of the trip, even though you followed closely behind him at a snail’s pace, shouting a string of profanities at him, pissing off every other driver on the road.

Steve lets a brief smile loose at the memory. Neither of you could have known that the relationship you’d come to share—him with his reluctant handler, and you with your equally unwilling charge—would blossom into a friendship unlike any other he’d ever had.

You didn’t appreciate it at first whenever he tagged along on your missions, insisting you didn’t need micromanaging. But over time, you grew accustomed to his quiet presence, admitting at one point that things just didn’t feel right if he wasn’t there watching your six.

He grew fond of your obscure pop culture references that always went over his head, began keeping an eye on you instead of the other way around, given your uncanny knack for getting mixed up into trouble even when you weren’t looking for it.

And he doesn’t even know your name. Not your real one, anyway, but it just didn’t matter. No matter what your real name was, where you really came from, Steve, despite his reservations, grew to love you in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

He’d been an only child, watching on with envy whenever he saw Bucky together with little Rebecca. His best friend’s little sister chased after her brother like he hung the moon, reaching out her tiny hands and only letting out her signature squeal of laughter whenever Bucky reached back.

That kind of love was special. Steve never thought he’d experience anything close to it, but whenever he looks at you, he knew that was what you were—a sister given to him by circumstances, but the one he always knew he wanted.

But when the other shoe dropped, because it always did, the day you both discovered that SHIELD had been compromised, that your lives’ work had been almost for nothing, trust and love was shattered with a single question.

Who are you really, Agent 19?

It never occurred to him to ask before then, but it made some semblance of sense in his angst-filled state. Why else had Alexander Pierce been so insistent, relentless almost, that Steve be assigned a handler in the first place?

But no matter how justified his suspicions might have been, no matter how far he felt his heart sink when he learned that the traitor was, in fact, your longtime partner and not you yourself, the choice had already been made.

Whatever light that had remained in your eyes went out that day, and Steve couldn’t seem to bring it back, no matter how many times he tried to restore the friendship to what it was. He carried the broken shards of what remained in his hands, spirits falling each time you silently rebuffed him with that forlorn look in your eyes.

The good humour and affection between you dissipated like smoke, and now whenever you spoke the words were always terse, charged, and angry. Steve knew how much he fucked up, because it was clear from the moment his question left his lips that you hadn’t known the answer, either.

And now you’re teetering over the edge of life and death, and once again, Steve isn’t there. Natasha steps up behind him and places a hand on his shoulder, prompting him to ease his knuckle-white grip on the quinjet’s yoke, her own distress evident in her normally stoic features.

His leather gloves are still splattered with blood. The rest of the team didn’t protest, or didn’t dare protest, as he instructed Clint to pilot the jet back towards the Hydra base he had singlehandedly sent you to. With military-like efficiency, Steve took down that base and every last agent that stood in his way—unforgiving and vengeful—despite Sam’s attempts at calming him.

But it is what they found on those computers that haunt him, that haunt them all. Natasha stares straight ahead, but the way her eyes shine in the moonlight belies her grief.

Wanda sits in one of the seats behind him, chin wobbling as she closes her eyes against a fresh wave of tears, remembering the sounds of your horrible screams, captured on video and morbidly saved in Hydra’s digital archives for years.

Sam and Clint hunch over in their own seats in an uncomfortable yet pensive silence. Tony taps an impatient foot against the floor, brows knitted together in concentration. The entire team struggles to grapple with a startling and devastating conclusion.

This whole time, you and Bucky were tied together, but you were the only one who was burdened to remember.

Steve swallows the lump of emotion that forms in his throat, suddenly feeling the urge to just bawl into his hands.

In hindsight, it all makes sense. The thinly veiled shock when Steve brought Bucky back to the Compound. The way you used to look at him, as if you were both unspeakably angry and horribly miserable. The way you reacted to his reassignment. The distance you were determined to maintain between you.

The decision to ask Helen Cho to use the Regeneration Cradle to eliminate those scars. You used to wear them like a badge of honour, a sign of your undying loyalty to your best friend. But the second Bucky had come around, you wanted them gone.

All of it made sense now.

Natasha finally breaks down, as if coming to the same realizations, turning away to storm off to the back of the jet where she clearly hoped nobody would pay attention to her muffled sobs.

Steve bites down on the inside of his cheek, wondering how much Hydra was going to take before they were satisfied. Better question, how much more was Steve willing to let them take? The answer was none. No more. Not on his watch.

And if he couldn’t convince you using his words that he trusted you, that he regretted ever doubting you in the first place, then he’d show you in a different way.

He’d entrust you with a new mission so important that you wouldn’t possibly be able to draw any other conclusion. He would give you Bucky, his best friend, who may as well have been his very heart personified, and leave him in your very capable hands.

Steve lets out a humourless laugh. He didn’t have to give you anything; turns out, Bucky had been yours for a long time now.

But at the very least, he would see to it that you remembered one very important detail: that despite your unknown origins, your past with the KGB, despite Aiden Galloway, despite Hydra, despite all of it—you are loved, important, and irreplaceable.

All you had to do was stay alive.

Agent Galloway has one hand pressed to a wound just below his ribcage, warm blood seeping out from between his fingers. He’s got even more injuries, each just as devastating as the next, but he doesn’t have enough hands for them all.

You watch as the floor beneath him is stained with a slowly growing pool of crimson, but you make no move to help him.

You’re the one who shot him, after all.

Your ears are ringing from the ongoing sounds of gunfire and explosions, the walls of the Triskelion coming down around you in dust and cinders. You slump against a nearby wall that’s miraculously still intact, your right hand still loosely clutching your firearm. You’re not seriously wounded, but you’re exhausted all the same.

“Come in, Agent! Come in!” Natasha’s voice crackles over your earpiece, desperate and angry, maybe even a little scared. The Black Widow you fight alongside with in the field never shows any fear, any hesitation, but today she’s not an agent—neither are you.

She is just Natasha Romanoff today, your scaredy cat big sister who hides behind an armour of indifference and stoicism. But you know better; she’s got the biggest heart of all.

“Hill! Do you have eyes on 19?” She yells over the sounds of a whirring helicopter, but you can still hear the panic in her voice.

“Negative!” Maria Hill responds over the distant roar of another explosion, and even she sounds a little frantic. Aw. Is that sentiment you hear in the spy’s voice? “Agent 19, can you hear me?”

You want to respond, make a snarky little comment about how they’re both going soft, but something prevents your voice from working. Emotion lodges itself in your throat as you slide to the floor, burning behind your eyes as you squeeze them shut against the pain, stemming from your physical wounds and countless others that can’t be seen.

You won’t die here, not at the hands of Hydra, the damn parasites. Steve is taking down the helicarriers now, and you have no doubt he will succeed. After that, Sam will likely come find you and pull you from the wreckage with Natasha in tow. You’ll listen to her lecture all the way to the hospital, just like old times.

Your friends will come… won’t they?

Natasha has saved you more times than you can count, but you can’t help the doubt that creeps in, dark and quiet just like the first hints of fear. Will she wonder about you too, once they find out that the formerly-decorated SHIELD agent Aiden Galloway—your friend, your mentor, your partner, your brother-in-arms—is dirty?

Will an everlasting cloud of suspicion hang over your head even if you emerge from this, alive but not unscathed? Even Steve had doubted you once. Does he still? Will you ever know for sure?

“How does it feel?” Galloway rasps at you, flashing a morbid smile as his death approaches. It’s not fast enough for you, unfortunately, as you listen to his deathbed confession. “To know that all of it was a lie?”

You hate to give him the satisfaction, but your face distorts with anguish all the same as he twists the proverbial knife, one last time.

Being an agent wasn’t just a title. It was a privilege for someone like you, who had come from unknown origins, who defected to SHIELD without even a name of her own, who once spent years of her life either being locked up or trained to spread calamity and discord.

But all this time, what were you even fighting for? You thought you were finally standing on the right side of history, but it wasn’t true, was it? You weren’t, in fact, a noble agent of SHIELD. You were just another unwitting Hydra pawn all along.

All those battles fought in the name of good and justice, all those comrades lost over the years, and for what? For a world that quite frankly asked too much and gave too little in return.

What had this world ever done for you, other than punish you for simply being born?

“You won’t win,” you bite out vindictively, adrenaline melting out of your veins with every breath. “Men like you never do.”

“The Asset won’t let us down,” Aiden laughs. He actually laughs, the motherfucker. “You remember him, don’t you?”

Your heart splits, a fresh wave of pain washing over you. The memories come flooding back: blue eyes peering at you over the edge of a mask—a black muzzle for a boy taken, kept like a prisoner, and then used like a piece of machinery; the warmth of his palm against yours in that freezing cold dungeon; and the sacrifice he’d made so you and Natasha could escape.

He had been alive all this time, all alone, not knowing that people out there remembered him, thought about him, and cared about him.

You can’t help but think of Steve, every stricken look on the rare occasion he deigned to speak about his childhood friend, as if reliving an eighty-year-old nightmare.

Your force your eyes open. This Aiden Galloway before you is a stranger, because the one you knew, the one you had grown to love like a brother, could never be so cruel. He took you under his wing when you first arrived, showing you the ropes and teaching you everything you knew about being a good agent.

He’d done wonders too; soon, you were working in Fury’s division with the revered likes of Natasha, Maria, and the famous Clint Barton.

So why?

Galloway had pulled you out of more scrapes than you could remember during your first missions as a reckless rookie agent. He had covered for your mistakes, took scoldings and official reprimands in your place with a carefree smile. He had taken literal bullets for you. He had bled in your stead.

If this was always Hydra’s endgame, then why bother saving you at all? Why not just let you die out there somewhere, blaming it on literally anything and anyone else but himself? Why couldn’t he just kill you before the seeds of affection could ever blossom?

Why pretend to care about you at all?

It’s stunning that the existence of cruelty, plain and simple, still manages to surprise you. You’d think that, after all this time, after everything you’ve seen and everything you’ve suffered, you’d come to expect it at every corner… or at least get better at spotting it.

Well.

You won’t make the same mistake again.

Summoning every ounce of strength, you lift your gun. You’ve handled this weapon hundreds of times, used it to end countless lives before today and will likely continue to do so after, but today it feels oddly heavy in your hand.

Ending a life never comes easy, no matter how many times you do it or which side of history you stand on, but you already know that this particular kill is one that won’t ever leave you.

You take aim, your finger steady on the trigger. Just like Aiden taught you. He won’t last much longer anyhow, given how much blood he’s already lost, but you have to remind yourself that this isn’t an act of mercy. It’s an act of retribution, one he most definitely deserves.

You wonder, if you repeat it to yourself enough times, will you come to believe your own words?

Aiden grins, a ruby-red smile that sears itself in your mind and stays with you long after he’s gone. The bastard just has to get in the last word, and even as his eyes glaze over, two words reach into the smoke and haunt your dreams.

“Hail Hydra.”

Your eyes snap open, your lungs drawing in a sharp gasp of a breath.

For a disorienting heartbeat, you’re lost in time, trying to claw your way out of the clutches of a persistent nightmare, and blinking rapidly against the stark reality of consciousness.

A sheen of cold sweat clings to your brow, your skin prickling and clammy under a heavy quilt as you try to sit up.

You regret it instantly, a searing pain shooting up and down your body, every muscle protesting the movement. The walls of a rustic cabin materialize slowly around you like a developing polaroid, and suddenly you remember.

The safe house. You had entered its coordinates on your jet just before it crashed about a mile away. You didn’t think you’d make it, growing dizzy with pain and blood loss before eventually collapsing in the snow.

The room is brightly-lit by a flickering fire, where a log pops loudly and sparks jumping up before disappearing again onto the stone hearth. You take deep breaths to try and calm your frenzied heart, tasting the fresh sharp scent of pine and sweet bread on your tongue.

Your pulse begins to settle back into a less frantic rhythm, the weight of the quilt lain on top of you comforting and warm… until you look up and see a snowy white cat perched on top of the bedside table. You startle, wincing in pain as your feline guardian peers at you curiously with beautiful blue eyes.

It reminds you of—

“Hey,” comes a voice, gravelly with sleep and something akin to worry. He’s close, so close you wonder how you didn’t sense his presence before now, his eyes the familiar colour of arctic ice. Those eyes have never left your thoughts, it occurs to you now, reluctant to release you from their grasp.

You feel your muscles tense at the sight of him, the quilt’s fabric bunching in your fists as you grip the edges tighter. Your tac-suit is gone, you suddenly realize, and you’re lying naked in a bed that Bucky Barnes usually sleeps in.

“You’re probably still mad,” Bucky says, his voice so quiet you almost have to lean in to hear him despite your closeness. “But I just…”

He trails off and for a moment, he just stares at you like he can’t believe you’re here. Then, in the fire’s glow, you’re suddenly pressed into his chest by a pair of powerful arms, so gently as if he’s handling the most precious thing in the world.

You’re not mad, you think but don’t say. You never were. Not at him, anyway. You can’t tell him why; the only problem with this frustratingly beautiful man is that he only ever blames himself, even if he’s done nothing wrong.

Even when you’re the one who is broken and unworthy.

There is a reason for the distance you’ve steadily kept, but as you hear his astounded and shaky whispers of you’re alive, thank god you’re alive in your ear, you allow yourself a minute.

One minute in which you’re allowed to feel—the ache, the yearning, and the fragments of a heart you gave away a long time ago and never got back.

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Taglist — @cjand10 @pbs-theundeadmaggot @nerdreader Please leave a comment or send me a DM if you’d like to be added to the taglist for this story. Note that if you ask and you are a blank blog, I will block you instead.

Notes — For what it’s worth, I really am sorry for what I’m putting these two through. Did you guys know that this idea was originally conceived as a five-chapter romantic comedy lmao?! Also, the fluff is coming in future chapters—I promise. Everyone just has to suffer a lot a bit first because evidently I’m a sadist, lmao.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes series #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x you #summer’s fics

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radiant-reid · 2 years

Text

Back To You

Summary: Spencer never thought she would love him the way he loves her, but he also never thought she would come back from the dead

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader (Angst/Fluff)

Content warning: description of reader being beaten up, similar to how Emily was in Lauren, lots of talk about death, mentions of blood, mentions of previous BAU related injuries

Word Count: 5.3k

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It was a slippery slope. One day, Y/n was fine, loving the work she did for the BAU, knowing who the bad guys were, and having a family she completely trusted. Then, her world was turned upside down with one simple phone call.

Suddenly, she wasn't cozy at the top of the mountain, she was skiing down it without poles or bindings. Nothing to keep her safe, no helmet or goggles. Nothing to keep her comfortable, no gloves, ski jacket, or pants.

It was just her, alone on her skis, terrified and alone.

Spencer noticed as soon as she rejected an offer to go out to her favorite restaurant after they got back from a case. Even when they were exhausted and had gone days without sleeping, neither of them declined the opportunity to spend time together. And when Spencer couldn't come up with something he'd done wrong, he realized there must be something wrong with her.

Then there were the suspicious phone calls, the darkening circles around her eyes, the paranoia she'd started displaying, the long lunches, the general pulling away from the team.

No one else noticed, and when he tried to raise it, it only resulted in JJ and Morgan teasing him about being in love with her, something he couldn't deny.

He'd stopped lying to himself about their friendship a long time ago. The line in the sand had been drawn the day they met and stepped over 39 seconds later when she smiled at him.

The problem was, he could never get the words out, and when she started pulling away, it felt even less likely that his feelings were reciprocated. Maybe, Penelope had babbled about his crush and she was trying to let him down gently rather than smash his heart.

Surely, he thought on those long nights he spent awake, she would tell him if something was wrong.

But she never did.

Not until it was too late.

He races into that cold, dark building with only one goal. He's going to be the hero she needs, get her out of the dire situation he now understood, and once she'd recovered, tell her everything.

Y/n mumbles out his name when she sees him. Laying on the concrete floor with what-are-sure-to-be bruises developing on her face, blood gushing out of her nose, and, worst of all, a massive stick sticking out of her abdomen.

Major abdominal wound, units of O negative blood on stand-by, potential organ penetration. His brain runs through the scientificness of it all, trying to stay objective and not fall apart as he watches the girl he loves in a life-threatening situation.

He's praying, to a God he doesn't believe exists, that the dizziness from all that blood loss is making the pain lessen.

"Y/n, hey, you're going to be okay." He comforts her first before calling out to Morgan and the other agents clearing the building. "She's in here!" His voice is just as desperate when he pleads for a medic into his comms.

"Spence, I'm sorry." She apologizes, barely there.

He knows just how bad it is, and he wishes he wasn't a genius with a Ph.D. in Mathematics because he can work out the probability of this situation ending well. It's low.

The pain is completely overwhelming, worse than anything she's felt before, but she's not crying out from it. All her strength is gone, and her eyes threaten to close. She's fighting it, repeating a motto to keep herself awake. If she's going to get a chance to tell Spencer how she feels, she's going to have to keep her consciousness.

"Hey, come on," Spencer says, trying to keep her awake while he holds his hands over her wound to stop some of the blood.

It's futile.

There's so much of the sticky warm liquid and the alarm bells that should be going off in a germaphobes head are quiet.

Her hands are shaking around his, cold too, and her face pales quickly, all the color and life draining from her in front of his eyes.

"Just stay with me." He pleads, hating every second of this. He knows what being close to death looks like, and this is it. "Focus on my voice, Y/n, and keep your eyes open." It's all she is focused on. The sounds and lights around them are drowned out in favor of looking into his eyes, listening to his voice, feeling his hands, and smelling his cologne. But each of those senses are fading, numb as the feeling in her body diminishes.

"For me." He adds the last bit as a final motivator.

"I'm sorry." She tries again, voice barely a whisper. The slippery slope is even worse this time, she realizes when her vision darkens. It's not gradual- with a threat she has a chance at beating- instead, and although it doesn't feel like it, this is quick, and no amount of profiling is going to help her beat blood loss. "It killed me to lie to you."

It truly did. Every day since Doyle escaped, she'd wanted to tell Spencer and the team, and ask them for help, but the loyalty she had to her former team took precedent. It was a decision she's regretting.

"It's okay, I promise, it's okay," Spencer tells her. "You're so brave for what you did. You're so fearless and kind and intelligent." The light of hope in him darkens when her eyes flutter shut and her breathing gets impossibly shallower. "And you've really got to stay awake for me."

"Just thinking." Y/n mumbles, her thoughts slowing down and she struggles to process any information.

Spencer nods rapidly in approval. "Good, keep thinking, think about whatever you want to keep that beautiful brain of yours going."

"I like to think... that in another world we had a chance to be happy." She confesses, and he sees tears fall down her cheek for the first time since he found her. "Together."

The tears in his eyes get choked back because he doesn't want to make it about him. There's nothing more he wants than that with her alive and well.

"We can have that." He encourages her, although he's not sure if he's trying to convince her of it or reassurance himself. All his attention is on her, not listening to Morgan shouting for a medic 10 feet away. "And when you're all better, we can go out. Wherever you want."

The tiredness starts to set in more than before, and it's worse than the 60 hours she stayed up on a case once. Everything inside her is trying to fight but she's all out of energy.

It's time.

Spencer watches it in front of him, helpless. She's too far gone when she can't fight anymore, drained... and dead. He can't check her pulse to know for sure but he's seen the life slip out of unsubs' bodies and it just happened to her.

He holds her just as tightly, pressing against her wound and clutching her body to his chest. "Just squeeze my hand, I need to know you're in there." He pleads. "We can have everything you want in the future. Kids, dogs, a big house, a little cottage, even a house by the beach. I really don't care where we live, honestly." He's not sure why he's so stuck on one detail for the fantasy. Maybe it's the domesticity that living together could bring. Waking up next to her every day was a dream that feels like it's slipping away. "I'll build you a house if I have to."

She's not there. The light inside her has been flicked off just like that. Not even a faint smile or the rising and falling of her chest. She's dead, and he knows it.

"Y/n, come on, stay with me!" He begs again, shooting Morgan a terrified glance. He's still frantically demanding a medic, but it doesn't seem like anyone can come fast enough. He needs to try it out once because he knows he's never going to get another chance. He'll never love anyone the way he loves her. It comes out in a broken whisper as he sobs for the first time. "I love you."

The medics come a few seconds later, and Spencer would later reflect on that moment, wondering why they hadn't driven faster.

Morgan practically has to pull Spencer off her, even though Spencer knows there's not a lot more he can do for her. He also knows there's not a lot they can do, but he's clinging to hope and praying for a miracle.

He stands there, frozen in shock, while they frantically work around Y/n and put her on a gurney. The look on his face is blank, so pale that Morgan's worried he's going to faint. Even when she's gone, he stays standing looking at where she laid.

"Spencer." Morgan places a hand on his friend's shoulder, grounding him so he doesn't have to catch him when he passes out. "She's with the people that can help her the most."

Spencer tries to suck in a deep breath of air but it doesn't feel like any oxygen is getting to his lungs. His hands are still covered in her blood and he can't seem to wipe it away on his shirt.

"She'll be okay." Morgan tries to assure him.

"No." Spencer shakes his head. "She was gone, Derek. Gone!" Just like that, he's at anger, running his hand through his hair roughly. It's an easier emotion to feel than sadness. "If we had just gotten here five minutes earlier, if the medic didn't take so fucking long, she might have a chance."

Morgan has never heard him swear before, and it sounds wrong coming out of Spencer's mouth. "We need to go to the hospital. She's going to want to see you when she wakes up."

The comforting words are something Spencer thinks about for weeks after that night. They barely registered when Morgan said them but he wonders those nights if they were genuine, if Morgan really thought she'd make it.

Spencer can't stop pacing in the hospital. He's cleaned up a little bit, changed into the shirt Penelope grabbed from his place, and washed her blood off his hands.

He could add up how far he has walked if his brain would work. Even facts are working for him. All he can think about is the memories he has with her and how the world wouldn't have a purpose without her.

The team has been shooting him sympathetic looks, but they're all suffering from the same daunting feeling. They're hoping and praying and sitting with emotionless faces. There's no talking between them just Penelope's sobs and the bustling noises of a busy hospital.

Spencer kind of wishes he could cry. He can't seem to actualize how he's feeling. Nothing helps.

It seems like hours of numbness before anything happens. Everyone else had moved seats, stood up or sat down, drunk coffee, or tried to brave food. Everyone except Spencer. The only moving he's done is the marathon he's walked.

Then JJ walks out. And the worst news she's ever brought him before then was that the bakery didn't have chocolate frosted with sprinkles donuts.

Until she locks eyes with him and just stares at him for a few seconds with blood-shocked eyes. No words are needed, but she confirms Spencer's worst nightmare verbally too. "She never made it off the table."

Instantly, the waiting room is filled with tears, like a chain reaction starting with Penelope and ending with Rossi. Everyone's crying, something none of them have ever seen before.

He had been hoping, even if he was simultaneously trying to convince himself there was no point.

Hope: a human instinct.

Survivor bias had overclouded his judgment. He had been held hostage and tortured for days while drugged, then poisoned with a lethal strain of Anthrax, Elle had been shot and then had the wound played with, Penelope had been shot in the chest, and Hotch had been stabbed and left for dead overnight. The BAU was immortal. They always pull through, or so he thought.

It's all far too overwhelming, and he attempts to rush out of the room to find a quiet place to sob, but JJ catches his arm.

"Spence." She says in the kind of sympathetic tone reserved for times one knows their words won't be of comfort.

"It's not fair." He mumbles, not ready to share Y/n's deeply personal last words and his subsequent confession.

There's another thing he doesn't say because he knows JJ knows it already: if he ever finds Ian Doyle, he'll break his oath.

She nods in understanding, wrapping her arms around him to console him. But she doesn't understand. "I'm so sorry." She tells him as she holds him tightly.

Spencer reciprocates the hug, but it doesn't help him at all. The love of his life is gone. There's no saving her that can be done. She's dead, and she's never coming back, and Spencer's never going to get to have all those special moments he wants to have with her.

In this universe, they'll never be together.

He's not sure how long he hugs JJ, but the whole time he can't get the picture of Y/n's dead body out of his head. It's so persistent that when they pull away, he rushes to press his palms into his eyes and massage it out.

Hotch looks like he's going to say something, remind him he'll be able to love again, but Spencer's going to know he's lying. So he just pulls Spencer in for a hug.

In the mental chaos, he loses track of JJ and Hotch and cries while he hugs Penelope. That night, all the team does is cry and hold each other.

If losing her is the worst day of his life, burying her comes in a close second. He keeps looking around for her, but he's been doing that since they left the hospital. He hasn't eaten or slept since then, only had the coffees with sugar JJ forced into him, and he's still trying to remember to talk about her in the past tense.

He's so dehydrated, and he's cried so many tears that he's not sure how he manages more for her funeral. It's warm outside, but he still feels as cold as he felt the night she died inside.

The seven of them stand around her coffin with roses, and if he had the words, he would tell them all about how little she liked roses, that she would have preferred tulips: the symbol of perfect love.

When it's his turn, he kisses his fingertips before touching them to the cold wood. Then, he places the flower down, knowing it, too, will die.

It didn't take seven whole months for Spencer to know he wasn't ever going to be able to stop thinking about her. He knew that the night she died, but what he couldn't imagine then was that it would get easier and that he would feel guilt because of that.

The hours of therapy helped- much more than the therapy he got when his dad left- and so did having the team.

At some point, he didn't spend every day in tears. He started getting out of bed and throwing himself into his work again, but he still had those little moments with her in his dreams or before he remembered reality when he woke up.

Then, another curveball came, and he's forced back into thinking about her when Morgan reveals all he had been working on regarding Declan Doyle's whereabouts.

There's an unspoken promise he makes to himself to make sure Y/n's sacrifice wasn't in vain. He's going to save that little boy, and it is transference because he couldn't save her.

Focused as ever, he goes into that house with Rossi, clearing each room silently as they search for the boy worth dying for.

He's grateful when he gets the call they have Ian Doyle in custody. Not only because it means Declan's got a better chance of being recovered alive and someone's going to pay for what happened to Y/n, but because he knows that if he were on the rooftop, he would have beat Doyle to death.

He can't even look at Doyle through the two-way mirror when they're back at the BAU, but he's so glad there are developing bruises on the murderer's face. After throwing up to the memory of Y/n's developing bruises, he splashes water on his face in the bathroom and does the breathing exercises he's been taught so as to not spiral.

But Doyle doesn't know where Declan is, and they're in a world of problems again. They need a Hail Mary, and Spencer knows the course of action with the highest probability of effective recovery of Declan.

But it's Hotch who's ready to play his trump card first.

"Everybody have a seat." He orders, and it's weird for Spencer to hear his voice after so long, but it's also comforting.

The team's back together again, but she's still missing, and he misses her more when they're working on a case she used to be on. He misses her in that way when he reads reports with her name.

But the atmosphere quickly shifts. In one breath, it's as serious as that night at the hospital. Spencer's heart starts racing like it did before they found Y/n bleeding out that night. There's a thumping in his chest so loud that his body is threatening to make him throw up again, that sick feeling extending exponentially.

Spencer only catches keywords as he hyperventilates. "A lot of blood," "stabilize," "airlifted," "Bethesda," "need-to-know," "reassigned," "several identities."

He puts it together before it really registers in his brain, but it doesn't hit him fully until Penelope asks, "She's alive?"

The logistics of it fly through his head and questions go off like alarm bells. Who knew? Where is she now? How? Where has she been? Is she okay? Why couldn't he know? Was all of it a lie?

He's glad when Morgan starts to lay into Hotch, knowing he can't speak right now, let alone tell Hotch how he really feels.

But everything stops again when Penelope's mouth drops open, his head whips around, and Y/n walks in.

The first person she asks for when she wakes up is Spencer. She wants Spencer at her bedside because seeing him will numb the immense pain in her abdomen.

Instead, it's JJ in the chair next to the hospital bed. "JJ." She mumbles, getting her friend's attention.

JJ hands her a glass of water and doesn't wait to give her a hug. "I'm so glad you're okay."

"Me too. Thank you. Can you get Spence?" Y/n asks, although she's not trying to make it seem like she's ungrateful JJ is there.

"Yeah, of course." JJ agrees, but when she walks out of the room, she doesn't come back with Spencer, she comes back with Hotch.

The unit chief sits down in the seat JJ was sitting in and Y/n's alarmed by it because he almost always stays standing. "You're not in Boston, you're in Bethesda." He tells her.

She assumes JJ's nervous face is a precursor for the trouble she's about to be ine. "Hotch, I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I should have as soon as Doyle was mentioned. Actually, I should have told you the entire history soon as I knew Doyle had escaped in Russia." She launches into an apology.

Hotch stops her with a hand on her shoulder. "Y/n, it's okay." He assures her.

It should comfort her but it only makes her worry more about what's making JJ so cagey. "What's wrong?"

"As long as Doyle's out there, you're not safe." He says, easing her worrying taking precedence over bedside manner. She nods in agreement. She's not in the hospital because Doyle's a good guy. "You can't come back to your old life."

"Witness protection?" She cuts him off, too anxious to find out what's happening to her.

"Reassignment overseas." He states her fate, and just like that, the pain in her stomach doubles as her mind spirals. She can't breathe deeply anyway, but it's even harder now. "You'll be in Paris with several identities even we don't know."

It hits her then that only Hotch and JJ are in the hospital room with her and that Spencer would be there if he knew. He would hold her hand through the tough news and say goodbye properly.

She would later scoff at the irony of it being Paris, the City of Love, since she's not allowed to talk to the person she loves. A person who thinks she's dead.

"They don't know." She realizes, a stream of silent tears starting down her cheeks.

"They can't," JJ tells her, stepping away from the door and closer to the bed to hold her hand.

Y/n shakes her head firmly, looking at Hotch with pleading eyes. "No, please, no." She knows it would break Spencer, but it's also breaking her.

"I'm sorry," Hotch says, and it looks like he genuinely means it. He knows better than anyone how hard it is to lose someone you're in love with, and now it has to happen to two members of his team. "I take full responsibility for the decision, but it has to be this way."

"What do they think happened?" She asks quietly, trying to wipe up some of the tears, and put on a brave face.

"That you died on the operating table," JJ tells her, only so Hotch doesn't have to. "It's need-to-know."

Y/n's eyes rapidly dart over to Hotch, who had already accepted blame. "No, Hotch, they're need-to-know. They have to be. Spencer, he-" She can't even get the last words out with her crying, and JJ pulls her into an awkward hug to console her.

"He'll be okay," Hotch assures her, but JJ's a much worse liar and the look on her face tells the concern she has for Spencer's broken heart.

The whole plane to Paris, Y/n cries. She's grateful it's a private jet and that she's alive, but there's a lot to be desired. Trying not to think about Spencer is challenging, and it's a different feeling than she had when she would try not to think about him while falling asleep at night.

JJ's comfort only goes so far, and details are missing from her story about the nights Spencer comes over to her place to cry.

When they separate, Y/n's only wish is for her to keep Spencer safe.

The call comes in to come back- that it's safe and Doyle's been caught- after 7 long months. Of course, there was work to do, and it's what she spent most of her time doing, but it's the loneliest she's ever been. She clings to the house Spencer told her about before she blacked out and the fantasy worlds she had created in her head.

She would take being home in DC over the bank accounts full of money she was given any day.

However, when she gets back to DC, there are about a million more places she'd rather be than about to see the team. She loves them so much, and it dawns on her as she gets in the elevator that they might not love her once they find out what she had to do.

The bullpen looks the same, aside from the fact her desk has been cleaned off. The stabbing pain in her heart is there again when she thinks about who had to clean it off.

It smells the same in that room; clean but also like coffee, paperwork, and, somehow, laughter. It's home. The memories in that room are so prominent in her mind. Birthdays, Halloweens, one Thanksgiving, late nights, early mornings, coffee drinking, cake eating, takeout Chinese.

Her legs are almost too shaky to get up the stairs, and her hands are too clammy to help by holding the railing. She can't even get a breath in or stop her heart from beating rapidly.

Hotch explains it all, holding their attention as their faces form shocked expressions. It feels so good to see them all again, alive and well, even though she knows what's about to happen. She takes a deep breath that does nothing and swallows thickly before stepping over the threshold.

Penelope notices her first, and everyone else's eyes are on her within seconds. There's shock, disbelief, and a glimmer of anger from each of them. Y/n never hated being under the spotlight, but right now, it feels like she's naked in front of an audience full of people: wholly exposed.

She looks at Spencer once she has confirmed everyone's safe, but he stares right through her like she's a ghost. Then there's a string of put-together sentences about how sorry she is and how much she missed them all and the series of warm hugs she's been longing for, each member of the team holding her tighter than usual to make sure she was really there.

Spencer's last to hug her, hesitant enough that she has to make the first move and wrap her arms around his shoulders. He tentatively hugs her back, touching her like she's made of glass.

She supposes she is shattered glass desperately being held together by glue. Hugging Spencer doesn't feel like it used to, not when he's so stiff.

They don't speak until after the trial, and it's on the advice given to him by Strauss- of all people

"Hi." She makes the first move like she's made the first move to get everyone back.

It's late, but she knows he's not going to be sleeping. She can't sleep either, not only because it's 7 am in Paris but also because of the adrenaline still pumping through her.

Still, coming to his place seems invasive.

"Come in." Spencer gestures, moving out of the way to let her in. He doesn't look happy about it, the same emotionless expression painfully on her face.

"Thanks." She accepts, stepping inside and taking off her shoes and coat.

It doesn't feel hostile but it's cold in his living room.

Y/n can't help but look around and play spot the difference. There are stacks of new books, and she knows he would have had to go to yard sales alone.

It's as tidy as it usually is, shoes neatly placed by the door, and his coat on the hook is new, unsurprising since he loves a good discount.

Morally, she shouldn't be as grateful as she is that there are no shoes or artifacts belonging to a woman.

There's a new planted pot of tulips in the corner, growing healthily, as well as a boquet of colorful tulips on the kitchen island. The other new thing is a framed map on the wall above his desk.

Still, it's so similar that she can't help but feel like she's walking into the past. This was the place she fantasized about being in most, lounging around with him on a Sunday morning or having take out on a Friday as more than friends

"They're for you." He says hoarsely, nodding towards her favorite flowers.

Y/n braves a look at him, and if his voice wasn't such a significant indicator of the fact he's been up crying, then his tear-stained cheeks, blood-shocked eyes, and dark circles are.

"Thank you." She replies but she didn't come to accept a gift.

"Do you want a drink?" He offers like they're not standing in a bubble of confrontational tension.

She shakes her head. "I just want to talk to you."

"So talk." His tone is harsh, stinging her. It breaks her heart a little, too. Clearly, it was selfish and idealistic to think she could come back and they could pick up where they left off, go back to flirting, and almost-confessions.

Her fingers drum against the countertop, and Spencer watches her awkwardness with an intense gaze.

"I'm sorry." She starts off emphasizes the apology she'd spoken to the whole team. This has to feel personal because she's so emotionally involved.

Even though it's been on her mind for so long and she's had time to imagine what she'd say, the words don't flow out the way she hoped.

"You've said that," Spencer says shortly when there aren't any more words that come out of her mouth.

"I mean it." She stresses. "I can't- I'm- I know it's so unfair, and I cannot imagine how painful it was for you and I'm so sorry for putting you through that." She rambles, failing at succinctness. Tears welled in her eyes, painfully stinging. Spencer just watches from a safe distance. "You don't have to forgive me, but I need you to know how much I wished I could tell you. I hate that I had to do that."

"I don't." Spencer's quiet voice stops her from continuing. He steps away from the other side of the kitchen island and closer to her. "I mean, I do, it was... nightmarish believing you were dead, but I'm grateful you're safe." He squeaks, as an afterthought, "I'm not mad."

She tilts her head back to avoid the tears, but it's too late. "You should be." She states, noticing the way he's still looking through her like she's not really there. "I just want you to feel something towards me again."

"I do." He assures her, reaching out to hold her hands in front of her. She's really there. Standing in front of him, it's just setting in that maybe his dreams aren't too far-fetched. "And please don't cry. I hate it when you cry."

"Sorry." She sniffles. "I really missed you, Spencer."

His hands drop hers in favor of wrapping around her waist and pulling her into his chest. "I missed you, too." He replies, breathing in the scent of her perfume and shampoo. It's the same one.

They hug right in the middle of his living room for a full minute in silence before she pulls away. "I need to know something."

"Mm?" He prompts, relishing in the feeling of having her so close again and memorizing each detail of her face.

"Before I...was out, did you say something... or did I just imagine that?" She wonders.

Spencer's worried about exactly how much she heard. Now knowing she wasn't dead, he knew there was a chance she remembered everything. "After you told me about us being together in a parallel universe, yeah."

"Were you just saying that because...?" She asks, trailing off because she really doesn't want to believe it was just for comfort.

"No." He answers, not giving her a minute to overthink it.

A little sigh of relief comes from her and then a smirk like she used to smirk at him. "I also remember the promise of a date."

He chuckles lightheartedly, but his head is deeply filled with love. "I promised I'd build you a house, Y/n."

"Maybe we'll start with a date." She suggests, snuggling into his chest again. He smelt like being at home, warmth and safety.

"Not tonight, though." He tells her. "We're going to get dressed up, go out somewhere fancy, and do this properly now that you're here and okay."

She nods in agreement, feeling like crying again at how happy she was feeling and how much she loves him. "I am okay." She agrees. "And, insider tip, you've already won me over."

That assurance was not going to stop Spencer from romancing her at every opportunity he got in the mysterious world where he managed to get her back.

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bumblesimagines · 9 months

Text

Imagine:

Being frenemies with Javier Peña

Request: Yes or No

Making up for my absence with the king himself

Pronouns for Y/N: technically gender neutral although it was written with a male y/n in mind

~~~

Steve never fully understood what started the feud between you and his partner, Javier Peña. He'd been occupied on his first couple of days on the job, but he certainly hadn't missed the passive-aggressive remarks you tossed at Javier or how Javier would scowl whenever you entered his vicinity. He learned quickly that Javier had a way of getting under people's nerves and assumed he'd done or said something to you that set off the rivalry. But you weren't exactly a saint either. With an ever-persistent smug smirk and a sly way with words, Steve understood why Javier disliked you, although not to the extent he did. Nobody bothered explaining it to him either. Javier liked shrugging his shoulders whenever Steve asked and you would ignore his existence until you needed him for one reason or the other.

Sure, he should've been spending his time trying to bring down the Narcos terrorizing the country, but he needed a break every now and again. And office drama was exactly the type of distraction he needed to keep himself sane and remind himself he was still human. It was why, whenever he had spare time, he found himself watching the way you and Javier interacted in the office. Javier complained and groaned whenever you got involved in something, but then he'd spend the whole day attached to your hip with his ear hanging on every word that drifted past your lips. Steve chalked it up as Javier taking his job seriously while out on the field but then he noticed he'd do it in the office as well. Javier watched you speak, listening intently as if you were preaching to him. The more time he spent around you and his partner, the more the dots connected.

"And what about you, viejito?" Your typical smirk sat prettily on your face, a finger running around the rim of your cup. Javier rolled his eyes and brought the glass of whiskey to his lips, dark eyes piercing into yours. Steve could never fully read Javier whenever you were around. It was as if a totally different man took over him. He leaned back into his seat and folded his arms over his chest, resuming his job of observing.

"What about me?" Javier swiped his tongue over his top lip and set his cup back down on the table.

"You gonna spend the rest of your life chasing after 'informants'?" You tutted softly and shook your head. Steve knew what would come next. "I guess I can't blame you, Peña. If I couldn't keep a woman satisfied for more than a night, I'd stay single too." The blonde snickered quietly under his breath, covering the sound up with a cough when Javier glanced in his direction.

"It's a choice, (L/N)."

"Sure it is."

"You're single too, you know." Javier braced his arms against the table and leaned forward, gulping down the rest of his whiskey and setting the empty cup aside. You lifted your own cup and tilted it, pouring the remaining whiskey into Javier's glass. The movement was fluid, no split-second hesitation or any thought put into it. Steve wondered how many times you'd done it before. Surely, you'd gone out to a bar with other agents alongside Javier. But had you ever gone out with just him?

"How do you know I'm not seeing someone right now?" You shot back and raised a brow at him. Steve swore Javier's eyes narrowed for a moment, and from the way you grinned, you'd seen it too. You mimicked Javier's position and leaned forward as well, eyes darting between his dark honey-colored ones. "¿Te molesta? Que vas hacer si tengo novia o novio, Javi?"

Despite having been working at the agency for a while now, Steve remained rather clueless about Spanish. He spoke very little of it and mainly relied on Javier for translations. But he knew at least half of the words you'd said and translated them in his head to create a sentence that made sense in English. And boy was he glad he'd been paying attention. His gaze immediately turned to Javier, studying the way his jaw clenched briefly. His leg lightly bounced under the table and he looked away, looking over the others eating and drinking in the establishment.

"Why would I give a shit about that?" Javier's voice held an edge to it.

"You look like you give a shit."

"I just feel for whatever sorry soul ends up with you." His reply sounded less hardened and bitter, taking on a more playful tone that still had you rolling your eyes. Javier took his glass into his hand again and Steve shifted in his seat. Your attention jumped to the American and you regarded him with little care.

However, despite your indifference toward him, he enjoyed prodding Javier just as much as you did. "Is it that pretty girl you were talkin' to the other day? The tall brunette with the cheetah print dress, right? What was her name again? Maria? Mary?" There'd been no tall brunette with a cheetah print dress, but he didn't need Javier to know that. Especially from the way he frowned and leaned back in his seat. You stared at Steve, face unreadable, and for a moment he wondered if he'd crossed a line. Then, you grinned.

"Miranda." You 'corrected', looking back at Javier. His leg bounced a little faster. "She's from Medellín and came here for business."

"A hooker, then?"

"You sound relieved, Peña," Steve noted teasingly and Javier's head snapped in his direction, brows knitting and forming wrinkles between them. He scowled suddenly and stood up from the table, his chair loudly scraping against the tiled ground.

You laughed and stood as well, fishing your wallet out of your pocket and tossing some money down on the table before giddily following the sulking detective. Steve took one last swing of his whiskey and followed, tugging his jacket closer to his body when he stepped out into the cool night air. Javier offered him the keys to the car, lifting the cigarette between his fingers when Steve looked at him questioningly. You winked at Steve with that familiar smirk and Steve smiled, unlocking the car parked at the curb and getting inside. He felt it rumble to life beneath him and he subtly rolled down the window an inch to eavesdrop.

"Miranda no existe, pendejo." You giggled, tucking a cigarette between your lips and cupping your hands around the lighter when Javier flicked it on. The detective grunted at your words and stuffed the lighter back into the cigarette pack.

"You're a real asshole, you know that?" Javier muttered and exhaled a puff of smoke into the air, notably more relaxed than when he'd left. You inhaled and pulled the cigarette from your mouth, releasing the smoke and bumping your shoulder against his. Javier dipped his head but Steve caught sight of the small smile that appeared on his face.

"You said it was never going to get serious, and yet here you are." You purred softly and Javier looked back at you. "You're lucky. Eres lindo cuando te pones celoso."

"We'll see what you think after we drop Murphy off."

Oh, yeah. The dots had thoroughly connected.

~~~

Translations:

Viejito = Old man

¿Te molesta? Que vas hacer si tengo novia o novio = Does it bother you? What are you gonna do if I have a girlfriend or boyfriend?

Miranda no existe, pendejo = Miranda doesn't exist, idiot/dumbass

Eres lindo cuando te pones celoso = You're cute when you get jealous

Gifs aren't mine.

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donascozylivingroom · 3 months

Text

HOW TO SHIFT PARALLEL REALITIES.

This is if u struggle to understand the concept.

I'm an old lady of 30 yo and I found out about shifting parallel realities when I was 22 so I've had quite some time to simmer on it and even some success with its application.

We are definitely in the era of shifting parallel realities, finally, now.

People talk about it much more, so I decided to make a logical written explanation of it.

For those of you that struggle with affirmations and mental diet, meditation is definitely important. it's a way of knowing urself and ur mind better.

The ability to silence ur mind at will or focus it on a "mantra" comes with a lot of mindfulness - observing ur mind and what it does w/o judgement.

To be smart and get to the age of 30, you start accumulating a lot of knowledge and kinda have a mental toolkit for a lot of things. So me posting this sh@# is from tried and tested things, not just my musings of the day.

ok so parallel realities.

i learned this from Bentinho Massaro in 2015, i don't really follow the guy anymore or would suggest u do it necessarily, i just wanna give him credit.

So he explained basically that when u get to tomorrow, u will be in the present moment, even though in ur mind it was the future. And yesterday you were in the present moment, too, although u call it past. One second ago and one second after are still in their own present moment. so there is no time, there is only the One present moment.

So basically because the Universe is infinite, all possibilities already exist.

In this reality, you can make choices, u could go to the grocery store today or stay home and play video games. You have free will. You could basically start those things you know would help you achieve your dreams, or not. It is a choice. Every second of the day you have choices. You could speak now or not speak.

But all these choices are parallel realities that already exist.

i believe the universe still creates by combining things/realities that were not combined before based on us, and our free will choices, so being infinite and mathematical it keeps on creating through us, free will agents of consciousness/gods.

Anyways, he explained parallel realities like this: imagine u are watching a movie on ur laptop/device. You could stop it at 1:06, print the picture, and then stop it again at 1:07, print that image too, and send one pic to China and one to Austria. Same way you could print pictures hours apart and place the screenshots one after another.

That's kinda how parallel realities work, u could "print" ur desired reality and bring it to ur next nanosecond.

Just moving ur hand up and down, u are going through thousands, possibly tens of thousands of parallel realities.

What brings your desire closer is focus on it, so affirming and visualizing for example are tools.

But just know, ur desire is one nanosecond close!

I personally first shifted when i affirmed that whatever I visualize becomes my reality in 3 seconds. And it was incredible, I shifted from my mom's studio apartment to a beautiful penthouse in NYC! But I shifted back really fast because I got scared.

I shifted a few times more, but this one was the most incredible!

Anyways be careful with this if you can't control ur mind to not visualize scary things or affirm bad things, but yea you could counteract that with a really good self concept that whatever negativity u affirm or visualize doesn t manifest.

Basically you shift all the time, getting ur desire in time is still shifting, shifting is always the case, we are always shifting through parallel realities. But be careful out there peeps!

#affirm and persist #affirmations #affirmdaily #affirmyourreality #law of assumption #loa #loassumption #persistence #robotic affirming #manifesting #parallel realities #shifting #shiftinconsciousness #shifting realities #visualization

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sgt-seabass · 1 year

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For your open requests: Omega!Reader + Dark Alpha!Bucky + Heat Triggered + “You really should be more careful in the field, doll. You never know what could have happened if they found you. But, it’s okay, I’m here now. I’ll take care of you.”

𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅

pairing — dark!alpha!bucky barnes x avengers!omega!reader w/c — 1.6k (was meant to be a drabble, whoops) this is a dark fic. 18+ only. warnings — dark bucky, a/b/o elements, choking, general dark themes a/n — beta-ed by @sweeterthanthis and looked over by @navybrat817 and @maladaptivexxdaydreaming. my brain has been in a self-critical place recently, so thank you friends for helping me get this out.

The world was cruel.

You knew it as soon as you presented as an omega.

Your mother cried. Your father was so angry he punched a hole in the wall. Your friends turned up their noses, and everyone started to treat you as lesser.

You were no more than the bottom of the barrel.

That was until aliens invaded New York, and you presented for the second time. This time, your powers became apparent after being struck with a weapon alight with electricity. Hawkeye tried to save you, but as it turned out, he didn’t need to.

The aliens used advanced technology, something you quickly learned you could manipulate. You could feel the electrical currents and your mind's eye could visually see the circuit paths to infiltrate any electronic device.

Unsurprisingly, the Avengers took you in for their training program only weeks later.

While New York rebuilt, you trained.

In the sparring circle, no one cared what designation you were. Opponents threw their punches hard regardless. And you learnt what it meant to be an agent; to be respected by your peers.

In the years that followed, after the rise and fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., you met Bucky Barnes. His friend, none other than Captain America, had found him not long after being fished out of the Potomac River.

He was damaged, but who wasn’t? You all had your vices.

You’d tried to befriend him while others cowered away, but all you ever got was a narrowed glance in return. It was obvious he didn’t like you. That much was evident with how he’d sit as far away from you as possible or leave the gym when you entered, not even acknowledging your existence. Asshole. You’d tried to be kind since every other agent wanted nothing to do with him, but if he wanted to be a dick, so be it.

It’s fine. You didn’t need Bucky's approval. But you needed him to be civil on missions after you were placed on the same team. Which he seemed to be, for the most part. The occasional snide comment was passed.

“You really should be more careful, agent. You almost got hit.”

“Perhaps you should spend more time training and less time making yourself look pretty. Nice hair does nothing to assist on missions.”

“Stop dragging behind, agent. I can’t help you when you get your ass beat.”

But overall, it was bearable. Plus, you’d always come out of those missions with a shit-eating grin when you proved him wrong, using power and prowess to take down enemies effortlessly.

You may be an omega, but you were powerful. And that felt good.

But the higher you climb, the harder you fall.

And you were plummeting.

You’d been on heat suppressants since you entered the Avengers tower all those years ago. The medicine helped to reduce your omega scent to barely nonexistent and stopped the quarterly throes of heat.

Bruce always provided you with the medication you needed, but something tells you he might have made the batch wrong.

You’re standing in the lab of a Hydra base, one of many that still exist. Cut off one head, and two shall take its place. The cramps that are overtaking your body are intense, and they almost have you blacking out on the floor from the pain.

Sweat beads along your brow, your tactical suit feeling suddenly claustrophobic, the fabric too tight with how hot you’re getting. Your fingers grip the side of the metal counter, shuddering breaths coming from you.

It was all wrong. There’s no way you’d just entered your heat, right?

The whimper that bubbles in your throat indicates otherwise. You can still smell the alpha scent coming off the bodies of the Hydra agents near your feet. You’d taken them down shortly before the cramps began. And now all you want to do is scent their cold corpses.

Fuck. This is unprofessional.

God, Bucky is going to wring your ass for this.

A particularly sharp shoot of pain has you gasping and keeling over, your head resting against the cold counter, the various bottled substances around you rattling.

You bang your fist against the metal, frustrated tears welling in your eyes.

It all becomes worse when a phenomenal scent wafts into the room. Like a forest fresh after a storm. Earthy, woodsy, and cozy. It’s the kind of smell that entices adventure, to find the unknown hidden within the humid forest.

You’d know that smell anywhere.

Your legs give way, and you slide to the tiled floor. Heat pools in your core, slick beginning to coat your folds.

You look away when Bucky enters, but you can hear the way he sniffs into the air with a dry, mocking chuckle.

“You really should be more careful in the field, doll. You never know what could have happened if they found you. But, it’s okay, I’m here now. I’ll take care of you.”

Doll? He’s never spoken to you so softly before. Confused, you turn to look at him, and fuck, you want to jump him. Hair that’s just begging to be pulled on, that damn silver arm and beefy stature. He’s the picture of a perfect alpha.

You’ve always been attracted to him. How could you not be? Despite his shit attitude, he is a fucking Adonis.

You take a deep breath, attempting to compose yourself and not drool. “I am careful. There must be something wrong with my meds. Blame Bruce and not me,” you snipe, your fever beginning to worsen with each second, your tactical suit sticking to your skin uncomfortably.

“Oh, no, you can blame me for that. I swapped them with placebos,” Bucky says nonchalantly, moving to lean against a nearby counter with a smirk.

The shock freezes you, your mind momentarily short-circuiting. “What?”

“How else was I meant to mate you, omega?” Like it’s a simple, obvious answer, Bucky shrugs his shoulders, nostrils flaring as he continues to take in your scent.

“But— but you hate me. You can’t stand being near me.”

Bucky lets out a growl, and it has your pussy clenching around nothing. “I can’t stand being near you knowing you’re not mine, knowing I couldn’t smell the real you. I need to fuck you, bite you, consume you. But I couldn't do that with those drugs pumping through your system. You have no idea how difficult it was holding myself back with you around, omega.”

His words give you clarity, and you recall all the moments he’d looked at you. In the gym. In the common areas. On missions. In the quinjet after. Pupils dilating, shoulders squared, jaw clenched. You thought he acted like that because he hated you. But it’s because he wants you.

Bucky starts to approach, but you frantically scramble backwards across the floor, covering yourself in the blood of the dead agents as you pass their bodies. “G-Get away from me. I’ll tell everyone what you did. I-I’ll tell Bruce. Steve. Anyone who will listen.”

“Oh, omega, who do you think helped me set all this up? Don’t you think we’ll make a great duo? The little electric omega and her alpha,” Bucky laughs, not stopping his long strides.

His scent is getting more robust and enticing, and it's hard to hold back the moan that wants to escape from the mere smell of him. “Fuck off. You’re not my alpha.”

“I will be.”

Bucky gets closer, and in a split-second decision, you extend your arm and use your powers. You’d never dared try this before, but there was no time like the present.

You feel the currents and wires of Bucky’s arm, your eyes fluttering as you follow the electric path until you find the needed area. You clench your fist, shutting down the primary receptor, and his metal arm goes limp like dead weight.

Bucky bows to the side for a moment before he straightens himself. Even with the arm disabled, he has the strength to hold up the hunk of metal like it's feather-light. His grin widens. “You cannot stop me, even with your tricks, sparky. Give in to me, and I’ll make it all better, omega.”

A whine rips through you the moment his hand touches your knee, the simple touch sending need coursing through you. You look around, but there's nothing there to help you. No electronics nearby as Bucky corners you against the lab counter.

Pulling your gun is dumb, you know this, but you do it anyway. You unholster your handgun, whipping it up and aiming it at Bucky’s legs, just to get him to back off. He’s lost his goddamn mind.

The super soldier doesn't take kindly to the threat. Before you can aim it at him, Bucky grabs your wrist, nearly crushing your bones in his grip before he spins you in the blood on the floor, allowing him to snake his arm around your neck with your back flush to his chest.

The pain in your wrist causes you to yelp and drop the gun, the weapon clattering against the ground as you wheeze. Bucky’s forearm, tight against your throat, begins to squeeze. Even with his metal arm dormant, he still easily overpowers you. “Didn’t have to be like this, sparky. Could’a been nice and sweet.”

“S-Stop, Bucky–” You claw against his arm, but the fabric covering it was bulletproof, so your nails can't even dig in. “L-Let me go.”

“That’s enough, omega. Sleep,” Bucky’s hot breath fans against your ear as he nips at your lobe. “And when you wake up, I’m going to fuck you like a goddamn animal. You’ll be screaming my name so loud the whole compound will hear how good my cock feels.”

To be updated on when I post please follow @sgt-seabass-library and turn on post notifications.

#ambswrites #bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #dark bucky barnes x reader #dark fic #marvel #mcu #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #sebastian stan #sebastian stan fic #bucky barnes x you #dark bucky barnes x you

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anika-ann · 9 months

Text

Cracks in Foundation (S.R.)

Type: one-shot, standalone or part of Love on the Brain series

Pairining: Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 6000

Summary: Dating Steve Rogers is a curse and a gift. Even as it was always a privilege, right now, it feels like the former. You really want to smack some sense into him so this never happens again, but you know it will – after all, that’s half the reason you love him.

In other words, Steve is stupidly brave on a mission and it has consequences neither of you could foresee. But maybe you should have; because now you’re here alone to pick up the pieces.

Warnings!!: Steve being an absolute dumbass, mentions and images of death, hypothermia, PTSD, flashbacks, probably not an ideal treatment of a flashback, canon typical violence, language

A/N: reader is called “Agent Jones”, works for the Avengers Initiative; you do not need knowledge of Criminal Minds or Love on the Brains series to read this, but it will, of course, make more sense. I imagine this taking place much later - in about a year after the events of Love on the Brain; divider by firefly-graphics

In my body I fight fire With the snow, my hell is cold (SYML – Body)

This shouldn’t have happened. This nevershouldn’t have happened but it had – of course it had. You should have seen it coming, both the action and the reaction. All of you should have known better, but you in particular.

Unfortunately, sometimes, despite your ability to profile people, you still failed.

Sometimes, despite your best knowledge of Steven Grant Rogers, you still managed to underestimate him. His literally unhuman body. His profoundly good heart. His incredible strength in both muscles and psyche. His ability to have you burn for him with a single touch. His ability to touch your heart in ways no one ever could.

His extraordinary dumbassery.

You really should have known so much better.

If you had, you wouldn’t have him here, face ashen, lips turning blue, eyes wide and unfocused; he looked like death itself.

You swallowed your tears and tried to battle the ever-rising panic crawling up your throat, closing your eyes for a moment as if it could erase the terrifying sight.

“Steve? Stevie? You’re going to be okay… I’m here. You’re going to be okay…”

You repeated the mantra so many times you weren’t sure anymore whether you were saying it to him or to yourself.

The craziest thing was, it wasn’t even the worst sight of the day you were offered by your exceptional dumbass of a boyfriend; no, that had been what your own mind had shown you. Now that image was going to haunt you forever and despite knowing yelling solved nothing and it couldn’t change the past, you were going to scream your lungs out when you’d get the chance. Later. Right now, you had more pressing matters to attend to.

Like making sure Steve Rogers, your GG, would come back to you.

You needed to get to work.

It was a routine mission really, if such things as routine existed within the Avengers Initiative. It was rather routine in terms of involvement of the actual Avengers; Steve and Natasha joined missions like these – sweep a base, gather intel, make some arrests if lucky enough – on a regular basis. Tony Stark coming with? Less so. Still, one could call it routine enough, even when located in the death of tundra in Russia around 100 miles from the border with Finland.

Besides the cold and Tony, there was nothing extraordinary. Just another mission.

And it had been; until the agents scattered and you heard several voices in the comms reporting they were in pursuit of the enemies. Until you found out they were chasing them through the tunnels and suddenly found themselves outside of the base. Until you learned that outside meant the landscape of the very frozen lake Natasha had purposely avoided landing the quinjet on for the fear of the heavy aircraft destabilizing the already risky environment.

Until you heard agent Smith was down. And by down, they meant under the ice, because a thinner layer of it cracked and broke under his feet. Until Steve fucking Rogers, two hundred and forty pounds of muscle and zero brain power at the moment had the wonderful idea to rush to Smith’s aid.

You had made it out of the base just in time to see his navy-blue suit disappear and your sleep for the following nights probably with it. You had stood there holding your breath as if you were the one in the icy water, as if subconsciously testing how much oxygen – as if that was the only concern – you had left before you’d have to make it to the surface for another breath.

It was long. It was too long. You had taken at least two breaths in the meantime and you weren’t sure the panic rising in your chest with every frantic beat of your heart, with every second they did not appear above the surface, was to blame.

Your hand flew to your comms and you cursed yourself for not having done it moments ago.

“Tony-“

“I’m onto those idiots, Squirt, don’t worry,” his voice sounded in your ear, not quite easing your worry in fact.

Steve was still under. Still in the water. Even though you were aware that he survived much worse than a few seconds of icy cold water – try decades – you’d rather he was still conscious when Tony would get his stupid ass out. And the second Steve would be able to hear you, were going to yell, very loudly and probably more than a little hysterical, because what the hell had he been doing beside tempting fate to give him another involuntary icy nap. You were going to chew the hell out of him, your fists curling in your thick microfibre gloves, because you felt like punshing him too, anything, just so you could stop holding your breath.

But you needed him to get out first.

“And get to the jet, your bae will need some warming up,” Tony added, causing you to grit your teeth, even as you were grateful; not a second later, the whoosh of Iron Man’s suit flying above your head blew the few stands of hair that escaped your hat in your face.

Completely ignoring Tony’s inappropriate comment and his sound advice, you remained right where you stood, gaze transfixed where you had last seen Steve, slipping under the surface. Your pulse thundered in your temples as you watched the red and gold of Tony’s suit fly like a flare above the flood of white surrounding you all, nearing the break in the ice, no doubt searching the heat signatures you assumed were fading with each passing moment.

And then the Iron Man himself performed an obnoxious superhero-like landing, complete with fist on the ground and your anger, gathering since you saw Steve dive into a fucking ice soup without a second thought, exploded, your vision turning bloody red for a split second. What the fuck was Stark doing that for?! Did he really just feed his ego while on a rescue mission?! You were going to-

And then the fist landed again. And again and again and then it hit you. You didn’t have the capacity to scold yourself for assuming and assuming completely wrong; the realization stunned you, blood freezing in your veins having nothing to do with the snow and harsh wind hitting your face.

The ice had frozen over. Steve jumped in and before he could emerge, the ice had frozen over his head. The image of a him under water, holding Smith, the fucking moron, to his chest and fighting to punch his way through the solid surface, swinging his arm heavily through the icy water stinging every inch of his skin, losing oxygen by the minute, that was an image that would haunt you forever, even as you had never set your eyes on it.

Then again, the arm of Tony’s suit diving into water and pulling out two men as easily as if they were helpless kittens was etched into your brain just as effectively, arriving with overwhelming relief. With a wordless prayer on your lips, you squinted against the snow blowing in your face to search for a lump of beloved and hated navy blue suit contrasting against the endless white of the plain surrounding the incident.

You’d swear you could hear him coughing, hungrily drinking in air in between when he doubled over as soon as Tony dropped him off in a safe distance from the crack. In the back of your mind, you were aware of the red and gold figure carrying the motionless body of Agent Smith, flying it to the quinjet, the medical team having prepared on the ramp with a stroller and equipment, but your eyes were transfixed on the dark mass of a supersoldier good hundred feet away still. You were almost certain, even from the distance, that he also managed to empty his stomach to make him feel even more miserable. Not that you blamed him; it had to be, apart from really fucking cold, extremely terrifying. It definitely was for you. Just the memory made your feel throat as if squeezed in a vice.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry, pick-up number two happening right away,” Tony assured you face-to face, uncharacteristically humourless now that he had set eyes on the momentarily lifeless body of Agent Smith.

You thought you uttered a thank you, but he couldn’t hear it as he was already off to carry your exceptionally idiotic boyfriend along. And so you ran to the jet, boots heavy with snow falling in and biting coldly into your calf and shins, legs stiff from the shock of the experience still.

When Tony finally brought Steve after what felt like a lifetime, you certainly didn’t speak a word of complaint when he also hauled him further into the quinjet into one of the medical cubicles sans a team. You followed, painfully aware of every single muscle in Steve’s body trembling, the tips of his fingers having turned white.

“You can yell at him first,” Tony told you graciously, shooting Steve an ugly look before glancing at you entering just behind them.

“Gee thanks,” you snarked back automatically, tone softening when you met his genuinely worried eyes. “Thank you, Tony, really.”

“Whatever,” he scoffed, but a small smile passed over his lips. “Jarvis, heat up this room for our Capsicle, will you?”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname. Steve wasn’t going to live that down any time soon, probably ever, not after attempting to became an icicle for the second time.

“Certainly, sir. Gradually heating up to 25 degrees Celsius, as recommended in the medical manual,” the AI chimed helpfully, the wave of heat washing over you instantly. The air felt almost tropical after the arctic wind outside, but you were grateful. Steve would need that.

“Thanks, J,” you said, throwing off your gloves, hat and parka as quick as you managed with your fingers freezing, not bothering with more as to help Steve strip his soaking garments as soon a possible.

The silence that settled after rang a sudden alarm bells; it dawned to you at last that during the whole exchange, Steve remained quiet. Way too quiet.

You’d expect the sounds of zippers and Velcro as he was tearing off his uniform, the fabric dripping icy cold water despite the best engineers and designers having worked on the material. You’d expect his teeth to clatter in doing so, colourful curses on his blueish lips, especially when in company of only you and Tony. He had been coughing out water, quite violently, barely just having been dropped in the jet, so you’d think his air-ways would still fight spasm and the biting intrusion of ice, the raspy wet cough not ceasing.

But Steve was doing neither of that, tripling your worry for him in the process.

You moved to round him to get a look at him with an urgent whisper of his name, stomach flipping in fear when he didn’t answer.

The lack of any action or sound was incredibly disconcerting, because it could mean two things: either, he was absolutely stunned, the weight of what could have happened finally falling on him, or he had been already struck by hypothermia severe enough to be acutely in danger despite being a far cry from what Smith had looked like when Tony dropped him off.

When you finally laid your eyes on Steve’s face, your heart nearly stopped. His skin was scarily pale, his lips turning alarming blue, but that, while worrying, wasn’t surprising at all. What shocked you was his eyes; his pupils were blown wide, unfocused, misted over to the point that had he been lying on the ground, you’d swear he was--

Do not even think it. You can’t. He was going to be fine, he was alright, he just needed to warm up, he was not—He was very much alive, you were sure of it, he had to be. But the fact was, Steve couldn’t see you. He wasn’t seeing anything.

With horror, your gaze fell to his chest and in a split second, you realized that his whole body was still. Way too still. He wasn’t moving at all; he wasn’t even breathing. And yet, he was standing upright, almost as if his feet simply froze to the ground and that was the only reason why he hadn’t collapsed yet- But you knew, you knew that wasn’t possible, and despite the panic clawing at your throat, you were hundred percent certain that he wouldn’t be standing upright had his heart stopped, so how was he still standing?

It would be baffling if it wasn’t absolutely terrifying. Why was he so still? It literally looked as if he was frozen, as if-

He was frozen.

When it finally clicked, a choked noise erupted from lips, your heart shattering into thousand pieces; but your mind snapped into action, already working on solutions.

“Tony, get us as many of towels, blankets and those small heat packs, as you can manage and give me full access to J. Make sure we have complete privacy. No one needs to see this.” Your throat was too tight for you to be able to speak on normal volume, but that was the least of your concerns, truly. You were sure Tony heard you just fine.

At least someone did.

“Kinky-?” Tony uttered, confused by your sudden escalated panic and the look you shot him – if looks could kill, he’d already be lying in a pool of his blood.

“Tony, get your ass fucking moving or I’ll swear to god I’ll strangle you in a way that will make Sam McDowell look like an amateur.”

Whether he knew the name of the prolific serial strangler or simply understood the urgency in your tone, he had enough wit to take his leave without further protest and with relative hurry, leaving you focus fully on Steve. Oh Steve. The absent brilliant blue of his irises had your stomach make another unpleasant somersault, your eyes filling with tears, nose tingling in anticipation of a full sobfest.

You so couldn’t afford that now. You couldn’t afford screaming either, but good god, did you want to – you wanted to stand in front of a mirror and scream your lungs out because how could it have not punched you straight in the face right away? How could you have not seen it coming?! You only had years of experience in profiling, with dealing individuals struggling with PTSD among other things. You only known Steve for years, knew what he had endured. You only learned about the sacrifice of Captain America in high school, several years ago.

God, the icy water. Could there be any more obvious and deadly trigger?

Of course Steve’s gaze was absent, his whole mind was. He wasn’t here with you, not in time and not in space; he was in the water. In a water so icy it was turning solid, trapping him for decades to come. People couldn’t breathe under water. People couldn’t breathe when frozen in a mass of ice.

Now you understood the reason for the absolute stillness of his whole body including his chest. Steve’s mind was locked so firmly into the memory that it either shut his body – because logically, he wouldn’t be able to breathe, let alone move in the prison he found himself in – or it latched onto his survival instinct, screaming at him not to breathe to prevent the water flooding into his lungs.

You fought your instinct to gag when the iron fist that realization hit you square in the stomach and sent bile up your throat.

So not the time. You needed him to snap out of it. And you needed it fast before you’d lose any more precious seconds.

“Steve?” you called out lowly, giving zero shit about the crack in your voice. “Stevie? You’re going to be okay, but I need you to breathe. Can you do that for me?” you pleaded.

Grimacing, you released an involuntarily whimper when you got zero reaction. You pushed through the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to repeat the words in normal volume. The only response you got was the ever-present unnatural stillness; and Steve’s lips gradually turning bluer.

Your thoughts whirled in your head, mind desperately trying to latch onto any knowledge and experience you had with dealing with PTSD. You had never encountered someone with similar problem, never dealt with a flashback of this magnitude; Gideon had once taken the lead with a soldier trapped in his mind, murdering civilians for he believed them to be enemy soldiers, but that was Gideon. Jason Gideon, with his mind of steel and twenty-five years of experience. Jason Gideon, one of the founding fathers of the Behaviour Analysis Unit himself.

On your own, you were at loss with someone so far gone; but what you knew had to be enough. What you knew was that the only way of breaking Steve out of the prison his mind had created was to anchor him in reality, to appeal to all his senses.

The problem was that the majority of stimuli Steve was receiving from his senses matched the very environment of his flashback. The reality you would try to ground him in was his clothes soaking wet in freezing water and him being on a planewith a voice of a woman in his ears, trying to sooth his suffering. In other words, the reality was how he ended up buried in the ice in the first place.

Aware that you were shaking like a leaf yourself, jaw set so tight it was beginning to hurt, you were also painfully aware you couldn’t just stand there doing nothing with cheeks wet with tears and stare at the strongest person you had ever knew involuntarily depriving himself of oxygen. You had to do something.

Touching him was, frankly, a terrible idea; touching anyone with a flashback would be, because you’d be risking triggering a fight or flight response instead. Touching Steve and triggering the fight part in a supersoldier however, get him run on pure instinct? Now that could result in your broken neck or crushed windpipe really quickly. That idea truly didn’t sound appealing to you; and Steve would never forgive himself. You’d rather avoid that.

You took a deep breath, releasing the air shakily as your mind raced. Alright. Time. If you couldn’t ground him in space, you needed to ground him in time.

“Steve, GG, look at me. I’m Agent Jones – I’m Sparkles,” you said urgently, taking care to voice every syllable, daring to step an inch closer to him, hoping to fill his field of vision completely. “And I’m right here with you. There’s no water. Nothing’s stopping me or you from breathing.” You exaggerated an inhale and exhale, the warm air washing over his face, but without any effect. “There’s plenty of air, GG, for both you and me. Please.”

You dug your nails into your palms when nothing happened but your love staring back blankly, unnaturally stiff.

Steve could hold his breath for a long time – much more than an average human, his lung capacity unmatched – but he had also been drowning, so you really couldn’t count on that. You were running out of time. He was going to pass out. Sure, his breathing would kick in then and hell, maybe losing consciousness would be a blessing compared to this, but that sleep would not be peaceful and there was no telling what the wake-up call would look like other than really fucking unpleasant. The idea of him escaping one nightmare only to be find himself in another and then another until he woke up to the reality just as harsh, as if freshly having lost the whole world he knew all over again, chased fresh tears into your eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Tony’s voice snapped you from your focus, your heart nearly bursting through your chest.

Jesus, how long had he been standing there?

Not important; and you didn’t have time to explain. Without thinking, you spilled the truth in as few words as possible, in the very same breath you tried to appeal to Steve again, your gaze never shifting from his pale face.

“He’s having a flashback, please leave, thank you for the blankets-- GG, please. Breathe with me, there’s nothing to be afraid of, I promise. I’m right here. Trust me. I can breathe just fine…”

You could not. You felt as if someone smashed your ribs with a crowbar for laughs and hit and hit until you couldn’t breathe in without blinding pain, but you knew, you knew it had to be nothing compared to what Steve was facing and you needed to get a grip, you couldn’t wallow in it and you couldn’t let the biting fear consume you. Not with Steve like this.

You were out of other options. Gulping, you oh so slowly lifted your trembling hand, settling it against Steve’s ashen cold cheek. You only got as far as your skin brushing his when a vice-like grip on your wrist stopped you, tearing your touch away and completely immobilizing your hand in the process.

He didn’t look at you as you hissed in pain; he was still far, far away, not moving an inch more than strictly necessary to stop you. But the jolt of pain into your wrist was accompanied by a loud gasp for air, his ribcage expanding right in front of your eyes.

A wet laugh escaped you. “Oh thank god.”

His fingers might as well be made of ice, just as freezing and just as rigid, clutching at you with all the might his body was probably capable off and it hurt. But at least it wasn’t your throat in his grip; you could both breathe. That was a tremendous win.

You still needed to anchor him further and actually bring him back, but the door to his mind were unlocked at least. Now you needed to appeal to all his senses, talk him through it, so he could open the door himself.

“Agent Jones? Do you require assistance?” Jarvis asked warily, no doubt reacting to your physical distress.

Rightfully so, because it was growing – if it was possible, Steve’s fingers dug further into your flesh, already making for a bruise, you were sure. Your fingertips begun to tingle, strange numbness spreading through your hand, but you were far too gone to give up now. You could handle this. You’d get Steve release you on his own.

“Not for now, J, thank you. We’re good—actually, Jarvis?” you called out lowly, the artificial intelligence instantly letting you know he listened. “Can you play me a song? I need to get Steve in the modern times.”

“Certainly. What would you like me to play, Agent Jones? Something contemporary?”

“Yeah. Contemporary and irritatingly ear-worming,” you muttered, mind racing.

A song Steve would hundred percent know, one his mind would without a single doubt identify as something modern. It was the biggest assholery of your mind to push the melody of Let It Go into the forefront of your overstressed brain before anything else, but a hysterical chuckle escaped you anyway, forcing you to lick off tears from your lips. It was the stupidest thing and the worst irony ever – because yeah, the cold really fucking bothered you now and it sure bothered Steve.

“Something way too overplayed on a radio, preferably without the words cold, snow, ice and such in it, J.”

It was only half a second later, when Taylor Swift’s Shake It Off came out the speakers.

Despite yourself, you snorted, fresh tears springing out. This time, you appreciated the irony. That was what Steve needed, right? He just needed to shake it off. He’d be fine.

Taking a deep breath, smiling through your tears and the growing pains in your wrist, you got to work.

You told him what he was hearing. The engines, the song, the heating running, your voice. You told him what he could see, your hair, the colour of your eyes, the Avengers logo etched onto your uniform and not an SSR one, the high-tech equipment you knew he could have never seen in his original time. You told him about the heat washing over his face and hair, your hand in his.

The owlish, painfully slow blink you elicited was a victory, bringing a smile to your face, drying your tears, bringing a softer and softer tone to your voice as you continued speaking.

“Steve? GG? I know it’s cold and I want to help you,” you said gently, trying to meet his gaze as it began to slowly roam to room; still absent, but not misted over anymore. “I could help you by taking off that wet suit, taking away the cold. But for that, I need you to let go of my hand so I can-“

You gritted your teeth and squeezed your eyes shut when the response you got was the exact opposite, as if he was mad at you for even suggesting it; you stifled the whimper at the prickling his grip sent through your arm. It was hard to tell whose hand was paler now; he definitely cut off your circulation and it was not a pretty sight. But you only had yourself to blame and you promised yourself you’d never do otherwise.

It was only when the numbness replaced the pain that it dawned to you where the problem might be.

“GG, please? I promise I won’t leave. I’ll stay right here with you. But I need you to release my hand so I can take that cold away. Only the cold, I swear.”

You nearly cried when the pressure on your wrist gradually eased, a shaky exhale sounding a lot like a whine escaping you. That was most definitely more than a bruise; you allowed yourself a few seconds of deep breaths, fighting off the dark edge in your vision.

Then, you grabbed after one of the small heating pads, snapping the thin metal plate inside to initiate a chemical reaction; in an instant, the thick liquid began to solidify and warm up. You placed in into Steve’s still open palm, hanging loosely by his side, enclosing his icy fingers around it despite the gloves getting in the way. You winced at the sharp pain shooting through your arm. Definitely more than a bruise. You repeated the process to warm up his other hand, finally going for the Velcros and zippers on the front of his suit.

Thankfully, the temperature Jarvis had set melted the microcrystals of ice around the metal, allowing you to undo it relatively easy. You felt Steve’s eyes on your now, his body slowly, oh so slowly getting on with the programme, fists unclenching when you needed to pull the sleeves over his hands without dropping the pads.

“You’re doing so good, Stevie, so good,” you praised him softly, loud enough to speak over the second playing of the song in the background. You were going to hear it for days, you were certain. And you’d hate it forever, too. “You’re a great help, GG, thank you.”

When he dropped the pads, you made a quick work of undoing his gloves too, before pushing new pads into his hands. His thick pants followed; the boots though, those were trickier.

Fuck this. You swiftly searched the transparent cabinets for scalpel, slicing the material through as carefully as you could with your still trembling hands. The water was still brutally cold against your fingers; and your wrist was beginning to throb. Almost there, you soothed yourself, wondering whether you’d manage to make Steve sit down so you could take off those boots and the pants… and underpants. You’d rather have him keep his dignity, but his boxer shorts were soaked through as well and way too close to his core… maybe if you placed enough heating pads around…

The truth was that despite your instincts screaming at you, you knew you didn’t have to worry that much about the physical effects of the low temperature on him. As awful as it sounded, you knew he could take the icy cold – that was part of the problem. It was the numbing memory constructing the perfect trap for his mind, the dissociation, that took precedence, as unusual as it was. And if you weighted the pros and cons…

Well. It wasn’t like his dick was going to freeze right off.

You stood to your full height, licking your lips as you faced Steve again. He was watching you now with surprising intent; you tried to give him a reassuring smile, raising your unharmed hand slowly enough for him to register and placed it on his ribs, almost under the armpit, ready to support him in case his muscles didn’t quite respond to his command as expected when you’d ask him to sit down.

What you didn’t expect was for him to crumble under your touch.

Over two hundred pounds of muscle was too much for your body to carry. When he leaned onto you without a single warning, his knees giving way, dropping his whole weight on your shoulders, you tumbled to the ground as you were without a real chance to slow down the fall. Your hands instinctively attempted too, but you knew you could add bruised backbone and your other wrist to the list on your injuries.

And while pain briefly shot through you very bones, you soon didn’t give a damn.

Not when Steve buried his face in the crook of your neck, arms gripping onto your body like as if it was a lifeline, harsh breaths and heartbreaking sobs escaping his lips, shaking his usually strong frame; but maybe that was just shivers from the cold. His skin was still almost icy to touch, his nose like an icicle as he pressed to your collarbone over your thermals, wet hair tickling your chin; his pants at his ankles, his boots, barely keeping together, still as his feet. You let them be as they were. Instead of stripping him further, you managed to reach for at least one of the pads and throw it into his lap, the blankets and towels too far away.

You enclosed Steve in a hug, achy hand carefully resting in his hair, the other running soothing circles on his back in a poor attempt to console him. His tears seeped into your shoulder and you never cared less for anything in your life; yours in return disappeared into his hair. Sweet nonsenses were spilling from your lips, drowned in his ragged sobs; you whispered his name over and over, his name and all endearments that came to mind and even remotely fit him. I’ve got you, love. Sweetheart, I’m here, sweet, I’m here… oh GG, my gentle giant, giant heart, I’ve got you, this will pass, I’ll help, I’ll help, I’ll help you stand up again. You’re doing so well. I’m so proud of you, baby, so proud…

The song, thank god, stopped playing as soon as Steve broke.

You could feel his body weighting a ton, every muscle weary, strung and feeble at once, and yet, it was his mind making for most of the weight he couldn’t bear. Feelings he normally hid behind a wall as tall as Tower of Babel so he could lead others into battle with a brave face now oozed off him and soaked your skin and mind. You could only imagine the onslaught of emotions and memories, reminders of all he lost, the ghost of having woken up in the new millennium for the first time looming over him.

The way his fingers dug into your forearm, clutched at the flesh of your waist, it would hurt later; but at the moment, those long agonizing minutes that felt like an eternity, you barely felt it, instead consumed by overwhelming grief for the kindest and strongest soul you had ever met. The best man, breaking in front of your eyes and in your arms.

It took long minutes before you dared to move, just enough to reach for the blanket and strip him off the pants and shoes at least. You never went too far. The volume of your voice decreased along with Steve’s, along with the tremble of his exhausted body. He melted into your frame, falling asleep right there, held in your considerably weaker arms and you were grateful.

In a low voice, you asked Jarvis to notify Steve’s therapist – and yours, even if with less urgency. The worst of it was over, but you weren’t naïve as to think that just because the storm was over, there would be no damage and no need for restoration.

For now, you held Steve and tried to keep him warm, not blind to the fact his body combined with Jarvis’ service was already drying off the last piece of clothing he wore. You ran the fingers of your unharmed hand through the golden damp strands of his hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead every now and then, hoping his sleep was dreamless.

Minutes or hours later, Natasha was the one to find you still curled one into other, gently telling you that everyone had already left the jet and that she’d send medics over in a few. You gave her a brave smile even as you were feeling everything but, your adrenalin wearing off and leaving you on the brink of breaking yourself.

When two medics rolled Steve away and you followed, refusing to move an inch farther from Steve than necessary just in case he’d unexpectedly wake up, a third one forced you to take an x-ray as your hand was already swelling.

As it turned out, there was a crack in both your ulna and radius, the mass, however strong, having been unable to withstand Steve’s strength. The swelling was bothering your nerves and your veins, hence the painful tingles and numbness; but in the end, they were just cracks. They’d heal.

Cracks actually usually hurt more than complete breaks, Doctor Jackson told you. You thought it was quite fitting. What Steve had experienced was not a break, for he was never broken; you weren’t certain he could be. It was but a crack; the foundation of who he was had so far been strong enough to withstand horrors unimaginable. And even though the cracks hurt like a bitch, you’d be there for him to help him through the pain.

The cracks in your bones could be solved by a few pills and rest; his would be a little more complicated.

But you’d help build him up again. You’d help him stand tall. Not for the sake of Captain America, the shining beacon of hope, the façade that could be speedpaint with shines of red, blue and white with ease. No, you’d help repair the real cracks for Steve, the gentlest of giants you knew, even if it would take more time and effort than an icon.

He was worth the trouble; even as you suspected that once he’d wake, he might have a thing or two to say about that. You’d convince him otherwise; you wouldn’t be alone.

And neither would he.

With a splint all over your forearm and wrist and a promise you would do a session in Doctor Cho’s cradle to speed the healing, you settled on the bed by Steve’s bedside, the surprisingly serene expression on his face and the gentle beeps of the heart monitor making for a warm hum of satisfaction in your chest.

You’d heal together. Of that, you were sure.

I was hearing words in black and white Twisted up inside my broken mind Outstretched dirty hands just like a child Hungry little fool, but you were mine (SYML – Body)

Steve Rogers masterlist // Love on The Brain masterlist

Notes (because the first aid trainer in me screams and severe hypothermia is a bitch): normally, first concern would most definitely be the cold, hypothermia and the impending arrhythmia (can be caused by the cold), but a) it was established Steve’s body can take it (proved the hard way) and b) his suit probably kept the absolutely worst away… PSA over.

ANYWAY. I hope you – well – liked it ("enjoyed" feels like a little too strong of a word for Steve’s suffering) 🥰 Thank you for reading! Feedback is life.

P.S. – this will likely be followed by a second part called Restoration, but I make no promises.

P.P.S. - if you wish to read a fluff about "Steve fell through frozen lake" situation, I recommend Frozen by @tilltheendwilliwrite 🥰

P.P.P.S. - if you are a CM fan, know that the title is a loose reference to Emily's issues in the second half of season seven when she tries to re-settle down with the team and at Quantico.

#steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fic #captain america imagine #captain america x you #captain america x reader #captain america #steve rogers #captain america fanfiction #love on the brain vibes #love on the brain #cracks in foundation #anika ann

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