Every Fandom Iâve been in: One Direction,5sos, twentyonepilots, BTS, Peaky Blinders, One Piece, Ted Lasso, Marvel, Top Gun Maverick, Stranger Things, COD, The Pitt
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I just binge-read the Jamie Tartt x PA series and Iâm OBSESSED!!
If you still write if, could you do one where Jamie proposes?
HIII ! Sorry for the late answer. Thank you for loving the series!
I'll make my answer short so I won't bore anyone. I already wrote a proposal. Heres the Link:
đŹ 7  đ 8  â¤ď¸ 136 ¡ JUST SAY YES ¡ Glimpse Into the Future - Jamie Tartt x fem!PA reader
Masterlist
TW: cursing, kissing, emotions
Jamie T
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I am adoring your Jamie Tartt fics, they are fucking fantastic. Hope all is well and here's to hoping you write soon âĽď¸âĽď¸âĽď¸
Hiii omg thank you! I'm currently exploring writing for other fandoms. Maybe someday I will write Jamie Tartt ff again. Thank you for your support, though!âĽď¸âĽď¸âĽď¸
Hi! I'm sorry if this will be too forward, but could you tell us where you are from? It's just that your writing is so nice I was really surprised to find out that English is not your first language!
I'm sorry if this ask was strange, I'm also not a native speaker and there's a chance I phrased something weirdly đ
Hiii! I'm actually so excited for this question, because hear me out, it is a bit complicated.
My mother is turkish and my father is from germany. My uncles and aunties married people from so many different countries (italy, russia, pakistan and romania) so I pick up on different languages fast. And my boyfriend is actually from Sweden lol.
So my mom taught me englisch (and just a little turkish) and my dad taught me german. I consider german my "main" language cause it feels natural to speak it (mom and dad both speak german constantly). English is also kind of native to me (my bf and I mostly speak in english), but I notice that I lack some vocabulary so I always use a TW for my english in my ff.
Prompt: slow burn, strangers to lovers, soft boy bob, fluff, flufftober
Summary: Bob brings home a stray...woman?
TW: mild language, mentions of homelessness, light angst, emotional vulnerability, soft intimacy, humor, found family, strangers to lovers
Word Count: 8.5 k
A/N: This one got away from me a little. It started as a quick âBob brings home a strayâ idea (I dreamed out this story in my sleep), and as I was writing, it turned into a slow-burn fic with a lot of feels. I had to cut it into parts. let's see if I have the patience for a part 2.
The smell of coffee and burnt toast hit first. Then came the voices, loud, overlapping, and absolutely impossible to ignore.
It was barely 9 a.m., and the new Avengerz were already acting like a family that had spent too long trapped together on vacation.
Alexei was holding a frying pan like a weapon, cooking the most despicable-looking eggs for his team. Yelena, quite obviously, was accusing him of war crimes involving the eggs. Walker, meanwhile, was insisting he could just make everyone his famous pancakes instead. Yeah... no one asked for that, John...
Bob Reynolds stood at the edge of it all, shoulders hunched, trying not to be in anyoneâs way.
They were all still buzzing from the mission the night before. A close call that Bob hadnât been on. Again.
He wasnât angry. Not exactly.
Just⌠hollow.
He wanted to help. God, he wanted to. But the team still wasnât sure what to do with the Sentry, how to deploy someone who could level a city by accident. So instead of going to war with monsters, Bob folded towels. He refilled the coffee. He vacuumed. He even did the dishes!
And right now, he was pacing the length of the kitchen, hands fidgeting, mind spinning.
Do something. Be useful. Donât just stand here. Youâre not decoration. Youâre-
âBob,â Yelena cut through his thoughts. She was sitting cross-legged on the counter, spooning peanut butter straight from the jar. âYouâre doing the thing again.â
He blinked. âThe⌠thing?â
âThe pacing thing,â she said, waving her spoon. âItâs stressing me out. Like hamster in human body.â
Alexei snorted. âDa. He walks hole in floor soon. Maybe he wants to join mission next time? Destroy base by just walking?â
Bucky, quiet at the table, looked up from his mug. âHeâs just thinking. Let him be.â
âI can think while sitting,â Yelena said. âYou know, normal people do that. Try sometime.â
Bob stopped mid-step, rubbing the back of his neck. âSorry. I just...-uh...didnât sleep much.â
Walker, already halfway through his third pancake, muttered, âYou never do, man.â
âI just donât like⌠sitting still, doing nothing,â Bob said softly.
The room went quiet for a moment. Just a breath. Everyone knew what he meant, even if no one said it.
Then Alexei clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to jolt his spine. âYou are restless, comrade! You must walk it off! Go outside, smell fresh air, scare pedestrians!â
âYeah,â Yelena said, grinning. âGo on one of your little therapy walks, Bob. Before Val starts charging you for pacing holes in the floor.â
Bob tried to smile. âYou sure you donât need anything else, guys? I can...â
âGo,â Bucky interrupted, pointing toward the elevator with his mug. âBefore they start a civil war over breakfast.â
Bob hesitated, still half-turning toward the sink, the counter, the plates...anything he could fix.
They donât need you here. Theyâre fine without you. Youâre fine. Just go for a walk.
He nodded finally. âOkay. Yeah. Iâll go clear my head.â
âBring these cakes on a stick, I like!â Yelena yelled after him. âAnd emotional stability if you find any!â
Alexei shouted something after him about âreal heroes doing the grocery shopping,â and Walker just grunted his approval through a mouthful of pancakes he made anyway.
Bob laughed under his breath despite himself.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
As they closed behind him, the noise of the tower faded, replaced by the hum of quiet, of stillness.
He let out a slow breath and thought, Maybe Iâll finally find something useful to do today...
The elevator doors slid open to the lobby, sleek, polished, everything shining like it was afraid to offend Tony Starkâs ghost.
Bob stepped out, already feeling out of place.
Heâd just wanted air. Maybe the good coffee from the stand across the street. Maybe a minute to stop feeling like a ghost haunting his own home. Not even that he could be, they already had Ava doing just that.
Then he saw it.
Two security guards are roughing up a ragged-looking young woman, gripping her by the arms near the front desk. A third was lecturing her like sheâd just tried to steal nuclear codes.
She was⌠chaos wrapped in sunlight.
Ripped jeans, oversized jacket that had seen better decades, messy hair that mightâve been several colors once, and eyes that glared with enough fire to melt adamantium.
âHey!â she snapped at the guard lecturing her. âYou try living on the streets and tell me you wouldnât kill for five minutes in a real bathroom!â
The guard looked mortified. âMaâam, this is private property. You canât just waltz into the Avengers lobby!â
âOh, please,â she scoffed, rolling her eyes. âI didnât waltz. Maybe if your rich superhero buddies werenât so stingy about bathrooms, I wouldnât have to risk arrest for a small wash-up. It's not like I was gonna steal Captain Americaâs soap. I just wanted to pee and wash my face before the sun set on my tragic, unhygienic existence.â
Bob froze halfway across the lobby.
She was funny.
Infuriating.
Beautiful.
And she looked like she hadnât had a warm place to exist in a long time.
The guard tightened his grip. âListen, little girl, you canât be here. This is a restricted area.â
âYeah, well,â she said, âmaybe put up a sign that says No Humans Allowed, wouldâve saved us both the conversation, Security Barbie.â
âIt's for visitors of the new Avengers only,â the security guard said, now visibly angry.
âOh, I'm totally a visitor. Iâm here to see the Hulk. You mightâve heard of him, big guy, green, rage issues, terrible skincare routine?â
Bob tries to mind his business, but he just canât. Not this time. The guard grabs her arm a little too roughly, and something in Bob snaps, that protective instinct born from experience. He didnât even think, just stepped forward, voice cutting through the tension.
âHey, hey, hey, can you maybe not manhandle her like that?â
The guards froze.
Everyone in this building knew Bob Reynolds, or at least what he was. The golden man with the god inside him. The one you didnât argue with if you valued your job or your atoms. Val's special weapon. The New Avengers' secret ace.
âMr. Reynolds,â one stammered, immediately letting go. âSir, she was trespassing. She tried to sneak.â
âI wasnât sneaking!â she protested. âI never sneak!â
"Did too!" the guard argued back almost childishly. "Mr. Reynolds, sir, she was trying to go into the visitors..."
âThe bathroom,â the strange girl interrupts. âGod forbid a girl pees in peace.â
Bobâs lips twitched, the smallest amused smile. âSheâs⌠with me.â
The guards blinked. âShe is?â
âYep,â he said, more confidently than he felt. âMy visitor.â
The woman turned to him, squinting. âI am?â
He looked at her, silently pleading to just play along. Her eyes flicked between him and the guards, then she grinned, sudden and sharp.
âOh, yeah! Totally. Iâm withâŚâ she leaned closer, whispering, âWhatâs your name, honey?â
Bobâs brain short-circuited. âBâBob. Bob Reynolds,â he mutters, blushing.
She straightened, all charm. âYeah, Iâm with Bob Reynolds. Right! Bob! My old pal Bob. We go way back. Known him for years. Great guy. Bit of a pace-walker, but heart of gold. You lot are terrible at hospitality, by the way.â
The guards looked at each other, utterly lost. Bob, for once, didnât mind the confusion.
âRight,â the head guard muttered finally. âApologies, sir. Wonât happen again.â
As they retreated, Bob turned to her, the woman whom he had just helped lie her way into his day, and found her watching him like she was trying to figure out what he was made of.
âSoâŚâ she said, crossing her arms. âYou always save random girls from getting kicked out of billionaire buildings, or am I just special?â
Bob blinked, awkward smile tugging at his lips. âYou, uh, looked like you needed saving.â
She arched a brow. âSure, I'll be your damsel in distress. Guess weâre even, hero.â
Before he could think of a reply, she started walking toward the elevator like she owned the place. âCome on, hun. Show me that fancy bathroom I risked arrest for.â
He followed, because of course he did.
When she called him hun, something in his chest cracked open just a little.
The doors slid shut behind them, sealing them in a small box of awkward silence.
Bob stared straight ahead. She leaned against the wall, humming some tune he didnât recognize, totally unbothered.
âSo,â she said finally. âAre you like, actually an Avenger, or just, like⌠janitorial staff with great cheekbones?â
He blinked. âWhat?â
âWell, you rescued me, but youâre not wearing, like, the fancy Avengers armor. So either youâre the janitor, or youâre a superhero who doesnât get invited to the fun stuff.â
He hesitated. âThe latter sounds about right...â
She smiled knowingly. âOuch. Hit a nerve?â
âMaybe,â he admitted. âI just⌠donât go on missions much.â
She tilted her head. âBecause youâre bad at them or too good at them?â
He almost laughed at that. âDepends on who you ask.â
For a moment, the joking faded, and something gentler filled the space.
âYou know -uhm, I donât usually break into famous New York buildings just to pee. I was just sleeping behind the dumpsters out back, and I felt⌠gross. Needed to wash up. You can kick me out again when the coastâs clear.â
âYou sleep outside?â He asked quietly.
She nodded, still watching the floor numbers climb. âYeah. Since I was thirteen. You get used to it. Kinda.â
Bobâs heart twisted. âThatâs⌠a long time.â
âMm. Long enough to develop a deep, personal hatred for cold concrete and cops who call you âkiddoâ or 'little girl.'â She grinned sideways. âNameâs Y/N, by the way.â
He smiled faintly. âNice to meet you, Y/N.â
âSo, what now?â she asked.
The elevator dinged softly.
Bob glanced at the floor number, then back at her.
âNow,â he said, surprising even himself with how sure he sounded, âyou get to see that bathroom you wanted.â
She blinked. âSeriously?â
âSeriously.â
âEven though I literally lied to your security guys and made fun of them to their faces?â
Bob smiled, gentle and steady. âYou were kinda funny back there.â
Y/N grinned. âCareful, Bobby. I might start thinking you like me.â
He didnât deny it.
The doors slid open, and upstairs, the chaos of the New Avengers tower awaited them.
The elevator doors slid open to said chaos.
The smell of breakfast still hung in the air: coffee, toast, and something slightly burnt. Alexei was trying to fix the toaster with a butter knife while Yelena sat cross-legged on the counter, scrolling through her phone.
It was normal. Loud, a little messy, but normal.
Bucky just sipped his coffee like a man whoâd accepted that chaos was his natural habitat now.
âBob! Back so soon?â Yelena called, turning, then froze mid-sentence. âUhm- hi? You⌠brought⌠company. Bob, who's your new... friend?â
The whole team noticed her now. The woman stepped out beside him, clothes torn at the edges, shoes scuffed, hair wild but not in a careless way. There was something alive about her, like the world hadnât managed to dim her yet.
And everyone froze.
Alexie's butter knife shenanigans stopped mid-air. Bucky set down his mug. Walker blinked twice like he thought he was hallucinating.
"Nice going... we leave Bob alone for two minutes and he kidnaps a homeless person." Walker chimed in suddenly, totally freaked out by the predicament they are in now.
âA stray! You brought stray home! Like cat!â Alexei threw his arms in the air, totally not freaked out by the predicament they are in now.
âUhâŚâ Yelena said again, hopping off the counter. âBob, did you⌠did she go with you willingly?â
Bob rubbed the back of his neck. âKind of. I mean, yes! She -uh... needed a shower.â
"We see that..." Ava mumbled silently from the back.
Y/N folded her arms, chin up. âRelax, you off-brand Avengers. Iâm not contagious.â
Walker frowned. âUgh. Great. Bob found a tweaker. Thatâs just what we needed. Who even are you?â
âWho you callin' a tweaker, Captain Hair Gel?,â she said defensively. âMy name is Y/N, and apparently, I'm a trespasser, but personally, I see myself more as an amateur comedian. Donât worry, Iâm not staying long.â
Ava laughed so hard she nearly dropped to the ground. âI like her! She has bite!â
âDonât encourage her,â Walker hissed.
The room went quiet again. Not unfriendly, just unsure.
Bucky broke it first, his tone calm. âYou sure you're okay, miss?â
âYeah, sorry, Sir...â she said, meeting his eyes. âI just-... Just needed somewhere to wash up. Your security guys downstairs were a little dramatic about it. But Bob here kind of saved me.â
âDramatic,â Yelena repeated, smirking faintly. âThatâs one word for trying to break into our lobby.â
âI didnât break anything,â Y/N countered. âUnless you count their egos.â
That got a tiny snort from Bucky. Even Yelena hid a small grin.
Alexei finally looked up from the toaster he was trying to disassemble now. âShe funny,â he said, pointing the butter knife like a judge. âLet her stay. Humor builds morale.â
Walker rolled his eyes. âAre we just letting random strangers wander the tower now? She is not staying here!â
âNot random,â Bob said quietly but firmly. âSheâs with me. She needed somewhere to clean up. Iâll make sure sheâs okay.â
That made everyone turn to him. There was something in his voice, something rare. Steady. Protective.
Y/N glanced up at him, surprised for a second, then covered it with a small smile. âYou hear that? Iâm with him.â
Walker scoffed. âAnd what, youâre her sponsor, Bobby? Are we the welfare?â
Something in Bobâs posture shifted, quiet but firm. âSheâs my guest, Walker,â he said simply.
The room fell quiet for a beat. Nobody argued when Bob used that tone.
Y/N, sensing tension, grinned and slipped an arm around Bobâs. âYeah, his guest. See? He likes me. Weâre besties.â
Bucky raised an eyebrow, hiding a smirk. Yelenaâs grin widened like a predator. So Bobby has a little girlfriend, huh?
"Bob, come here for a second, please?" Yelena crossed her arms, studying them both, and pulled Bob off to the side. âSince when do you bring home guests?â
âI donât,â Bob said simply. âBut⌠she needed help.â
Bob's argument wasnât much. It wasn't loud. It didnât have to be.
The way he said it shut down any discussion with Yelena. A no-questions-asked situation.
After a long pause, Yelena nodded and turned back towards the rugged-looking girl. âAlright. Showerâs down the hall, last door on the right.â
âThanks,â Y/N said, already heading that way before anyone could change their mind.
As she disappeared, Yelena gave Bob a look. Not teasing this time, just curious. âYou trust her?â
Bob hesitated, then nodded once. âYeah. I do.â
Yelena raised a brow but didnât push. âYouâve got a big heart, Bob. Just⌠donât let it get broken again.â
He smiled faintly, eyes flicking toward the hallway where Y/N had gone. âIâll take my chances.â
Steam poured from the bathroom doorway like the place was about to launch a rocket instead of clean a person.
âUh- Bob?â Her voice echoed through the hall. Nervous. Amused. âHey, superhero? I think your showerâs trying to kill me!â
Bob looked up from the sofa where heâd been pretending to read a magazine heâd found...upside down. He crossed the room quickly, knocking once before cracking the door open. A wall of steam and the scent of soap hit him.
âUh- yeah?â he asked, staying carefully in the doorway. âYou okay?â
âI canât even find the water setting,â Y/N said. âThereâs, like, six holograms and something that just scanned my face and called me a guest user. Thatâs creepy, right?â
Bob rubbed the back of his neck. âItâs⌠Stark tech. You have to say the temperature out loud.â He stepped inside carefully, trying not to look anywhere that would make him combust on the spot.
âSeriously? What is this, a spaceship?â She stuck her head around the frosted glass partition, cheeks flushed from the heat, hair plastered to her forehead, body completely bare from what Bob could see. She wasnât trying to be bold; she just didnât have the same sense of modesty he did.
Bob immediately stared at the ceiling. âOkay, uh, yeah. Just say, uh, âset temperature to warmâ and it should-â
âSet temperature to warm!â she called, pointing dramatically upward like she was commanding the heavens. The water obeyed with a soft hiss. âOh my god, it listened. Thatâs terrifying.â
Bob laughed despite himself, the sound awkward and low. âSee? Youâre good.â
âThanks, hun.â She grinned, still half-hidden behind the glass. âYou can look, by the way. Iâm decent⌠mostly.â
He didnât. His ears had turned a heroic shade of red. âIâll, uh, be outside if you need anything.â
âWait -uhm Bob! Do you mind handing me a towel? This one over there is about the size of a paper napkin,â She shouted after him, leaning over the side of the frosted shower glass, the top of her breasts now nearly full on display and about to spill over her arm that's protecting the dignity of her upper half.
His brain immediately short-circuited.
âUh-I-I-yeah! Yeah, sure, I can do that.â
He fumbled for a fresh towel on the rack, trying not to think about anything at all. When he turned around, she was there, closer now, half-hidden by steam, eyes sparkling with amusement.
âRelax, Bobby,â she said with a laugh. âItâs not like Iâm gonna bite.â
âI know,â he said quickly, staring somewhere above her head. âI just-uh -itâs -youâre -uh...â
He risked another glance, and she was again just smiling up at him, soft, playful, nothing cruel in it. For someone whoâd spent years surviving on the streets, she looked strangely at ease now, laughing in a room full of fog.
She raised an eyebrow, the grin still tugging at her lips. âArticulate, arenât you?â
He handed her the towel without looking directly at her, his fingertips brushing her damp hand for just a moment, warm against warm. It stirred up something in him.
Her voice softened. âYouâre sweet, you know that?â
âSweet?â he repeated, like it was a word he hadnât heard in years.
âYeah,â she said, wrapping the towel around herself with no hurry, no shame. âMost guys wouldâve used the situation as an excuse to look. You didnât. Youâre either a gentleman⌠or terrified of women.â
He swallowed. âBoth.â
That earned him a grin that made his heart trip over itself.
âWell,â she said, stepping past him, âIâll try not to traumatize you further. Promise.â
He stood there for a moment, still blinking through the fog, listening to her hum as she walked further into the big shower stall.
Somewhere between her laugh and the sound of dripping water, Bob realized heâd stopped feeling useless with her around.
By the time Y/N came out of the bathroom, the tower was quiet. The kind of quiet that only happens after a long, chaotic day, where even the walls seemed tired.
Her hair was damp, face pink from the hot water. Bob had lent her a set of soft sleep clothes, too big, but clean. She looked⌠different. Still rough around the edges, but softer somehow. Human again.
Bob was sitting on the edge of his bed, fidgeting with the corner of the blanket, when she walked in.
âYelena said I have to stay here for the night,â she said cautiously. âYou know, so you can⌠keep an eye on me. Make sure I donât rob the place blind.â
Bob stood immediately. âYeah, uh- of course. Itâs fine. You can have the bed. Iâll take the floor.â
She frowned, watching him pull a spare blanket and pillow off the chair. âYou serious? Youâre gonna sleep on the floor in your own room?â
He shrugged. âI donât really sleep much anyway.â
Y/N tilted her head, watching him spread out a blanket on the floor beside the bed. âYou really donât, huh?â
He smiled weakly. âNot since⌠a long time ago. It's kind of a habit now.â
The quiet stretched between them. She looked around. The room was neat, almost too neat, like he didnât actually live in it. Not a single photo. No mess. Just order. Like someone afraid to take up too much space.
âMan,â she said softly, sitting down on the bed. âYou donât even have dirty laundry lying around. You some kinda neat freak? Looks really... lonely.â
Bob froze mid-motion. ââŚI- I'm a bit of both, maybe. Neat and lonely.â
Something in his voice made her pause. The teasing drained out, replaced by a quieter curiosity. âYeah,â she murmured. âI get that. The... -uh lonely part.â
He looked at her then, and there was something raw in his eyes, like sheâd said something he didnât know he needed to hear.
After a beat, he sat down on the floor beside the bed. âYouâve been out there a long time, huh?â
She nodded slowly. âSince I was a kid. You learn to adapt, you know? You learn when to talk, when to disappear. When to keep your stuff close and your shoes closer.â She tried to smile, but it came out small and tired. âYou start thinking maybe thatâs all there is.â
Bobâs voice was barely a whisper. âAnd now?â
âI donât know,â she said honestly. âThis place feels unreal. Hot water, clean clothes, you're actually the first person in a long time that doesn't look at me like I'm garbage. Itâs weird. Feels like Iâll wake up and itâll all be gone tomorrow.â
He nodded, staring at his hands. âI know that feeling. That's how I felt when I first arrived here.â
âYeah?â
He hesitated, then said quietly, âSometimes I wake up and I donât know where I am. Or who I was before. Or if I deserve any of it.â
She studied him, expression softening. âYou sound like a guy whoâs been through hell.â
âSomething similar.â He gave a short, humorless laugh. "The nightmares are the worst. Mostly. Sometimes I dream of memories, sometimes⌠worse. Sometimes I think itâs gone, but itâs always⌠kind of waiting."
She smiled, small and tired. âDifferent kind of monster, same idea. Iâve been on my own since I was thirteen, because my parents decided I was too much trouble for them. Dumped me in the city and never came back.â
Bobâs breath caught. âThey just⌠left you?â
âYup,â she said simply. âYou learn quick when no oneâs coming to save you. How to stay alive. How to find food. How to not get too attached to anything that can leave.â
âThatâs⌠thatâs awful.â He was looking up at her with those sad eyes.
âEh,â she said with a shrug that didnât hide much. âYou get used to it. You stop waiting for people to care.â Then, softer: âUntil someone actually does.â
Their eyes met, his full of quiet empathy, hers flickering with something like disbelief.
He whispered, âI care.â
It came out before he could stop it. Just a simple truth.
There was a moment of silence, not uncomfortable, but heavy with things neither of them had the words for.
For a second, Y/N didnât move at all. Then she smiled, small and real. âYouâre a weird guy, Bob Reynolds.â
âYeah,â he said, almost laughing. âIâve been told.â
Y/N patted the bed next to her. âCome on. Youâre too tall to be folding yourself up on the floor. We can share. Promise I donât snore.â
Bob blinked. âI⌠I donât know... I donât want to make you...â
She rolled her eyes. âRelax. Itâs not weird unless you make it weird. And itâs way too quiet in here, I hate that. I hate quiet. Makes me think too much.â
He hesitated. âYou sure?â
âI wouldnât have offered if I wasnât,â she said, already lying down. âNow get up here before I start overthinking my life choices.â
After a long pause, he laughed softly, that quiet, shy laugh she was starting to adore. He finally climbed into bed, carefully, as if the mattress might explode, and stayed rigid, lying on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Y/N turned onto her side, facing him. âYou can breathe, you know. You look like youâre waiting for the ceiling to fall on you.â
He smiled nervously. âJust⌠not used to this, not used to being close to people.â
She hummed softly. âYeah. Same.â
For a while, neither spoke. The city buzzed faintly outside, and the tower seemed to breathe around them.
Then she whispered, âHey, Bob?â
âYeah?â
âThanks. For not treating me like a problem.â
His chest tightened. âYouâre not a problem.â
That shut her up for a second. Then, gently, she reached out and tugged at his arm until he relaxed enough to lie properly beside her.
âThere,â she murmured. âSee? Not so bad.â
They lay there in the dim light, a comfortable silence stretching between them. The air smelled faintly of soap and clean sheets and something new neither of them could name.
After a while, Y/N whispered, âYou ever think about starting over?â
âAll the time,â he said. âI just never knew how.â
She smiled into the dark. âMaybe you start small. Like sleeping next to someone who wonât run away from your demons. Maybe some hobo from the street.â
He turned his head to look at her. Her eyes were half-closed, soft with exhaustion. âYouâre not gonna run?â he asked quietly.
âNot unless you make me,â she murmured. âAnd even then, I might walk real slow.â
He laughed, breathless, and for the first time in years, his chest felt light.
Neither of them said anything after that.
Y/N shifted closer, her hand finding his under the blanket. Warm. Solid. Real. Within minutes, her breathing slowed. She fell asleep easily, like someone who hadnât had a real bed in years.
Bob stayed awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythm of her breaths. Soon he fell asleep before he even realized it, his first real sleep in years, with Y/Nâs head on his shoulder and her quiet breathing syncing with his own.
For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasnât afraid of the dark.
a/n: hello this is my first Price ONE SHOT! Hope you enjoy because it's been in my drafts for ages! (was too unsure to post it lol)
Summary: As the 141âs medic, youâve patched Captain Price up more times than you can count, but saving his life on the field shatters the unspoken line between you. What began as quiet pining ignites when fear, anger, and affection collide after battle. Now, in the aftermath, both of you have to face whatâs been building far longer than either will admit.
TW: Hurt/Comfort, Violence (gunfire, injury, battlefield wounds), Blood/Injury (mild), Angst with a Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, Protective!Price, Medic!Reader, Emotional Breakdown / Fear of Loss, Kissing
Word Count: 2.9 k
The firefight was complete chaos. Muzzle flashes cutting through the night, the air thick with gunpowder and grit. Your ears rang with the staccato crack of rifles, the shouts of men, the dull thump of grenades in the distance. Nothing new to you as the trusty medic of the 141 squad, though you never really recover after a battlefield like this.
âGaz, left flank, keep that pressure up!â Priceâs voice was sharp over comms, the kind of steady authority that could cut through even the worst storm. He stood in the open, firing in controlled bursts, commanding with the kind of confidence that made men follow without question.
And then you saw it.
The glint of a scope in the shattered window across the street, the tiny movement that screamed sniper. You didnât think, you didnât weigh the risk, you just moved. One shove, hard against Priceâs chest, sending him staggering back just as the shot rang out. The bullet slammed into the dirt where his head had been, a breath away from ending him.
You felt the burn as the second shot grazed your shoulder, tearing through fabric and skin, but you stayed upright, teeth gritted as you fired back until the window went still.
âBloody hell!â Soapâs voice crackled through the comms, equal parts impressed and horrified. âYou just shoved the Captain out of the way like he was a mere bairn! Saved his damned life, bonnie!â
âNot now, Johnny,â Price barked, but his eyes werenât on the field anymore. They were on you. And they were furious.
He grabbed your arm roughly the second you reached cover, his gaze scanning the blood already soaking into your sleeve. âWhat the fuck were you thinking, love?â His voice was low and dangerous, shaking with something more than anger. âYou donât put yourself in the line like that.â
âI just saved your life, John,â you snapped back, breath ragged, heart hammering. âA thank you would be nice.â
His jaw clenched, eyes flashing. âI donât need saving. Especially not from you.â
The words stung more than the wound, but there was no time to argue. Ghostâs clipped voice came over comms: âExtraction pointâs hot. Fall back to the safe house.â
Price shoved his hat back on, grabbed your good arm, and half-dragged you as the team regrouped. You could feel Soapâs eyes flicking between you both with a smirk that promised endless teasing later. Gazâs quick, worried glance lingered on you, but he said nothing. Then Soap muttered, âCap sounds more rattled than the bloody grenades, lass. Better watch yourself.â
The rain began just as you reached the safe house. Cold, relentless, drumming against the tin roof. The old stone building smelled of damp wood and dust, the air thick with the heat of bodies and the leftover tension of battle.
Price barked orders as the others settled in, his voice a little too sharp, a little too brittle. He didnât look at you. Didnât have to. You could feel the anger rolling off him like heat from a fire, restrained but ready to ignite. And beneath it, though youâd never say it aloud, was fear.
The safe house was nothing more than four crumbling stone walls, two shabby bedrooms and a roof patched together with rusting tin, but after the firefight, it felt like a palace. Rain hammered against the metal, drowning the silence in a steady rhythm. The air inside smelled of wet boots, gun oil, and smoke from the small fire Soap had coaxed to life in the corner hearth.
You dropped your pack by the door and exhaled slowly, willing the adrenaline to leave your body. Your shoulder throbbed where the bullet had grazed you, warm blood still seeping through the fabric of your sleeve. You moved toward the kitchen counter, searching for a rag to bind it with before the wound could stiffen.
âSit down before you keel over, bonnie,â Soap drawled, tossing you one of his lopsided grins. He plopped into a chair, rifle balanced across his lap like it was just another evening at home. âCaptain nearly lost his head, and you nearly lost your arm, reckon Gaz and I are the only sensible ones here.â
Gaz shot him a flat look but didnât argue. He slid closer, already pulling the med kit from your rucksack. âLet me help, yeah?â His voice was softer, steady as ever.
You gave him a tired smile, but before you could answer, a shadow fell across the room.
Price.
He stood in the doorway, hat dripping rainwater, hands braced on the frame as if he needed to physically hold himself in place. His eyes flicked to your bleeding shoulder, lingered there, then moved on. He didnât speak, but the tension in the room thickened like smoke.
âCap,â Soap chirped, far too amused, âdonât suppose youâd like to thank our lass for saving your neck back there? Couldâve sworn I saw your life flash before your eyes when she shoved you out the way.â
âEnough of that,â Price said sharply, stripping off his wet coat. His voice was rough, his accent heavier when he was angry.
âJust sayinâ,â Soap muttered, but the grin never left his face.
Ghost, silent in the corner as always, leaned back in his chair with arms folded. His masked gaze shifted between you and Price. âCould cut the air in 'ere with a knife,â he remarked dryly.
Gazâs lips twitched, but he kept working at the bandage on your arm. âCaptain,â he said lightly, âitâs not the worst thing in the world, you know. At least you got someone watching your six.â
Price shot him a look sharp enough to silence any further commentary, but he didnât answer. He moved to the far side of the room, shoulders hunched, hands busy with his weapon, cleaning it like it hadnât just taken several lives minutes ago.
You swallowed, jaw tight. For now, it was easier to fuss over the others, distracting yourself. To hand Ghost a dry rag for his gear, to remind Soap to get his boots off the table, to press an apple into Gazâs hand because you knew he hadnât eaten since morning. That was your role: the caretaker, the one who kept the boys human. It was easier than acknowledging the weight of Priceâs anger still burning in the corner of the room.
But every time your eyes strayed, there he was, watching when he thought you wouldnât notice. Fury barely held in check, fear tucked just beneath it. You wondered which would crack first.
The safe house was just beginning to settle into uneasy quiet when Price finally snapped.
He stood up from his spot across the room, pacing like a caged animal. His rain-weathered hat was tossed onto the table, his cigar left unlit beside it. The glow of the lantern carved sharp lines across his face, shadowing the hard set of his jaw. He was usually composed, immovable, but now the mask was cracked.
You were seated at the rough wooden table, Gaz carefully checking the bandage around your shoulder. The sting of disinfectant made you wince, but it wasnât half as sharp as the fire in Priceâs voice when he finally spoke.
âYou think this is a bloody game, love?â His voice was low at first, but thick with anger that threatened to spill over. He turned to you, eyes burning. âCharging in like that, ignoring orders... You nearly got yourself killed out there. What the hell were you thinking?â
âIââ you began, but he cut you off.
âNo. Donât you dare tell me you had no choice,â he growled, pointing a finger at you. âYou shoved me clear and took a bullet yourself. You put yourself on the line, for what? To play the bloody hero?â
âI saved you, Captain,â you shot back, though your voice wavered under the weight of his fury. You only use his official rank when you're really mad, which he knew. âIf I hadnât gone, you wouldâve... Would you rather I hadnât done it?â
âThatâs not the point! You donât get to make that call. You donât get to throw yourself in front of a bullet for me. Not you,â he interrupted, sharp enough to make your chest tighten. âYou couldâve bloody died, love. You got shot. Because of me.â
Soap whistled low from where he lounged by the hearth. âEasy, Cap. The lass willingly saved your skin.â
âStay out of this, MacTavish. Every one of you, stay the fuck out of this. This is between me and her, and that's an order!â Price barked, though his voice wavered on the edge of something more than anger.
âCâmon,â Gaz muttered, giving you a sympathetic pat before rising to his feet. âShe did what any of us wouldâve done. What you have done for us several times, Captain.â
Ghostâs voice rumbled from the shadows. âDifference is, Captain doesnât like the idea of anyone else taking a bullet for him.â His masked gaze flicked your way. âEspecially not her.â
The silence that followed was deafening. Soap smirked knowingly, Gaz folded his arms, and Price froze as if someone had just yanked the ground out from under him.
His eyes snapped to you again, hot, desperate, full of something he couldnât hide now. His voice was quieter when it came, but it trembled with adrenaline. âDo you understand what you did? Do you understand that I canât....â He stopped, dragged in a ragged breath, then slammed his hand onto the table hard enough to make Soap flinch.
You couldnât fight him, not really, not with your shoulder burning and exhaustion dragging at your bones. But you could hold his gaze, steady and unflinching, and you did.
âIâd do it again, John. You know I will,â you whispered, because the truth was, you meant it.
His nostrils flared, his eyes squeezed shut like the words had cut deeper than any wound. When he opened them again, the fire was still there, but it wasnât anger anymore. It was something rawer. Something that made your stomach twist in ways the battlefield never had.
The 141 exchanged looks, unspoken words crackling like static in the air. Soap muttered something about putting the kettle on, and Gaz herded him toward the corner. Ghost only stayed seated, watching like a man at the theatre, silent but unwilling to miss the show. And Price... Price looked at you as though youâd just pulled him back from the edge of a cliff, and he didnât know how to thank you without shattering.
The safe house had gone still, save for the creak of the old beams. After some time, the others had peeled off one by one. Soapâs snoring rattled from one of the bedrooms that he shared with Gaz, whose shifting in his bedroll could occasionally be heard. Ghost was silent enough, you wondered if he ever truly slept.
But you, you couldnât sleep.
Your shoulder throbbed beneath its bandage, a dull ache that matched the storm still rolling in your chest. Priceâs voice, sharp, furious, too close to breaking, echoed in your ears no matter how tightly you closed your eyes.
So you slipped outside to the patio.
The air was cool and damp, carrying the earthy scent of rain-soaked ground. The night pressed close, black save for the pale silver of the moon. And there he was. Price leaned against the stone wall just beyond the door, broad shoulders hunched, a cigar glowing faintly between his fingers. The smoke curled up into the night, drifting with the mist. His hat, now dry, was tipped low, shielding his eyes, but you didnât need to see them to know heâd heard you. He always did.
âYou should be resting,â he muttered, voice low and gravelled, as though it belonged to the night itself.
âSo should you,â you answered softly, stepping closer.
For a moment, there was only the crackle of the cigarâs ember. Then he exhaled, smoke trailing from his lips in a sigh heavy enough to bow his shoulders further. âYou donât make it easy, love.â
The word hung in the air, heavy, tender, unguarded. You saw the instant he realized heâd said it, the way his lips pressed together as if he could shove it back down. But the silence had already shifted; the battlefield had followed you home, and the war he was fighting now wasnât out there. It was inside him.
Something in the way he just said that, rough, pained, almost defeated, made your throat tighten. âI wasnât going to stand there and watch you die, John,â you whispered.
He turned to you, finally, and the sight of him stole the breath from your lungs. Lantern light from the doorway carved shadows into the lines of his face again, catching in the silver of his beard, the furrow of his brow. His eyes burned, still stormy, still edged with adrenaline, but beneath the fury was fear. Real, bone-deep fear.
âYou donât get it, sweetheart,â he said, pushing away from the wall, voice rising before he forced it down again. âI canât have you throwing yourself in front of me like that. I canât... Christ, I canât lose you.â
Your chest ached. âYou think I want to lose you? You think it wouldnât gut me just the same?â
He froze, cigar forgotten, his hand clenching into a fist at his side. The night between you thickened, charged with everything unsaid.
âJohn I-âŚâ you whispered, but he was already turning again, restless, tormented.
âIâve lost too many,â he muttered, voice rougher now, thick with something youâd never heard from him before. âMen Iâve buried, soldiers Iâve had to write letters home for. I can handle that. Comes with the job. But you-â His voice cracked, and he stopped, staring at you like the ground had opened beneath his feet. âI canât bury you. I canât. I'm not losing you. Never.â
Your breath caught. Heâd stepped closer without you realizing, his hands still curled into fists at his sides like he didnât trust himself to touch you. His eyes were no longer the hardened blue of a commanding officer; they were raw, pleading, terrified.
âI understand that John, and you know that I donât want to be just another soldier to bury for you,â you murmured, your voice trembling but sure.
âYouâre not,â he said instantly, like the truth had been waiting all along. âDarling, youâre not. Youâre the only thing that makes all thisââ he gestured vaguely, helplessly, at the world outside ââbearable. Youâre the only good thing Iâve got left.â
âYouâre supposed to be the steady one, love,â he continued hoarsely, taking another step closer. âThe one who keeps this bloody family together. You know Soap... he runs his mouth, Gaz takes on too much, Ghost- hell, Ghost would burn the world down if left unchecked. And you... youâre the only thing holding the pieces in place. Youâre the heart of it.â
The pet names softened his tone, the fury ebbing away until there was only desperation. When his hand finally rose to touch you, calloused fingers brushing your cheek, feather-light as though afraid youâd vanish, it felt like a dam breaking.
He swallowed hard, voice cracking like it hadnât on the battlefield in decades. âIf I lose you⌠The rest of it falls apart. I fall apart.â
The words shattered something in you, and before you could stop yourself, you hissed back almost pleadingly, âThen stop treating me like Iâm made of glass. Stop acting like Iâm anything less than what you are to me.â
You leaned into him, into the scent of smoke and rain still clinging to his clothes, into the warmth of a man whoâd built walls taller than anyone elseâs and was finally letting you inside. His thumb traced along your jaw, lingering, and when you looked up into his eyes you saw the truth there, laid bare and unflinching.
The silence that followed was thick as smoke, hot as fire. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingered, then snapped back up.
And then he kissed you.
It wasnât gentle, not at first. It was sharp, messy, born of anger and fear and the ache of almost losing everything. His hands framed your face, rough and trembling, pulling you closer as if to prove you were alive, here, his.
You clutched his coat, gasping into his mouth, matching the urgency because you felt it too. That desperate edge, that awful realization that love had grown out of the battlefield like a stubborn weed.
When the kiss finally broke, he pressed his forehead to yours, breaths ragged, voice breaking.
âNot losing you,â he whispered. âNot ever, sweetheart.â And for the first time that night, you believed him.
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đ§ˇBrings you snacks âfor energy.â Never mind that theyâre usually his favorites.
đ§ˇLeaves funny little notes on your desk. âPrescription from Dr. Soap: one cuppa tea, two hugs (from me).â
đ§ˇOnce tried to fix a broken cabinet in the med bay, ended up making it worse, apologized by cleaning up everything in sight.
You came back to the med bay after a short meeting, humming under your breath, half your mind already on the reports you still had to finish. The first thing you noticed was the smell...disinfectant and lemon cleaner, stronger than usual. The second thing was the sound. Something clattering, followed by a low, distinctly Scottish curse. You paused in the doorway.
Soap was crouched in front of one of the lower cabinets, a screwdriver in one hand, a look of deep concentration on his face.
â...Johnny?â He jolted so hard he hit his head on the counter. âAh, shite! Donât sneak up on a man at work, bonnie!â
You raised a brow, arms crossing. âWork? Youâre not assigned to med bay maintenance, last I checked.â
âNaw, but yer cabinet hinge was squeakinâ, remember? Thought Iâd fix it for ye.â You leaned around him and immediately regretted it. The cabinet door was off its hinges. Screws were scattered across the floor like shrapnel. The hinge itself looked like it had gone through a blast test. âJohnny⌠what did you do?â
He blinked up at you, screwdriver still in hand. âWell, it was squeakinâ⌠now itâs noâ!â
You pressed a hand to your temple. âBecause itâs detached.â
He paused, following your gaze to the destroyed cabinet, then back up at you. â...Aye, well. Small setbacks in the name oâ progress, eh?â You couldnât help it. You started laughing. Full-on, canât-breathe laughter that had him grinning sheepishly.
âAlright, alright, I buggered it up a bit.â
âA bit?â
He stood, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks pink. âTell ye what...ye take a break, yeah? Iâll clean this whole place up. Make it sparkle. Swear it on me mohawk.â
âJohnny, you donât-â
âAlready started, lass!â Before you could argue, he was off wiping down counters, sweeping the floor, reorganizing supply trays like heâd been possessed by domestic guilt. The smell of disinfectant filled the room as he hummed some Scottish tune, glancing at you every few seconds to make sure you were watching. By the time he was done, the place looked immaculate. The cabinet was still broken beyond repair, but every surface gleamed. He leaned on the counter, grinning proudly. âSee? As good as new.â
You smirked. âExcept the actual cabinet.â
He winced. âRight. The cabinetâs⌠on medical leave.â You shook your head, still smiling. âYouâre ridiculous.â
He tilted his head, eyes twinkling. âAye, but I make ye smile, donât I?â That shut you right up. You looked away, warmth creeping up your neck. âThought so,â he said softly, grin widening. âWorth it then.â And despite the broken cabinet, the chaos, and the mess of screws still on the counter, you couldnât help but think he was right.
đ§ˇHeâs a walking chaos magnet, but he listens when you talk. He might not understand half the medical jargon, but heâll remember every word.
đ§ˇAlways checks in before missions. âYou got everythinâ ye need, bonnie?â And always the first face you see when you come back.
When the Others (141) Notice:
đŞThe team catches on immediately.
đŞGhost gives him grief nonstop. Price just sighs, waiting for his subordinate to finally make a real move. Gaz takes bets on when youâll notice.
The mess hall was buzzing that afternoon, boots scuffing on tile, plates clattering, the low hum of soldiers swapping stories between missions. Soap sat with Ghost, Price, and Gaz at their usual table near the back. But his attention? Fixed on you.
You were across the room, laughing with one of the other medics, a streak of sunlight cutting across your face. Soapâs fork hovered midair, his food forgotten, a stupidly soft smile tugging at his lips.
Ghost noticed first, of course. The man noticed everything.
He leaned just slightly toward Price, his tone dry as sandpaper.
âHeâs doinâ it again, Captain.â Price didnât even look up from his tea. âStarinâ, or thinkinâ?â
âBoth.â
Gaz grinned. âI say we time it. Bet he doesnât blink for thirty seconds.â Price sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. âYou lot are cruel.â
Ghostâs voice dropped into that familiar lazy drawl.
âYouâre hoverinâ again, Johnny.â Soap blinked, startled, snapping his gaze away like heâd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. âAm noâ! Just keepinâ an eye on the medics, makinâ sure theyâre...uh-â He gestured vaguely. âHydrated.â
Gaz snorted so loud his drink nearly went up his nose.
âHydrated? Mate, youâve been makinâ googly eyes for five straight minutes.â Soapâs ears flushed pink. âRubbish. Itâs called team morale, Gaz.â Price finally looked up, one eyebrow raised.
âYouâre worse than a lovesick teenager, son.â
Soap sputtered. âI am not! Iâm a grown man, Captain! A professional soldier!â Ghost tilted his head, mask crinkling just enough to show amusement. âProfessional soldiers donât trip over air tryinâ to hold the door open for the medic lass.â
Gaz was grinning ear to ear now. âOh aye, remember that? You about tackled the poor medic with your soldier-like reflexes.â
Soap groaned, sinking into his seat, hands covering his face. âYe lotâre crueler than any bloody enemy.â
âWeâre just observinâ,â Price said, chuckling. âItâs hard to miss, Johnny. Youâve been orbitinâ her like a lost drone.â
Ghost added, âI give it a week before he cracks.â
Gaz held up his hand. âNah, three days. Heâs already bringing her tea, and yesterday he tried to fix her cabinet hinge.â
Soap peeked over his fingers, indignant. âAye, because it was squeakinâ! Couldnât have that distractinâ the lass while sheâs savinâ lives!â
âOf course,â Ghost deadpanned. âbecause thatâs whatâs distractinâ âer.â Soap scowled at him, then risked one more glance toward you. Youâd caught his eye this time, smiling a little, like you knew exactly what they were talking about. He froze. You lifted your hand, gave a small wave. Soap waved back automatically⌠and promptly knocked over his own cup of tea. Gaz cackled. âAaand thatâs thirty seconds on the dot.â Price just shook his head, laughing under his breath. âHopeless. Absolutely hopeless.â
Ghost leaned back, voice low and smug. âTold you. Lovesick.â
And Soap? Still red-faced, still grinning like an idiot, trying (and failing) to act normal while you laughed at him from across the room.
When He Realizes Itâs Serious:
đĽIt hits him one night when you patch up a scrape on his cheek. Youâre close, calm, eyes focused on your work.
đĽHe jokes, âCareful, bonnie, ye keep lookinâ at me like that anâ Iâll think ye fancy me.â
đĽYou donât even answer, just smile at him and tell him to hold still, and he feels his heart stop.
đĽLater, he canât sleep. Heâs thinking about your laugh, your hands, how gentle you are, how you never tease him back too hard because you know heâs genuine underneath the noise.
đĽThatâs when he knows: heâs gone. Absolutely smitten. Seriously in love.
When You Finally Call Him Out On It:
The hallway outside the med bay was quiet, the hum of the vending machine the only sound. You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as Johnny âSoapâ MacTavish strolled up with another steaming cup of tea in his hand. He looked far too casual for someone on his third coincidental tea delivery this week. You arched an eyebrow. âLet me guess. You were in the general area and thought I could use a little pick-me-up?â He froze mid-step, caught. âAye, well⌠saw ye looked a wee bit tired, bonnie. Figured Iâd help.â
You took the cup from him, deliberately slow, your smirk growing. âUh huh. Johnny, are you ever gonna tell me why youâve been following me around like a lost puppy lately?â His grin faltered for just a second before returning in full force, too bright, too quick. âFollowinâ? Me? Naw, just lookinâ out for the team medic! Safety first, aye?â You took a sip, pretending to think. âSo safety includes carrying my bag⌠bringing tea⌠fixing my cabinet hinge at one in the morning?â Soap scratched the back of his neck, that nervous little half-smile creeping in. âCouldnae sleep,â he muttered. âThought Iâd be useful.â You took a step closer, eyes narrowing playfully. âUseful, huh? You sure youâre not just trying to impress me?â He blinked, thrown off his rhythm. âImpress ye?â His accent thickened when he was flustered, every syllable rolling rough and warm. âWell⌠obviously Iâm just tryinâ tae impress the bonniest lass in base.â
The words hung between you, unguarded, too honest.
You couldnât help it. The laugh bubbled out before you could stop it. Soapâs eyes softened instantly. He looked at you like that sound alone could stop his heart. For once, he didnât have a comeback, didnât crack a joke. Just stood there, lips parted, chest rising and falling like heâd forgotten how to breathe. And maybe thatâs what made you do it.
You reached up, curled your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, and kissed him. It was quick, but real, warm, a little daring. For a second, he didnât move. Then he made a low noise, deep in his throat, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer.
When you broke apart, his forehead rested against yours, breath shaky. His grin came back slow and dangerous, blue eyes gleaming with that mix of mischief and tenderness only he could pull off. âRookie mistake, bonnie,â he murmured, voice rough. âNow I canât ever let ye go.â He squeezed your waist gently, that lopsided grin spreading. âYouâre mine now, eh?â
You laughed again, but softer this time, your fingers still clutching the front of his shirt. âYou really donât know how to do subtle, do you?â
âNot when it comes tae you,â he said, simple as breathing.
And just like that, between the warmth of his hand on your hip, the grin that could melt steel, and the taste of coffee still lingering on your lips, Johnny MacTavish was yours. He always was.
Prompt: Domestic fluff, slow burn, kitchen shenanigans, found family, cooking, soft boy bob
Summary: Y/N thought taking a cooking job at the new Avengers HQ would just mean feeding a bunch of emotionally constipated superheroes. Turns out it also means falling for the quietest man on the team, one strawberry milkshake at a time.
The first thing Y/N noticed about the New Avengers compound was the silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that sat on your shoulders, heavy, watchful, waiting.
Sheâd worked in enough military kitchens to recognize tension you could taste in the air. It was the same brand that came after warzones, after long nights, after things people didnât talk about. Only here, it came wrapped in steel walls and security codes.
Still, she smiled. Because thatâs what she did.
A clipboard in one hand, duffel bag in the other, she followed Val's assistant Mel through the narrow hallway and into what would become her new kingdom, a stainless-steel kitchen big enough to host a small army. And maybe, in a way, thatâs what it was.
âWelcome to HQ,â Mel said, leaving her at the door. âThe teamâll be around soon. They, uh, eat together sometimes. I think...â
âSometimes?â Y/N echoed, arching a brow. âThat sounds promising.â
Mel gave a nervous chuckle and vanished. Y/N sighed, setting down her bag. âAlright, kitchen,â she murmured, sliding her hands over the counter. âShow me what you got. Letâs see who Iâm gonna be feeding tomorrow.â
After a rather sleepless night, Y/N started early, instinct guiding her: coffee brewing, eggs sizzling, pancakes flipping. A usual American breakfast. Something for everyone. By the time the first footsteps echoed down the hall, the air smelled like cinnamon and butter.
The first to arrive was a mountain of a man with a grin that could power a small city. âIs that real food? Cooked?â Alexei boomed, sniffing the air.
âLast time I checked,â Y/N said casually, flipping a pancake. âYouâre Alexei, right? I'm Y/N.â
âAh! You know of me!â He puffed his chest, already drooling over the pancakes. âYou're new team cook. The Red Guardian never forgets a pretty face. I will have⌠five of those.â
âYouâll have two,â she corrected, setting his plate down. âWeâll work up from there.â
He blinked, then laughed loud enough to rattle the cupboards. âYouâre funny woman. I like you. Strong character, but weak body, like squirrel.â
âGood,â she said. âI'll take that as a compliment, better than crying myself to sleep tonight.â
By the time the rest trickled in, Yelena was raiding the fridge for hot sauce, Walker wad asking about protein content of the food, Ava was hovering like a ghost at the edges of the kitchen counter and Y/N (after losing her last nerve) already felt the rhythm forming. The banter, the chaos, the quiet moments between bites. They were a team.
And then, there was him.
He came in almost unnoticed, shoulders sloped, eyes soft and downcast. Robert Reynolds looked like he was trying not to exist too loudly. He offered a polite nod when Y/N greeted him, by name, like she greeted everyone else. Bob didnât sit with the others. Didnât take a plate.
Y/N watched him from the corner of her eye as she cleaned up the breakfast mess she'd created in the kitchen. Everyone else she could read, but somehow not him. Which irked her, because she could always get a read on anyone in the room...
By the end of her first week, Y/N had everyoneâs food patterns memorized. Alexei needed meat, protein, lots of unnecessary second helpings, and third helpings if you turned your back on him for too long. Yelena was simpler, she loves anything spicy and crunchy. The trick with her was to crush chips into her food and put hot sauce on top of everything. Walker and Ava had similar eating habits, more on the boring, but consistent side. They ate their food quietly, without complaining, often while standing up (Ava more than Walker). Walker also wasn't one to be picky, an old military habit, Y/N assumed. Bucky was also pretty simple and reliable. He was a big breakfast guy, coffee, eggs, toast, that's it. Dinner not so much. Lunch, forget it. He lingered to help Y/N with dishes sometimes, talking about anything in the world. They started a comfortable camaraderie, all small jokes and easy silences.
But Bob... Bob was the blank space in her notes. A blank canvas. Y/N wasn't even sure if or when he even eats. Which greatly concerns her, not only as the teams personal cook. He certainly has never eaten while Y/N was around (the leftovers from the evening before were always gone in the morning, though...).
Heâd pass through the kitchen sometimes. Never in a rush. Always gentle in his movements, as if afraid of breaking something invisible. She noticed his hands trembling occasionally when he reached for a mug.
The others didnât comment. Which meant theyâd gotten used to it.
Y/N, however, had never been the type to leave a mystery unsolved, especially one that looked like it hadnât eaten in days.
One night, she stayed late, organizing the pantry. It was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. Then she heard it, a soft clink of glass, footsteps light as breath.
She peeked around the corner into the kitchen.
Bob stood at the counter, holding a jar of honey and a piece of toast, as if he wasnât sure what to do with either.
âCaught ya,â she said softly, as if not to startle him.
He froze. âI-Iâmâ sorry. I didnât mean to... I was just...â
âHungry?â she interrupted, leaning against the counter. âRelax, Bob. Youâre allowed to eat here, it's a kitchen, you know.â
He blinked, like he hadnât considered that. âItâs just⌠I donât alwaysââ
âWant to eat? Know what to eat?â she offered gently.
He nodded. Eyes darted to the floor. Almost like he was ashamed to admit it. Y/N understood, though. She had her fair share of people, who she's cooked for, with PTSD or depression that forgot to eat or simply had no appetite.
âOkay,â she said casually, and went back to stacking cans. âWhen you do crave something small, I make a mean strawberry milkshake. Ask and you shall receive, you know... it's kinda my job around here.â
That earned her the smallest, shyest flicker of a smile.
It all started with said milkshake.
Two days after the honey-and-toast incident, Y/N came into the kitchen early again. She was halfway through prepping dinner when she caught a flash of gold at the corner of her eye, a small honey jar wrapped in a little bow, sitting neatly by the sink. And next to it, a napkin folded with the precision of a soldier.
Her brows rose. A thank-you? From Bob?
She smiled faintly, shook her head, and reached for the blender.
When Bob appeared that evening, quiet as a breeze, hovering by the doorway, she didnât turn around immediately. She just called out, casual as anything, âYou ever had a strawberry milkshake, Reynolds?â
There was a pause. âI⌠donât think so. N-not that I remember at least...â
âWell, thatâs a tragedy. Means you haven't had a memorable one yet.â
She poured the pink mixture into two glasses, garnished it with a sliced strawberry, and slid one his way. âYou look like a vanilla guy, but weâre starting with strawberry and I've added a little honey too. Let's live dangerously for once, huh.â
He hesitated, then took it. Hands steady, eyes uncertain.
One sip. Then another.
Then his whole expression changed, surprise melting into something warm and vulnerable, like he couldnât remember the last time something tasted so good.
âItâs... sweet,â he murmured, voice small but sincere, his legs hesitantly dragging him closer to the pretty cook.
Y/N leaned her elbows on the counter, chin resting on her hands. âGood sweet or too sweet?â
He thought for a second. âGood sweet. Like⌠it feels familiar. Even if I donât know why.â
That hit her harder than she expected. To make people happier with her food has always been her goal.
âThen Iâll make it again, only for you, Bob. Don't tell the others!â she said softly, more than proud of herself that she finally found something the handsome man in front of her likes.
Bob's eyes started to crinkle and his face broke out in a full-blown smile. He did a gesture, zipping his mouth shut. "Only for me..." he mumbled more to himself.
By the end of the week, the milkshake ritual had become a thing.
It always happened after dinner, when the others had gone or pretended not to notice Bob sneaking into the kitchen.
Bob would show up, silent as ever, and Y/N would already be rinsing strawberries or pouring milk. Sometimes they talked, about nothing. About everything. Sometimes they didnât talk at all. Bob would just stare at her cleaning the kitchen or dry some wet dishes she handed him.
He even started finishing whole meals she's made him more often, too. Small portions at first, then normal ones. Y/N didnât mention it; she just smiled when she saw the empty plates.
Of course, the others noticed as well.
âYou and sunshine boy got a thing going on?â Yelena asked one morning, spooning hot sauce into her cereal (which Y/N had given up questioning).
âDonât be ridiculous, Lena,â Y/N said, fighting a smile. âHeâs just⌠nice. I like having him around.â
âNice,â Yelena repeated, unconvinced. âThatâs what people say when theyâre in denial. Oooh, Yelena, he's just nice, I totally don't want to kiss his stupid, shy smile off his face...â
âYeah, well,â Y/N muttered, âIâve been called worse than in denial... He has a pretty smile though...â
Bucky was kinder about it. He leaned against the counter after dinner one day, watching Y/N knead the dough for the fresh sourdough bread Bucky loved having with his morning coffee.
âHeâs talking more,â he said quietly. âBob, I mean. More than he used to, after the incident. Thatâs mostly you, you know.â
Y/N shrugged. âMaybe he just likes my milkshakes.â
âSure,â Bucky said, smirking. âAnd maybe I just like your pancakes.â
She threw a dishtowel at him. He ducked. Freaking super-soldier reflexes.
Bob didnât understand it either, at first... this constant need to linger when Y/N was near. She gives him a good feeling, she understands him. It wasnât an appetite, not exactly. It was a different kind of hunger...quieter, more stubborn. A hunger that couldn't be tamed with food. Like the feeling of sunlight through fog. She saw him, really saw him. And he felt her.
Heâd been around kind people before, sure. But Y/N didnât pity him, like everyone else did. She didnât flinch when he forgot his words and stuttered. She didnât force conversation when Bob would go mute. She was just patient, funny, beautiful, and impossibly human.
Sometimes, when she talked, he didnât even hear the words. Just the sound. Like an old song played on the radio, he didnât know he missed hearing.
And that scared him a little.
Because for the first time in years, he wanted something. To have for himself. Something good.
Someone.
It was raining the night he found her sitting by the living room window, writing recipes in a little leather notebook. The kitchen lights were dim in the background, soft jazz playing from her phone, which she left there on the counter.
âCanât sleep, Reynolds?â she asked without looking up from her writing.
He shook his head silently. âYou?â
âNever can. Too much noise in my head. Kinda like, if the stove's exhaust is always on in my brain.â She looked up, met his gaze for the first time that night. âYou want some tea? Might make you fall asleep.â
He nodded again.
They sat in silence for a while, two tired souls wrapped in the smell of chamomile and rain. Then she said, âYou know, I've never told anyone here this. But I lost my family when Inwas very young, in a small civil war that suddenky broke out, back home in my country. Didnât think Iâd ever find peace again after fleaing. Now I'm here, with you guys after years of serving as an army cook... and it feels... almost peaceful. Like a real family. A weird one, but a real one.â
He looked at her, really looked, and saw not just the warmth, but the strength that held it up. A strong woman in front of him, that is purely honest with him and Bob saw beauty in her pain.
She smiled faintly, not expecting an answer or anything else from Bob in that moment. Just his presence was enough for her. âGuess I find peace in cooking, too. People eat, they smile, they live another day. Thatâs enough for me.â
Bob swallowed. âYou help people remember what being alive feels like. With your food, sure. But with your personality too, Y/N. You're so strong, it is unbelievable. I could never...â
It wasnât meant as a confession. But it sounded like one.
Y/Nâs heart stuttered. âCareful, Reynolds. Youâll make a girl blush.â
He smiled then, soft and real.
And Y/N realized then and there: he was beautiful when he smiled. And she needs to see him smile every day from now on...
Breakfast the next morning was a circus. Y/N's newfound family was special, to say the least. They had their own little eating habits, which Y/N just adored, because they made them special. She even got the whole team to eat together from now on, and she's trying to make it a regular habit.
The morning itself started with Alexei arguing that he wants âreal American-sized pancakes, not tiny European portioned ones!â which led Y/N to pass the first badge of "too small" pancakes to Walker. He'd eat anything she tossed his way anyway. A resourceful man.
Meanwhile, Yelena lectured Bucky and Ava on how maple syrup was âbasically soupâ and that it is respectable to eat it with a spoon out of a cereal bowl. And in the middle of it, Bob sat very still, trying to disappear into his coffee. At least he sat at the table for once, Y/N thought to herself, happy with the progress.
âEy, donât slouch, sunshine boy,â Yelena teased. âYouâre making heart-eyes at our pretty cook again.â
Bob nearly choked, coughing violently, still completely in shock. Y/N only rolled her eyes, flipping another pancake onto an already full plate. âEasy, Lena. Heâs a paying customer, just waiting for his food.â
âTechnically, we all are,â Yelena shot back.
Bucky smirked over his mug. âSome of us might tip you better than others, if you ask real nice, Y/N.â
Bobâs ears turned pink. Y/N hid a grin behind the spatula.
The teasing was light, good-natured. It meant theyâd all accepted her and, in a way, him or them together? Whelp, Y/N was just glad everyone got along, ever the peace-loving person.
That afternoon, a good amount of time after breakfast, Y/N found Bob standing by the pantry, staring at a bag of flour like it had personally wronged him.
âYou ever bake bread before, superhero?â she asked, startling Bob a little in the process.
He hesitantly shook his head at her. âNever baked anything before. Haven't trusted myself not to burn something.â
âThen todayâs your lucky day, Bobby. Because we'll be making dough together for Bucky's breakfast bread.â She walked up to him, pushed the sleeves of his hoodie up to his elbows, and handed him a large bowl. âWe start simple. Mix, donât beat it to death.â
He blinked down at his hands a little take back from the sudden contact. âI might mess it up.â
âGood,â she said, smiling. âMeans youâll learn something.â
And so they worked side by side, their shoulders brushing now and then. Y/N guided his hands when he kneaded the dough too slowly, or too fast. Her fingers lingered a little longer each time. He didnât pull away either, but rather leaned into her warmth.
When the dough finally sat resting, she dusted his nose with a dot of flour. âYou survived. No burns, yet.â
âGuess I did.â He smiled, soft and amazed. "I mean, we haven't used the oven yet..."
Y/N shook her head lightly. "Using the oven? That's a lesson for another time. You have to sign up for my advanced cooking class to learn that one."
"I- I would love to learn more about cooking from you...honestly. I had so much fun...always have fun with you, Y/N." He told her (mumbling the last part more to himself) with so much genuineness in his voice.
Something in his tone made her heart flutter. For a man who could split atoms with his bare hands, he sounded like heâd just discovered joy.
Later that night, the compound had gone quiet.
Only the kitchen light was on, and Bob stood there again, staring out the window, milkshake glass half empty.
âNo sleep for Mr. Reynolds again, huh?â Y/N asked, curious why Bob hadn't gone to bed yet.
He reluctantly shook his head. âY-you know... when I close my eyes, itâs⌠loud, too. Seems like my body can't rest anymore, ever since I became the Sentry...â
She came to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder. âYeah. Like I said... I know that kind of noise.â
He turned to her then, words catching on his tongue. âI've hurt people, Y/N. Back then. When Iâ when it... -uh he took over. I keep thinking maybe I shouldnât be here. Maybe I donât deserveâŚâ
âPeace?â she finished for him.
He swallowed hard. âYes, peace, a sense of family or people like you, that care for me.â
Y/Nâs hand moved before her mind caught up. She touched his cheek, a steady, grounding touch.
âYouâre not what happened to you, Bob. Youâre what you do after.â
For a heartbeat, neither of them breathed. His hand came up slowly, covering hers. His skin was warm, trembling.
âThank you,â he whispered. âFor seeing me.â
âAlways,â she said, barely audible.
As faith would've wanted it, Yelena saw them during their intimate moment in the kitchen that night.
Sheâd wandered into the common room looking for late-night snacks and instead found something better: Bob and Y/N standing in the kitchen, soft light, soft voices, her holding his cheek. He was looking at her like she hung the moon. Yelena froze halfway through opening a bag of chips, grinning like a cat whoâd just found the best gossip.
She didnât say a word, at least not then. But by breakfast, everyone knew.
âOkay, listen up,â Yelena announced to the team, slamming her hands down on the table of the meeting room with military seriousness.
Yes, Yelena has called an emergency meeting for all the active duty members of the New Avengers, just so Y/N and Bob couldn't hear them talking about the situation.
âWe have a situation.â
Walker sighed. âWhat, you call a meeting because weâre out of hot sauce again, Belova?â
âWorse,â she said, lowering her voice dramatically. âY/N and Sunshine Boy are still dancing around each other. Itâs painful to watch, really. They act like little virgin teenagers. Something must be done. Immediately.â
Alexei looked up from his pancake plate, that he took with him to the meeting room, nodding sagely. âYes, yes, I see it too. He stares like lovesick puppy. She stares back, like she want to keep him in her pocket at all times. It is romantic tragedy!â
Ava smirked behind her mug. âAnd your plan is what? Lock them in a closet together until they confess their undying love?â
âYou know what...â Yelena said brightly. âThat is not a bad idea.â
Bucky, sitting at the end of the table, set his coffe cup down. âYou canât just lock two people in a closet and force them to confess to each other.â
âWhy not? Worked for me once,â Yelena said with a shrug. âLong story.â
Walker groaned. âYouâre all insane. That's a crime by the way.â
âAgreed,â Bucky said, though he was smiling a little. âTheyâll figure it out on their own, I'm sure. They are both half-functioning adults.â
âMaybe they will,â Yelena countered, pointing her finger at him violently. âBut maybe they also need a little nudge from their favourite group of ragtag heroes. You, Bucky Barnes, don't know shit about feelings or love.â
âNot wrong,â he muttered.
Alexei grinned wide. âI vote yes. We create opportunity for romance. Very noble mission. Help pretty cook and Sentry make baby in closet. Let's go Thunderbolts!â
âFine,â Ava sighed, âbut if Val finds out, Iâm blaming you, Yelena. And if they really make a baby, I will move out of this building.â
âAs you should,â Yelena said, already sketching something on a napkin that suspiciously resembled the supply-room floor plan.
That same afternoon, Y/N and Bob were assigned to restock the food rations. Coincidentally, the others all seemed very busy elsewhere.
The two of them had barely started unloading boxes when the heavy door swung shut with a loud metallic clunk.
Y/N blinked. âDid you-â
Bob shook his head, eyes wide. âNo. Did you?â
From outside came muffled voices and the faintest sound of suppressed laughter.
Y/N groaned. âOh, for the love ofâYelena!â
âWHAT?â came the not-at-all-innocent reply.
âYou better open this door right now!â
âCanât!â Yelena called. âDoor is⌠uh⌠broken! Very tragic coincident!â
Alexeiâs booming laugh echoed down the hall. âDo not worry, pretty cook! We fix it⌠later!â
Y/N pressed a hand to her forehead, half amused, half mortified. âTheyâre unbelievable.â
Bobâs cheeks flushed pink. âI-uh... I think theyâre trying to -umâŚâ
âSet us up,â she finished dryly. âYeah. It's always the people closest to you, huh?â
Silence settled for a moment. The air in the tiny room was warm and faintly smelling of coffee and canned tomatoes. She turned to find him watching her again, that same look Yelena had seen the night before, soft and unguarded.
âWhat are you thinking, superhero? You're using your super-strength to get us out of here?â she asked quietly.
He hesitated, then smiled shyly. âNo, I was thinking that maybe I donât mind being locked in here. Not if itâs with you.â
Her heart nearly tripped over itself. âWatch it,â she murmured. âYou keep saying things like that, and they wonât have to lock us in next time.â
His smile widened. âYeah, maybe they wonât need to.â
Before she could reply, the door finally creaked open. Yelena stood there, grinning ear to ear, Alexei looming behind her like an accomplice.
âSo,â Yelena drawled, âdid you twoââ
âOut!â Y/N barked, pointing. âAll of you. Out!â
Yelena saluted dramatically. âMy work here is done. New Averngers baby might be on the way. Let's prepare, Dad.â
As the door closed again, Y/N caught Bob still smiling, the faintest laugh escaping him. "What the hell is an Avengers Baby?"
She bumped his shoulder with hers. âDonât encourage them.â
âHey, hey, I wasnât going to,â he said softly, eyes still on her, raising his arms in mock surrender.
Later that night, Y/N found herself in the kitchen again... surprise, surprise.
The dayâs chaos had long faded, but her mind refused to rest. She was still thinking about Bobâs words in the supply room. Not if itâs with you.
She busied herself cleaning up, mostly to distract herself from replaying his smile on an endless loop in her head. That man had singlehandedly reduced her to a blushing mess, and he didnât even realize it. Probably. Hopefully.
The soft sound of footsteps behind her gave him away before he spoke.
âHey,â Bob said quietly, voice rough like he hadnât used it in hours.
She turned, smiling faintly. âSleepless again?â
He shook his head yes. âGuess so. You too?â
She shrugged. âYou know me. Kitchenâs my therapy. Keeps me from overthinking.â
âWell, does it work?â
âSometimes,â she said honestly. âOther times, I just end up baking enough muffins to feed a small army.â
He smiled a little. âThen I guess weâre both here for comfort, huh?â
Y/N leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. âGuess so. You want a milkshake or tea?â
He hesitated. âTea. If thatâs okay.â
She nodded, set a pot on the stove, and reached for the chamomile. The silence between them wasnât awkward anymore. It was⌠full. Warm.
When she finally turned back, he was watching her again, that soft, almost reverent gaze that made her stomach flip.
âYouâre staring again, superhero,â she teased gently.
He looked startled, caught. âSorry, I just⌠you make things look so easy. So beautiful.â
She smiled. âCooking?â
He shook his head. âExisting.â
That hit her like a sucker punch, the way he said it, so genuine and soft, it nearly broke her.
Y/N set the spoon down, heart pounding. âYou know, for someone who barely talks, you really know how to ruin a womanâs emotional stability.â
He laughed quietly, the sound low and lovely. âSorry.â
âDonât be,â she murmured.
The tea kettle whistled softly. She poured two mugs, slid one toward him, and leaned her elbows on the counter next to his. Their hands brushed, neither pulling away.
Bob took a slow breath, staring at the steam curling between them. âI keep thinking about what you said that one night. About family. About peace. I donât think Iâve ever had either. Not really.â
Her chest tightened. âYou do now, Bob. You have Yelena, Bucky, every single one of them. And you have me.â
He looked up, eyes glassy in the golden light. âYou mean that?â
âOf course, I do,â she whispered. âWeâre all a little broken here, Bob. But you... you fit right in. More than you think.â
He swallowed hard, his voice barely audible. âY- you make me feel human again, Y/N. Like Iâm not just... what I was made into. Like maybe I can still be good. Not hurt people.â
She reached out, hand finding his cheek again, that familiar, grounding touch. âYou are good, Bob,â she said, her voice trembling just slightly. âYouâve always been. You just forgot how to feel good, how to enjoy life.â
His eyes searched hers for a long moment, something raw and hopeful sparking behind them.
âY/N, I think I want to do something that'll make me feel good...â he breathed, âcan Iâ?â
âYeah,â she whispered. âYou can.â
And then he kissed her.
It wasnât rushed or clumsy; it was careful, almost reverent. Like he was afraid she might disappear if he moved too fast. But when she leaned in, closing the space completely, he let out a shaky sigh, one that sounded like release, like heâd been holding his breath for years.
When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, both smiling like idiots. Bob got even more bold and leaned in again. This time a little too excited, pushing Y/N against the counter lightly and pulling her in a more heated kiss.
âEasy, loverboy,â she whispered teasingly. "We prepare food in here.â
Bob laughed, quiet and genuine, his thumb brushing over her jaw. âYouâre dangerous, you know that?â
âHow so, Bobby?â
He smiled, eyes glimmering. âYou make me want things again. Feel things...â
Epilogue
The next morning, Y/N came downstairs to find the whole team gathered in the kitchen before her and for once, they were silent.
Too silent.
Her instincts screamed ambush.
Sure enough, Yelena was the first to break. âSoâŚâ she drawled, grinning like a cat. âDid it happen?â
âDid what happen?â Y/N asked innocently, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
Alexei gasped dramatically. âThey deny! But I see it in her cheeks! Look, she is glowing like newly polished dagger!â
Walker rolled his eyes. âOh, for Godâs sake, let them breathe.â
Bucky, leaning against the counter, smirked into his mug. âIâll take that as a yes.â
âAlright, everyone, settle down,â Y/N said, trying to keep a straight face. âYouâre all insane.â
âMaybe,â Yelena said, shrugging. âBut your behaviour means that our great plan has worked.â
Right on cue, Bob appeared in the doorway, hair still slightly messy, hoodie pulled over his head. He froze when he saw the grinning faces.
Yelena raised her brows. âMorning, Sunshine Boy.â
Bob blinked. âUh⌠morning.â
The team burst out laughing. Y/N covered her face with one hand, groaning.
âWelcome to the freaking circus,â she muttered.
Bob chuckled softly, slipping beside her to grab a mug. His hand brushed hers, deliberate this time, and when she looked up, his eyes were warm, unashamed.
He smiled, small but certain.
And Y/N knew. Whatever this was, the teasing, the chaos, the strange new family. It was home.
A few weeks later, a new note appeared on the fridge in Y/Nâs handwriting:
Team Info: Milkshake night officially moved to Friday Nights. As per Bobâs request. -Y/N
And underneath, written in Bobâs careful scrawl:
Only for me. No one else is invited. DON'T COME TO THE KITCHEN FRIDAY NIGHT! -Bob
Yelena groaned loudly. âI hate them. They are disgusting. Itâs adorable.â
Bucky chuckled, sipping his coffee. âTold you theyâd figure it out on their own.â
Yelena crossed her arms. âYes, yes. You win, Grandpa. But Iâm still taking credit. My initial plan made them talk about feelings and stuff.â
Across the room, Y/N rolled her eyes, laughing quietly as Bob leaned closer, whispering something that made her blush.
He smiled again, soft, real, the kind of smile she swore sheâd want to see every day from now on.
A/N: My first Bob Reynolds ff!!!! Ahhh I'm excited and also kund of nervous because I'm writing for this new fandom now! As always remember I'm Half German Half Turkish and English is my second language not my first!
đŞSpoiler: Just like the rest of the 141, he doesnât. That man has never handled a feeling in his life.
đŞWhen he first meets you (the new medic on base) theyâre mid-mission patch-up, and youâre scolding him for getting himself injured again. He swears itâs the adrenaline talking, but he canât stop grinning at the sound of your voice.
đŞThe second he realizes heâs got a crush, heâs doomed. He starts acting like a teenage boy. Following you around, trying to make you laugh, finding excuses to âcheck in on the bonnie medic.â
đŞHeâll tell himself itâs harmless. That heâs âjust being friendly.â Meanwhile, heâs making you tea, carrying your medbag, and asking if you âneed a big strong lad tae open that crate.â
His Version of Flirting:
đ§¨Chaos. Absolute chaos. He flirts like heâs in a pub brawl for your attention. Loud, teasing, full of nicknames.
đ§¨His flirting comes with zero filter and too much charm. Heâll tease, wink, then panic internally when you actually flirt back.
You were wrapping a bandage around his forearm, trying to ignore the smirk heâd been wearing since he walked in. âCareful wiâ those bandages, bonnie,â he said, eyes glinting. âYe might wrap me heart up too tight.â You didnât even glance up, keeping your tone smooth and teasing. âDonât worry, Sergeant. If I wanted your heart, I wouldnât need bandages.â
He blinked. Once. Twice. The grin faltered, replaced by wide-eyed surprise, and then that slow, helpless smile spread across his face.
â...Aye, alright then,â he muttered, a laugh bubbling up. âDidnae realize the medics here came armed, too.â You tied off the last strip of gauze, leaning back just a little.
âAlways do. Occupational hazard...gotta know how to stop bleeding and cause it.â Soap looked like a man whoâd just been sniped by Cupid himself.
âGod help me,â he whispered, hand over his chest.
đ§¨100% the type to flex while youâre stitching him up.
đ§¨If you compliment him even slightly? Heâs red for a week. âAye, I do look guid in this uniform, donât I? âŚwait, ye meant the patch job? Right. Right, aye.â
When He Tries (and Fails) to Hide It:
đŹSoap decides heâll try to be professional around you. That lasts approximately six minutes, then he is back to flirting 24/7.
đŹEvery time you walk into the room, he straightens up, tries to look busy, then immediately blurts out something dumb like, âBonnie! Need me tae test yer heartbeat monitor? Could start wiâ mine, aye?â
đŹHe gets flustered when you treat him like any other soldier. Youâre calm, efficient, and gentle. Heâs chaos incarnate. It kills him that you donât seem affected by his flirting at all. He is the flirtiest man in the world after all...
đŹWhen you give orders during a mission, he follows them to the letter, no questions asked. He jokes that itâs because âyeâve got the scary doctor tone,â but truth is, he just likes making you proud. Also, your serious demanding voice turns him on.
The Signs Youâll Notice:
đĄHeâs suddenly everywhere. You head to the mess hall? Heâs already there. The firing range? âFunny seeinâ ye here!â The med bay? âOh, I just happened tae get stabbed during training again, lass.â Would 100% beg Ghost to stab him a little so he could go see you...
đĄHe carries your supplies. Every. Single. Time. No matter how small the bag is.
đĄHe brags about your skills to everyone. âAye, our medicâs the best, fixed me up right quick. Hands like an angel, that one.â
đĄYou catch him looking at you constantly. When you call him out, he just grins. âCan ye blame me? Yer faceâs better than any sunrise, bonnie.â
đĄSoap pouts if someone else gets your attention for too long. Ghost once caught him sulking after you laughed at Priceâs joke.
The team was gathered in the rec room between briefings, scattered around the table with mugs and paperwork. Price was in the middle of telling some story, something about a mission years ago, a bad cup of field tea, that the captain nearly cried over.
You laughed. Really laughed. Head back, shoulders shaking, that warm sound that filled the room. Soap froze mid-sip of his own drink, watching you from across the table like heâd just been personally betrayed by the laws of attraction. Price grinned, clearly pleased with himself. âSee? She gets it.â
âAye, aye,â Soap muttered into his mug, the Scottish lilt sharper now. âBut whatâs funny about tea thatâs too strong, anyway? Thatâs how itâs supposed tae be. Put hair on yer chest.â
Gaz chuckled. âJealous, mate?â Soap shot him a look. âJealous? Me? Pfft. Naw. Just sayinâ, itâs noâ even a good joke. Man tells a story about tea and suddenly itâs a comedy show.â
Ghost, sitting beside him, leaned back in his chair. âYouâve been starinâ daggers at Price for five minutes, Johnny.â
âI have not!â
âYou have,â Ghost said flatly, mask hiding what was definitely a smirk. Soap huffed, slumping in his seat and stabbing at a biscuit like it had wronged him personally. âDinnae even make sense and the lass is laughing like Price is the funniest man alive...â he grumbled under his breath. Across the table, you looked over, noticing the pout. âYou alright over there, MacTavish?â
He perked up instantly, grin returning like nothing happened. âAye, peachy, bonnie! Just enjoyinâ my properly brewed tea, unlike some people.â You laughed again, and this time, it was at him.
Ghost elbowed him, deadpan. âCongratulations. Sheâs laughing again. And youâre the reason. You can unclench now.â
Soap glared sideways, slightly less tense now.
A/N: I love Soap so much but I literally had to google how to write in a Scottish accent, it is a funny accent tho. Part 2 is alredy written I will probably post it tomorrow. Also keep in mind English isnt my first language and also I have a taglist form that you can join.
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The Way He Acts Around You
đŹ Price isnât dramatic about it, but you can feel it when his eyes are on you. They linger a beat too long, not in a way that makes you uncomfortable, but in a way that makes you feel seen. Like heâs quietly memorizing you.
đŹ He uses your name often, but more than that, he sprinkles in pet names like love, sweetheart, darling. Itâs never over the top, just a natural part of the way he talks. It makes you feel warm every time.
đŹ Sometimes, when youâre talking to him, heâs got this quiet half-smile, like heâs not just listening, heâs enjoying you. You ask whatâs funny and he just shakes his head with a little rumble of a chuckle: âNothinâ, love. Just you.â
Itâs late, the base is mostly quiet, and youâre gathering your things when you hear his voice at the doorway.
âCâmon, love. Iâll walk you out.â
You start to protest, you always do, but one look at him, hands in his pockets, that no-nonsense tilt of his brow, and you sigh, falling into step beside him. The night air is cool, your boots clicking against the pavement as he keeps close, steady, and protective without crowding. Somewhere between the office and the car park, you start rambling, half from the quiet, half from the way you know heâs listening. Youâre telling him about the latest ridiculous coworker drama you overheard in the mess, words tumbling out faster and faster as you reenact the whole story. Price doesnât interrupt. Doesnât tease. Just walks with you, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. Every so often, he glances down at you, eyes warm in the dim light, clearly more amused by your excitement than the story itself.
Finally, when youâre nearly breathless from talking, you notice that smile. âWhat?â you ask, cheeks heating. âWhatâs funny?â
He chuckles low in his chest, shaking his head as he stops beside your car. One hand lifts briefly, brushing against your shoulder in a quiet, grounding touch.
âNothinâ, love,â he says, voice soft. His eyes linger on you a moment longer, that half-smile not fading. âJust you.â
And before you can find words, he opens your car door like the gentleman he is, waiting until youâre settled before giving the roof a gentle tap. âDrive safe, sweetheart.â
Youâre still smiling the whole way home.
How You Notice
đ Youâll notice him in the hallway at just the right times. He swears heâs âchecking on the lads,â but somehow that means heâs always near when youâre around.
đ He wonât let you carry heavy files or boxes. The second he sees you with your arms full, his voice is behind you: âWhatâre you doinâ, love? Gimme that before you break your back.â And suddenly, heâs hauling everything with ease.
Your arms are full of files, the stack wobbling dangerously as you try to make it down the hall. Youâre determined to manage on your own until a familiar voice rumbles behind you.
âWhatâre you doinâ, love?â
You nearly jump, glancing back to see Price looming there with his cap pushed back, brows raised. Before you can answer, he tuts under his breath and plucks the entire stack straight out of your arms like it weighs nothing.
âGimme that before you break your back,â he says firmly, shifting the load into one hand with insulting ease. He starts down the hall, glancing over his shoulder. âWhere to, then?â
You roll your eyes but canât hide the little smile tugging at your lips as you hurry to catch up. âI had it handled, Captain.â
âMm,â he grunts, not buying it for a second. âHandled straight to the floor, maybe.â
đ Meetings? Heâll insist on in-person even if it couldâve been done by email. He likes the excuse to sit across from you, elbows on the table, nodding along as if every word out of your mouth is vital to mission success.
His Subtle Flirting
đ Heâs not flashy, but heâs deliberate. Youâll hear him murmur, âDonât work too late, love. Hate the thought of you rattlinâ âround here on your own.â
Youâre still at your desk when Price passes through the office, cigar in hand. He pauses at your door, leaning against the frame with that casual weight that makes him look like heâs got all the time in the world. âDonât work too late, love,â he murmurs, voice low and warm. âHate the thought of you rattlinâ âround here on your own.â Your heart does that ridiculous skip, but you just smile, trying not to look too obvious. âIâll head out soon, Captain.â
âGood girl.â He gives you one last look. Fond, steady. Before carrying on down the hall.
Unbeknownst to you, Soap is standing a few feet away, files in hand, jaw practically on the floor. He whips around toward Ghost, eyes wide. âDid ye hear that?!â he whisper-shouts, smacking Ghost in the arm with the folders. âDid ye hear that? The manâs bloody smitten, I swear it!â
Ghost just gives him a slow blink, like heâs known for months and doesnât see what the fuss is about. Soap, however, is pacing now, running a hand through his hair. âHeâs callinâ her love, tellinâ her not to work too late. Christ, heâs walkinâ her out like a proper bloody husband!â
âJohnny,â Ghost drawls, unimpressed.
âI canât be the only one seeinâ this!â Soap groans, throwing his hands up. âManâs actinâ like her knight in shininâ armour and sheâs sittinâ there blushinâ like he didnât just bloody say the most domestic thing Iâve ever heard come out his mouth!â
Ghost doesnât answer. He just adjusts his mask, glances toward where Price disappeared down the hall, and mutters, "Just leave 'em be.â
Soap looks like heâs about to combust.
đ His compliments arenât generic. Theyâre thoughtful. âThatâs a good color on you, sweetheart.â Or âYouâve got a good eye, makes my job easier.â Said so casually, but it sticks with you.
Youâre hunched over your desk, frowning at the neat stack of reports youâve just finished combing through for errors. The fluorescent lights overhead are harsh, but youâve stopped noticing after hours of staring at the same lines of text.
The creak of the door pulls you from your concentration, and you glance up to see Price leaning in the frame. His cap is tucked under his arm, his sleeves rolled, that familiar scent of smoke and aftershave following him into the room.
âGot an eye for detail, you do,â he says easily, nodding toward the papers. âMakes my job easier.â
You blink at him, caught off guard. He doesnât sound like heâs flattering you, he sounds like he means it.
Your face warms as you duck your head, mumbling, âJust doing what needs doing, cap.â
Price hums, stepping closer, his gaze sweeping over you with quiet ease. âThatâs a good color on you, sweetheart,â he adds casually, as though itâs just another observation, no different than commenting on the weather.
But it hits you square in the chest. You can feel the heat creeping into your cheeks, the little flutter in your stomach.
He doesnât linger on it, though. He just leaves the compliment hanging in the air between you, moving on with that steady calm of his, like he hasnât just completely unraveled your focus for the rest of the night.
When he leaves, the reports blur in your vision, and all you can hear is his voice, low, certain, and far too good at getting under your skin.
đ He teases you gently, almost dad-like. Youâre clumsy, and he'll gladly catch you every time you fall.
Your hands are full. A mug of tea in one, a folder tucked under your arm, and youâre trying to juggle both as you head down the corridor. Youâre not watching where youâre going, not really, and before you know it, you collide with something solid.
Well. Someone solid.
The tea sloshes dangerously close to the rim, and you gasp, stumbling back, only to feel a strong hand wrap around your elbow, steadying you before you can spill a drop.
âCareful there, love,â Price murmurs, his voice low and steady, that calm rumble that makes your stomach flip. His hand is warm where it holds you, thumb brushing lightly against the inside of your arm as he guides you back into balance.
You glance up, wide-eyed, only to find him watching you with that infuriatingly composed half-smile, like bumping into him was exactly what heâd been waiting for.
âCanât have you knockinâ yourself over, hm?â His gaze dips briefly to your mug, then back to your face, amused. âOr spillinâ that down your front. Here-â he adjusts his grip, gently turning your wrist until the mug is steady in your hand.
Your pulse is hammering now, too loud in your ears. Heâs so close, so nonchalant about it, like itâs just second nature to keep you upright in his orbit.
When he finally lets go, his hand drifts away slowly, fingertips brushing over your sleeve before falling back to his side. That damn half-smile lingers as he tips his head toward you.
âMind your step, sweetheart,â he drawls, already moving past you down the hall. âWouldnât want you fallinâ for some other guy down the hall.â
And you stand frozen in place, tea forgotten, trying to convince yourself your knees arenât actually weak.
Heâs Protective Without Overstepping
đ At the end of the day, youâll hear his voice: âIâll walk you to your car.â You protest, and he just gives you that look, the one that brooks no argument. âBetter to be safe after hours. Humour me, love.â
đ If someone gives you grief, Price doesnât raise his voice. He doesnât need to. He simply steps closer, arms folded, expression cool and unimpressed. Whatever was happening ends immediately.
đ He has this way of noticing when youâre tired before you even admit it. You sit down at your desk and there it is: your favorite tea, steaming, next to a little pack of biscuits. A note in his tidy handwriting: Eat up, sweetheart. âP.
His Love Language
đ Acts of Service: If somethingâs broken in your office, it mysteriously gets fixed overnight. Supplies appear without you asking. He wonât mention it, but you know it was him.
đ Quality Time: He lingers just a bit longer than necessary. Pretends heâs there for work reasons, but the way his eyes soften when you talk says otherwise. âGo on, love. I like hearinâ you talk.â
đ Words of Affirmation: Old-fashioned, steady, sometimes slipped out without him realizing. âThatâs my girl.â or âKnew I could count on you, love.â
đ Subtle Touch: His hand guiding you through a doorway, a warm palm at the small of your back, brushing your shoulder when he wants your attention. Always gentle, never overstepping.
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a/n: Wow, guys, I didn't expect laundry day to pop off like this. I actually didn't plan for a part two, but I just thought of this in the last few days, and I hope you like it and it does laundry day justice. I haven't added smut, but I'm willing to add it if it's in demand!
read LAUNDRY DAY first before you read this!
warning: perv!simon, also english is not my first language, if you see mistakes pls ignore hehe, sexual/foul language, shy/naive!reader, suggestive scenes, minors DN
The pantie incident had lit a fuse in Simon Riley that refused to burn out. One flash of black lace in his hands, you blushing over his comment on seeing you in full lingerie, and he hadnât been able to think straight since. He told himself it was harmless, just a bit of banter. But at night, lying flat in his bunk with the mask pushed up to the bridge of his nose, he could see you in black lace sitting pretty on your bunk bed and blushing for him. His good little rookie. All wide eyes and polite âyes, Lieutenant" by day⌠secretly hidden away in lace that didnât belong on someone so damn innocent.
It was the perfect storm: his discipline versus his corruption kink, and it wasnât even close to a fair fight. He wanted to ruin you. Romantically, sexually, thoroughly. And the first step was simple. Teasing. Poking at you until your cheeks burned, until you couldnât meet his eye, until you started imagining the same things he was.
The problem was, once he started, he couldnât stop. Every situation became an opportunity. Every word he chose had a shadow of lace clinging to it. Ghost had made a ritual out of your blushes.
It was a game, his game, and youâd been playing unwilling opponent for weeks.
Every trip to the mess hall became another dig at the laundry mishap and a poke at the âlittle surprisesâ tucked away in your cargo pants:
Ghost dropped onto the bench beside you, so close his thigh brushed yours. He plucked your cup off the tray, took a sip, then set it back down.
âYou always this neat?â he asked, eyeing the perfectly arranged food on your plate. âOr is it just your laundry that gets mixed up?â
Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. He leaned closer, lowering his voice until only you could hear.
âCareful, birdy. Leave things lying around, they might end up in the wrong hands. And next time, someone else might not be so generous about givinâ them back.â
You choked on your stew. His gloved hand thumped your back, slow and steady. âEasy now. Donât go dyinâ on me. Not before I get the matching bra. Gotta unlock the whole set.â
Soap, three seats down, barked a laugh. You wished the floor would open up. Ghost only smirked under the mask, savoring your crimson face.
Even when he corrected your posture on the shooting range, his words came laced with innuendo:
He stood behind you as you adjusted your stance, watching you line up your shot. His hands came down heavy on your hips, dragging them a fraction lower.
âGood girl,â he muttered, gravel low. âDonât lock up so tight. Need to stay⌠flexible. Wouldnât want you tearing your pretty lace if you bent the wrong way.â
You stiffened. âExcuse me?â
He clicked his tongue like youâd disappointed him, though his eyes were glinting. âYou heard me, love,â he said smoothly, deliberately unconvincing.
The shot you fired went wide. He chuckled.
You knew what he was doing. He wanted to crack you open like a lock, to prove that the innocent little rookie wasnât so innocent after all. Ghost had a corruption streak you could feel in your bones, a hungry edge behind every sarcastic jab, every slow glance. And God help you, you could feel yourself bending toward it, like a match leaning into a flame.
One night, lying awake in your bunk, you decided you werenât going to just take it anymore. If Simon Riley wanted to see what lay under your shyness, then youâd damn well give him something to look at. Maybe make him blush for a change...
Thatâs how you ended up standing in your room with a Polaroid camera in hand, pulse hammering so hard it blurred your vision. Youâd pulled the black lace set out of your drawer, the same kind of lace that had started this whole mess, and slipped it on with shaking fingers.
The click of the shutter was louder than you expected, harsh in the still air. You stared at the glossy square as the image ghosted into being: a close shot of your hipbone, lace biting sweetly into skin, the faint curve of your thumb hooked under the waistband. Suggestive but not explicit. The kind of picture that would make him stop cold and then imagine the rest on his own. So you took a few more.
Your hands trembled as you shook them dry. Then, heart in your throat, you crept down the quiet corridor to the lockers. Ghostâs was easy to spot. Everything he touched was neat, squared away, as if chaos itself couldnât get through his discipline. You slipped the first Polaroid into the top shelf, angled so it would tumble the second he yanked the locker door open.
And when it landed at his boots later that evening, rattling against the concrete like a discarded bullet casing, the world inside his head went still.
He bent down slowly, gloved fingers pinching the white border. The photo came up into the dim light, and there you were, in the lacy panties he knew all too well. The soft flesh of your hipbone clad in lace, just a slice of you, but enough to send his pulse crashing in his ears. His first thought was brutal and immediate: she took this for me. dirty girl.
He looked around the locker room suspiciously, emptiness, silence, and then back at the photo. The corner of his mouth twitched under the mask.
âWell, well,â he muttered to himself, voice low, rough, a laugh buried somewhere inside it. âMy good girl 's not so innocent after all.â
But he didnât put it back. He didnât throw it away. He slipped it into the breast pocket of his tac vest, close against his heart, and closed his locker with a thud that echoed down the corridor.
For the first time since the panties incident, Ghost felt the control shift. You werenât running from the game anymore. Youâd just upped the stakes.
The second Polaroid was a little riskier.
It happened during a briefing. Ghost flipped open his field notebook, ready to jot down coordinates, when something thin and glossy slid into his lap. He caught it one-handed before anyone else saw.
Another Polaroid. This is gonna be good. This one was an upper-body picture. Lace stretched over the swell of your breasts, your fingers pulling the bra straps down just enough to show a dangerous suggestion. No face, no words. Just flesh on ink.
His throat went dry.
Gaz glanced sideways. âYou good, Lt? Youâve been so quiet.â
âFine,â Ghost said sharply, snapping the notebook shut. His palm flattened the photo beneath the page before Soap or Gaz could get all nosy.
Price continued droning on about patrol shifts, none the wiser. Ghost wasnât hearing a word. All he could think about was the note youâd scrawled across the back in block letters:
Still think I'm not a lingerie girl?
He wanted to drag you out of the room by your wrist and see for himself.
Next came breakfast. Heâd poured himself coffee, the bitter steam curling up under his mask. He lifted the mug, his favourite mug, and froze. Tucked under the lip of the ceramic, just waiting for his fingers, was another Polaroid.
This one was your back. Bare from shoulder to waist, bra straps cutting black against pale skin. One hand pulling your hair aside, the curve of your neck exposed like a gift.
The back of the photo read: Bet youâd like to bite. Leave some marks on me.
He nearly choked after reading it.
âAlright there, Riley?â Price asked from across the table.
âWent down the wrong pipe,â he croaked out, slipping the photo into his glove discreetly before anyone noticed. His pulse was hammering like heâd been sprinting. Simon decides then and there that he likes this... the hunt.
By now, he was jumpy, half-expecting every piece of kit to have one of your damned Polaroids stashed in it. He was right.
Opening his ammo tin before a training op, one slid free onto the bench. He snatched it quick, thankful Soap was too busy lacing his boots to see.
This one was the boldest yet. Your thighs, spread just enough to see the lace stretched between them, your fingers ghosting over the hem. Cropped above the knees, below the chest, but his imagination filled the rest in violently fast.
The back text almost made him moan out loud: Nearly unlocked the whole image, Lieutenant.
âOi, Lt, what you got there?â Soap leaned over suddenly.
Ghost slammed the tin shut. âNothing. Shut up. Load your mags.â
Soap grinned, suspicious. âAye, looks like ânothingâ put a blush under that mask of yours, Riley.â
âFuck off, Johnny.â
He tucked the Polaroid into his plate carrier, heart pounding. If Soap had leaned in a second earlier, heâd have had to break his nose, maybe his eyes and mouth too.
The last one wasnât hidden. It was waiting. For him.
He returned to his quarters late, bone-tired and aching. But on the center of his bunk lay the final Polaroid, perfectly placed. The climax of this slow-burn waiting game you were playing with him.
And this time, it was all of you. Kneeling on your bed, clad only in the black lace set, hands resting demurely in your lap. Your chin tilted just so, innocence painted in your posture but razor-sharp in your eyes. This might be his favourite yet. His heart was nearly skipping out of his chest.
Come find me, Simon.
Ghost stared down at the written invitation, the air gone thin in his lungs.
For weeks, heâd been in control, teasing, corrupting, making you blush just to feed his hunger. Now? Now youâd flipped the board on him. Every photo had chipped away at his restraint, and this one shattered it completely.
He picked it up with gloved fingers, turning it over once, twice, as if it might dissolve. His mask hid the feral twist of his mouth, but if anyone had walked in, theyâd have seen the truth in his eyes.
They had no idea. And they never would.
Soapâs voice echoed in his head: blush under that mask.
And Gazâs suspicion: You good, Lt?
Because right now, Simon Riley was already halfway to your quarters, each step harder than the last to keep measured, the Polaroid burning in his pocket like a brand.
He didnât even remember crossing the base. One moment, he was staring down at the last Polaroid, blood roaring in his ears, and the next, he was moving through the corridors like a man possessed, boots thudding against concrete, shadows swallowing him whole.
He kept picturing it, you, kneeling in lace, waiting like a prayer heâd never had the right to ask for. He knew you were taunting him, daring him. And God help him, he wanted to lose.
By the time he reached your quarters, his pulse was a war drum, loud enough he thought it might give him away. The door was cracked open, lamplight spilling across the floor. He stopped there, one hand braced against the frame, staring at the sliver of you through the gap.
You were sitting on your bunk. Not posing this time. Just⌠waiting. Head bowed over the book in your hands, legs drawn up, the picture of innocence, except heâd seen the Polaroid, hadnât he? He knew what lay beneath the surface.
His jaw flexed. Enough waiting.
He pushed the door open, slow but unyielding, until it clicked shut behind him. You looked up instantly, startled, the book slipping a little in your lap.
âLieutenant?â
His name sounded too formal on your lips, too soft, too untouched. He crossed the room in three strides, each one louder in the silence than the last. He didnât speak until he was standing over you, looking down, shadow draping your whole frame.
âYou think youâre clever, hm?â His voice was low, dangerous, but threaded with something else, hunger, restraint fraying to pieces. He tugged the Polaroid from his pocket and held it up between two fingers, shaking it slightly. âLeaving me these?â
Your mouth parted, but no sound came. A flush rose on your neck.
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing behind the mask. âWhatâs the game, sweetheart? Tryinâ to kill me? Or just makinâ sure I lose my mind first?â
You swallowed hard. âWell, y-you called me innocent and naive, so...â
His laugh was dark, sharp, not quite sane. âNot after this, baby.â He flicked the photo down onto your blanket, the image of you staring up between you like evidence at a trial. âNot after youâve been prancinâ around in lace and takinâ pictures just for me.â
You looked up at him then, eyes wide, daring in the smallest way. âI wanted you to know that I'm not. Innocent, I mean...â
Something inside him snapped. He grabbed your chin in one gloved hand, not rough but not gentle either, tilting your face up to his. His shadow fell over you, his breath hot through the mask. For a moment, he hesitated, his gaze flickering to the door. One last chance to walk away. Keep things professional. But they haven't been professional. They have never been. Ever since you started working under him.
You've always been his.
âStay. Please,â you whispered, barely audible.
That was it. That was all it took.
His mask was pulled down with a swift, deliberate motion, stopping just below his chin. And then his mouth was on yours, hot, hungry, overwhelming. It wasnât the kiss of a man testing boundaries. It was a man starved, finally allowed to eat.
You gasped into him, and he swallowed the sound like it was his. His other hand slid to your waist, gripping tight, pulling you forward until your chest pressed flush against his tac vest.
You clutched at his shirt, breathless. He deepened the kiss, teeth grazing your lip, tongue pushing until you opened for him. The taste of you went straight to his head, dizzying.
When he pulled back just an inch, his voice was ruined gravel, eyes burning down at you. âChrist, look at you. My good girl.â His thumb brushed the corner of your wet mouth, slow and filthy. âYouâve no idea what youâve just started.â
And then he kissed you again, harder this time, pushing you down into the mattress, his body caging yours like heâd been waiting forever.
The Polaroid lies forgotten beside you, evidence of the game youâd both been playing. Only now, there was no game left. No teasing, no running. Just the two of you, and the hunger neither of you could deny anymore.
a/n: for all the smut readers: If y'all are interested I will write a separate one that continues with smut after the kiss. Just waiting for reactions and if y'all even want smut within this story.