𝓐𝓷𝓷𝓲𝓮

The team deploys just outside a Hydra training facility carved into the cliffside, the ocean crashing far below in a constant, distant roar.

Tony stays back in the quinjet, already deep in their systems, his voice sharp over comms as he works. “Alright, let’s not repeat yesterday.”

Thor remains with him for now, watching the field from above, ready if things escalate.

Sam is airborne within seconds, circling wide as he surveys the layout. “Three pathing groups of four. Two on the near door. Multiple squads in the training yard. No aerial presence yet.”

On the ground, you and Steve fall into step without thinking, moving toward the larger cluster ahead as Tony splits the field. On the far side, Bucky and Natasha exchange a brief look before breaking off together, circling wide on Tony’s direction.

The first patrols go down clean and quiet. No alarms. No hesitation. For a moment, it almost feels controlled.

Then the field erupts.

Explosions ripple outward in a pattern too precise to be random, and barriers slam up in sequence, one dropping hard between you and Steve. Debris and smoke flood the space, turning clear sightlines into a maze of shifting gray.

Tony’s voice cuts through, sharp with confusion. “—wait—hold—something’s—”

Steve pushes left. You are forced right.

You nearly meet again around the edge of the barrier, close enough that he calls out, “I’ve got her—”

More barriers slam down. Clean. Final.

Tony sees it resolve on his end. “No—you don’t—”

Hydra agents drop in immediately, not to delay but to occupy. You cut through them without slowing, each one going down fast—but they don’t need to hold you for long.

Above, Sam tracks the shift in real time. “They split you.”

“On purpose,” Natasha confirms, already adjusting her position.

Tony exhales sharply, recalculating. “Of course they did.” His eyes flick across the field, locking onto the nearest moving point. “Cyborg—you’re closest—get to her—now.”

“Damn it,” Bucky mutters, already moving.

You push through another cluster of soldiers, faster now, more direct. They are not trying to contain you anymore—they are trying to kill you.

Bucky rounds the corner just as you take down another pair, closing the distance quickly. “I got you.”

You do not respond, already moving again, angling for a path out of the maze instead of deeper into it.

Ahead, a Hydra agent steps into view, launcher already raised.

“Down.”

Bucky reacts instantly, dropping with you as the missile screams past overhead and detonates behind you. He is back on his feet a second later, metal arm crushing the launcher while you take out the operator in the same motion.

There is no pause. You keep moving.

The next group hits hard, and the difference is immediate. Your timing is off, spacing too wide, movements just out of sync. You move too fast; he compensates too late. It is messy—but still effective. The soldiers go down, one after another.

As you break into a sprint again, Bucky mutters, almost to himself, “You’re not Steve.”

“Neither are you.”

There is no edge to it. Just fact.

The next engagement is tighter. You start adjusting, reading him—his reach, his weight, the way he uses that arm. Instead of working around it, you begin using it, shifting your angles to match his movement.

He catches on quickly. Adapts.

Still not perfect—but closer.

The smoke thickens as you push forward, Tony’s voice fading in and out through interference. Without warning, the ground drops away.

The cliff edge comes up fast.

Another squad hits immediately, forcing you forward. You take them down quickly, both of you moving with more precision now, less wasted motion.

Then a nearby detonation goes off.

The shockwave hits hard, throwing both of you backward.

Bucky goes over the edge.

You move without thinking, catching him just before he drops out of reach. The sudden stop wrenches your shoulder sharply out of place, pain flaring—but you do not let go.

“Come on, big guy—use that metal arm.”

Bucky looks down, then back up at you, scowling. “I would’ve been fine.”

You let out a short, exasperated breath. “You would’ve been out of the fight.”

After a beat, he shifts, driving the metal arm into the cliffside and finding purchase. Together, you haul him back up.

You do not stop moving.

Turning back the way you came, you nod toward the nearest barrier. Bucky does not hesitate—one punch caves it in, opening a path.

This time, when you move together, something clicks.

Your timing tightens. Your spacing aligns. When you call, he moves. When he shifts, you are already there. It is different from Steve—heavier, more force—but just as effective.

Over comms, Natasha’s voice cuts through. “Got the data. Moving to extraction.”

Sam drops lower through the smoke. “Airspace is unstable—move now.”

Tony’s voice follows, frustrated but controlled. “I’ve got nothing through this—just get out.”

Thor’s cuts through last, steady and certain. “Path is open. Move.”

You do.

All of you converge separately through smoke and debris, drawn toward the same exit point.

At the quinjet, Steve is already there, standing at the ramp, unmoving. Sam lands beside him. Natasha arrives moments later, already turning back to cover.

Steve does not move. His focus stays locked on the smoke.

Then—movement.

You and Bucky emerge together.

Not chasing. Not struggling.

Moving in step.

You hit the ramp side by side.

Steve exhales, the tension finally breaking.

You are fine.

And you are not alone.

After landing and a quick debrief, the team disperses to decompress. The compound settles into that strange quiet that follows a loud mission—too still after too much noise.

Steve steps out onto the lawn, needing the open air after all the smoke and confined space. He does not go far, just enough to feel the breeze, to let his lungs work without resistance. He stands there for a moment, hands loose at his sides, eyes unfocused on the stretch of trees ahead.

A minute later, he hears footsteps approach.

Bucky stops beside him, close but not crowding, matching his line of sight rather than turning to face him. For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Then Bucky exhales and says, almost to himself, “I still don’t get it.”

Steve glances at him out of the corner of his eye, already bracing for the argument he expects—but it doe not come.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Bucky continues, turning his head just enough to study him. There is no edge to it now, just curiosity, something quieter and harder to push back against. “I just don’t get why you didn’t say anything.”

That pulls Steve’s full attention. He turns slightly, searching Bucky’s face, trying to read where this is going.

Bucky does not hesitate. “Why you trusted her—” he pauses, just briefly, “—and not me.”

Steve shakes his head slowly, the reflex to deny there but without any heat behind it. “It wasn’t like that.”

He exhales, dragging a hand briefly across the back of his neck as he tries to find the right words. “It felt… too personal.” The admission sits strangely between them, heavier than he expected. He meets Bucky’s eyes again. “She trusted me not to.”

Bucky’s brows draw together as he turns that over, not rejecting it, just working through what it means. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “And that was enough?”

Steve’s mouth twists slightly. He shakes his head once. “No.” He takes a breath, steadier this time. “It mattered.”

They both look away after that, each in opposite directions, the space between them settling into something quieter. Neither rushes to fill it.

After a moment, Bucky nods, slow and thoughtful. “Yeah… I can see that.”

He glances back at Steve, one corner of his mouth lifting just a fraction. “She’s not what I thought.”

Steve lets out a faint breath that might almost be a laugh, though there is no humor in it. “No.”

Bucky turns back toward the compound, starting to head inside, but pauses just long enough to leave one last thought behind. “She’s not what you thought either.”

Steve does not answer.

He stays where he is, hands slipping into his pockets as he looks out across the lawn again, watching the trees shift in the wind and letting the weight of that settle where it will.

A little later, Bucky calls out to FRIDAY. “Um… where is Copycat?”

FRIDAY answers immediately. “The gym.”

He nods once before realizing who he is talking to. “Thanks.”

“Of course, Sergeant Barnes.”

He heads that way at a measured pace.

The gym is dark when he steps inside, the lights off, only starlight filtering in through the glass. It takes a moment for his vision to adjust.

He hears you before he sees you.

Steady breathing. Controlled. Rhythmic.

Then he finds you.

Hanging from a pull-up bar, knees hooked over it, body folding and unfolding in precise, controlled crunches. The motion is steady. Repetitive. Almost mechanical.

For a moment, he just watches.

Then he calls your name. “You know you don’t need to do that.”

You finish one more rep before dropping cleanly to the ground.

You straighten, already adjusted to the dark, and face him. “No.” You twist your shoulders once, working out the tension. “But it helps me think.”

He steps closer, stopping a few feet away. Neither of you rushes the space between you. “You almost let me fall.”

You glance up toward the ceiling for a second, as if replaying it, your expression thoughtful. “No.”

Your eyes drop back to him. “I caught you.”

He drags a hand through his hair, gaze shifting away. “You didn’t have to.”

You tilt your head slightly, something like a half-smile ghosting across your face. “Yes, I did.” A breath. “You were the closest variable.”

Bucky lets out a quiet, surprised chuckle. “That’s a hell of a way to say ‘teammate.’”

You shrug lightly. “It was accurate.”

He shifts his weight, still watching you. “You adjusted.” A small click of his tongue. “Fast.”

You nod once. “So did you.”

He exhales, glancing toward the windows. “Didn’t feel like it.”

You crack your knuckles, thoughtful. “You compensated.” A beat. “You always do.”

His head snaps back toward you, attention sharpening. “You fight different with him.”

You do not hesitate. “Yes.”

He huffs, frustrated with the lack of elaboration. “Why?”

You look at him like the answer is obvious. “Different variables.”

He nods slowly. That, at least, he understands. “And me?”

You meet his gaze directly. “You adapt faster than you think.”

He scuffs his shoe against the floor, looking down. “Yeah.” A small breath. “Still working on that.”

After a moment, he turns toward the exit.

He pauses at the door, “Next time—” glancing back over his shoulder. “Don’t wait that long to catch me.”

You almost smile. Almost. “Next time, don’t fall.”

He shakes his head and heads out.

You watch him go for a second, then turn back toward the heavy bag in the corner.

A moment later, your fist connects—and the rhythm starts again.

The next day, Steve is back in the main common area, sprawled across the couch with his feet stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. Another book from his list rests in his hands, his head bowed as he follows the words.

Across from him, you sit with your feet up on the coffee table, a tablet in your hands. Data scrolls steadily beneath your fingers as you sift through it, posture loose but alert in a way that never quite turns off.

The silence between you has stretched for over an hour now.

Not tense.

Companionable.

Steve turns a page, tilting his head slightly as his eyes track the next line.

You tap once, then scroll, the soft drag of your fingers the only other sound in the room.

Neither of you looks at the other.

Bucky walks in and slows when he sees you both.

He pauses just inside the room, taking it in. Steve does not look up. You do not acknowledge him.

It registers. This—is normal now.

He lets out a quiet breath.

Then he crosses the room and drops onto the couch beside Steve’s feet without a word.

After a moment, Steve glances up. “You good?”

Bucky leans back, draping an arm along the back of the couch. “Yeah.”

You do not look up right away, still focused on the tablet.

Then you push a small breath through your nose and speak, completely dry. “You’re blocking the light.”

Steve flicks you an amused look you do not return.

Bucky shifts an inch, just enough to acknowledge it. “You’ll survive.”

Steve smiles faintly and goes back to his book, turning another page.

Bucky settles deeper into the couch, stretching his legs out, letting his head tip back as he closes his eyes.

You keep scrolling, tongue pressing lightly against your lip as your focus sharpens.

Then, almost absently—“Did you break your shoulder?”

Steve snorts under his breath.

Bucky cracks one eye open, leveling a look at you. “No.”

Still looking down, you bite out, “You should have.”

Steve lifts a hand to his mouth to hold back a full laugh, eyes still on the page.

Bucky’s mouth tilts into a half-smirk. “I’ll try harder next time.”

Steve shakes his head, amusement lingering as he turns another page.

Bucky lets his head fall back again, eyes closing as he breathes out slowly.

You refocus fully on the tablet, already moving on.

After a second, you tap out a quick note and send it off—something just pointed enough to annoy Tony.

Part Sixteen

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"Oh, she didn't have to say much. Her eyebrow of disapproval did all the talking. Between that, her scant report, and staying over at Barnes' every night, there's only one thing to infer..."

Tony instantly struck a nerve. Nat had always been more than just a partner. She was Steve's constant, his voice of reason when missions went sideways. "Ride-or-die," she'd called it once, with that trademark smirk that somehow made the sentiment more genuine. Even after she and Bucky found each other, Nat remained Steve's compass. The one who called him on his bullshit, who made the hard calls he sometimes couldn't with little to no emotion.

Times Square flashed in his mind. The duffel bag, you inside it, the way he and Nat had locked eyes and just known. They'd been in perfect sync then, reading the same signs, following the same instincts honed through years of dealing with potential threats. Their mutual distrust had been automatic, practical. Hand you over. Walk away. Let someone else deal with this mess.

But something had changed in those weeks that followed. Steve's certainty had eroded, replaced by... well, something else. A shift so gradual he barely noticed it happening, until one day he looked up and realised his whole perspective had transformed. It was the kind of change that defied explanation, that made him question his own judgement.

"You're saying no hiccups, no hesitation, no 'own goals'? First live mission, and she was cool as a cucumber?" Tony pressed.

"I'm saying she kept her head when most rookies would've panicked. She tracked threats in real-time, coordinated movements... That's not suspicious, Tony, that's preparation. We trained her well. You trained her well."

"Or experience? You sure she hasn't done this before?"

Steve took a moment, weighing each observation, each interaction that had led them here. "Her instincts are sharp, I'll give you that. But I get the impression she's just figuring out her place... and working overtime to gain everyone's approval. I'd say she's almost desperate for it. Can't help but feel bad for her."

"It's not a complete farce. Sharon's a great girl, and–"

"And she helped you in your darkest moment, yeah, yeah, yeah," Nat finished for him, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "You know, for a guy with a perfect memory, you sure do repeat yourself a lot."

The car swerved as Steve reached over to swat at her arm. "Knock it off, will you? We've got a job to do."

Nat held up her hands in mock surrender, but her smirk remained firmly in place. "Fine, fine... but humour me for a sec. No need to go into the finer details of the dos and don'ts... How is the honeymoon situation supposed to work, exactly? Is there a clause in your contract to consummate the marriage?"

Steve turned to glare down at her. "That's not funny."

"I mean, it's a little funny. You're going to be the first guy in history to not get laid on his wedding night. There's a slapstick comedy reference in there somewhere..."

Steve forced a chuckle. "That's not something I've given serious thought. Considering the circumstances, I wouldn't say it's worth my energy."

"Alright, hear me out... One, you said it yourself. She helped you in your darkest moment. Not to mention agreeing to an arranged marriage. And two, Carter's a looker. Let's just be honest with each other. So if she were to strip down to her bridal lingerie and seduce you on your wedding night, what do you do? Wouldn't you say you're kinda obligated to give the girl something?"

Steve bristled at Nat's what-if scenario. "Sharon knows our union is born out of convenience rather than love. She volunteered of her own volition."

Nat shifted in her seat, fishing her phone out of her pocket. "Hold that thought..."

"What are you doing?" Steve asked, brow furrowing as he glanced between her and the road.

"Grounds for annulment..." she read aloud, scrolling through an article. "There are only five recognised grounds for annulment in New York... blah, blah, blah... spouse was a minor... mental incapacity... Ah, bingo! At least one spouse is unable to have sexual intercourse."

"Inapplicable."

"Oh, I beg to differ. All work and no play? Rogers, come on!"

Steve's exasperated sigh filled the car. "She is not going to file for annulment. Least of all for that."

"For what? Your floppy disk?"

"Really, Romanoff? Floppy disk? Even I know that reference is out of date. You're slipping."

"Okay, look, jokes aside... I want you to be prepared, having considered all scenarios before taking the plunge. You view this as serving penance, great, I get it. But to what end? What happens when people start asking questions about kids?"

"They won't..."

"Of course they will! Do you have any idea how intrusive and opinionated people can be? And what about fans? Good grief, fans are the worst!"

"I'll cross the bridge when I get there. For now, I just need to get through the wedding."

"Right... And in the meantime, Barnes and Sarah get hitched, get to work on the family you know she's always wanted, and the four of you all sit together at Cece's annual High Tea like a bunch of poseurs for the foreseeable future."

Silence settled over the car. Nat knew her last comment had hit its mark. She felt a twinge of guilt for causing Steve pain, but she reminded herself that sometimes the truth hurt. And this was a truth he needed to face. As she watched him from the corner of her eye, Nat's heart ached. His eyes, usually so focused and alert, seemed to look beyond the road ahead, as if searching for an escape route that simply didn't exist. In that moment, Nat was struck by an overwhelming desire to shoulder his burdens. To free him from the weight of grossly unfair responsibility that had been thrust upon him. She longed to tell him it was okay to walk away from it, but she knew it wasn't that simple. Steve's stubborn sense of duty and loyalty simply ran too deep. Still, as the miles stretched out before them, Nat couldn't shake the fervent wish to see Steve truly happy, truly free, even if just for a moment. She'd give anything to grant him that release, to see the genuine smile that had become increasingly rare as the wedding drew near.

After a short after care session, Steve was back to his brooding self, almost storming about the house while he prepared for the trip. You had been instructed to simple take a backpack with the 'bare essentials' in, which you were still uncomfortable with but you begrudgingly accepted. 

You threw on a pair of simple black leggings, an oversized band tee and your trusty old trainers for the trip, opting for comfort over style. A brush was quickly thrown through your hair before you slung the backpack over your shoulders and made your way down the stairs and into the kitchen where Natasha was waiting at the centre island, busily tapping away at her iPad. 

"All set?" Nat queried without raising her head.

"Yep." You replied nervously, taking a seat on one of the bar stools while you waited. 

"Where's steve?" You asked, taking note of his missing presence. 

"Right here." Steve announced as he appeared from the stairs, sporting a pair of black slacks, a white shirt and a pair of dark sunglasses. 

"I'll let the driver know you're ready." Natasha said, finally breaking her gaze from her tablet as she made her way towards the front of the house. 

"No bag?" You asked curiously as you took in Steve's chiselled torso that was being outlined perfectly by the crisp white shirt. 

"The driver will collect it." Steve said abruptly whilst he fidgeted with the cuffs of his sleeves. 

"Is this a bad time to say my passport is out of date?" You teased, attempting to lighten the mood and hopefully see a smile from his constantly frowned face. You were met instead, however by a quick turn of Steve's head and a scolding look that made you fear you may be in trouble. 

"I'm joking." You added nervously, lowering your head to avoid his looming glare. 

"Steve, we're ready." Came Natasha's voice from the front door. 

"Saved by the bell." You muttered under your breath, making your way hastily towards the car, hoping to pull yourself out of this now tense and awkward situation. 

You dare not even look back as you made your way straight out of the house and practically threw yourself into the back of the sleek black car. Your seatbelt was swiftly clicked into place and you placed your ear pods snuggly into their positions, attempting to drown out your thoughts in preparation for your trip to the airport.

There would be plenty of time for anxiety and panic once you got there. The car jolted and bounced as Steve appeared, sliding in to the seat next to you, quickly followed by Nat who took her position on the adjacent seats facing you. 

"You don't mind do you?" You quickly asked Steve, gesturing to the ear pods. 

He simply shook his head in response and so on came the music and off you went. 

On arrival at the airport, your car was met by a smart looking woman in a pencil skirt and shirt, her hair tied into a slick bun and red lipstick gleaming on her lips. She opened the car door as you came to a stop in front of her. 

"Good morning Mr rogers." She said over-enthusiastically, flashing a smile his way. Honestly it angered you a little. 

"Good morning Sharon." Steve returned with a sudden spring in his step, smiling away as he exited the car. 

You gathered your ear pods back into the case and let yourself out of the car, making your way over to where Natasha and Steve now stood. 

"Sharon, This is my new assistant." Steve announced as you arrived at the group. With the rush of the morning you had almost forgotten that it was now time for 'game faces'.

Sharon made a very obnoxious hum sound in response and couldn't even be bothered to lift her lip into a full smile to greet you. It felt like you were back in high school, with the popular girl refusing to acknowledge your existence and it was something you had outgrown.

You couldn't be bothered with the behaviour in the slightest and so you didn't even respond. Instead you turned my attention to your phone, pretending to be busy working whilst they continued conversing. 

A short few minutes had passed and you were being escorted into a large hangar where a small white jet was waiting, its door open and stairs guiding the way into its depths.

You gulped deeply as the anxiety and fear began to set in. This was really happening. You hadn't stepped foot on a plane since you were a child and although you had a passport, you had chickened out of actually using it, until now. 

You did everything you could to keep the looming panic attack at bay as you approached the plane, choosing to stay out of conversation completely as Nat and Steve greeted the pilot. 

You all settled into the cream leather seats and you tried to hide your shaky hands and the tears threatening to spill down your cheeks.

Steve sat opposite you and busied himself on his phone while Nat sat in the adjacent aisle's seat, also tapping away on her tablet. You felt like you should be doing something, yet there was nothing you could do except stew in your own anxiety. 

Sharon came through the plane a few minutes later, advising you of the safety procedures and checking your seatbelts. 

You couldn't help but notice as she checked Steve's, she leant over and stroked her hand up his leg, letting her cleavage practically rub in his face as she tugged on his belt, checking it was secure. 

He smiled at her with flirty glint in his eye that had you rolling your own eyes with a huff, as you slumped back in your seat.

He looked over at you with a stern scowl as Sharon retreated to the front of the plane.

"What's the matter?" Steve asked and you narrowed your eyes at him.

"Nothing. I'm fine." You scoffed.

"Princess..." He coaxed, but you were too anxious and too in your head to care at that moment.

"Just go back to your phone Steve and leave me alone." You hissed before folding your arms across your chest and glaring out of the plane window.

Steve's eyes narrowed and his jaw ticked but he didn't respond, instead he settled back in his seat and you could feel him watching you with interest as the plane began its take off procedures. 

You tucked your trembling hands against your sides, bouncing your knee and taking deep breaths as the plane ascended into the air at speed. 

By the time it had levelled out, you were a mess and you knew you needed to be freed from your own mind, you needed space to breath before you combusted from the pain.  

Sharon stepped back down into the aisle offering Steve a drink with a flirtatious wink and you scoffed loudly, knowing you were being ridiculous but you pushed all the same.

Steve yelled your name, avoiding one of your preferred honorifics while you were in the presence of Sharon. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Nothing. Just leave me the fuck alone." You spat back.

"Sharon, leave." He hissed angrily, waiting with a clenched jaw while she shuffled back to the cock pit. "Princess, bathroom."

"No." You scoffed back.

"Now." He growled and your pussy clenched at the tone.

You quickly fumbled with your belt and stomped towards the onboard bathroom. 

It was small but more spacious than a normal airplane bathroom, big enough for two, even three people to fit in comfortably.

You didn't have long to look at it before Steve stomped in the room, closing and locking the door behind him.

His face softened ever so slightly and he gripped your chin in his palm, pulling your face up to meet his stern gaze.

"Do you want to explain to me what's wrong?" He asked, sternly but with a hint of care.

"I..I don't..I can't." You practically whimpered.

"You know I'll need to punish you for talking to me that way." He intoned with a raised brow.

"I know. I want to be punished. Please Steve." You begged.

He looked at you curiously, like he was considering it momentarily before he dropped your face.

"On your knees." He demanded and you immediately complied, dropping onto the tiled floor and keeping your head set down.

You heard him fumble with his belt before he slipped his pants and underwear to his thighs. 

"Why are you being punished princess?" Steve asked sternly.

"Because I was rude to you sir." You whispered.

"And?" He continued.

"I swore at you and I rolled my eyes at you sir." You whimpered.

"That's right, you did and that's not the behaviour I expect, is it?" He spoke with such authority that you could feel the wetness pooling in your panties and your brain began to fuzz the way you were craving.

"No sir. I'm sorry sir." You whispered once more.

"I know you are and to prove it you're going to let me use your face like the good girl I know you are." He demanded.

You nodded slowly, desperate for the release of control only he could bring in that moment.

"Look at me." He demanded and your head snapped up, seeing his hard cock bob in your peripheral vision as you met his gaze, "You won't be able to use your safe word, show me your safe signal."

You quickly raised your hand and tapped firmly twice on his thigh.

"Good." He replied, "Eyes on me at all times. Don't you dare look away."

"Yes sir." You whimpered.

You licked your lips as he took a long stroke over his veiny cock, dropping your jaw when he brought it close to your face.

He slapped the heavy appendage across your cheek with a grunt before forcefully shoving it deep in your throat.

You barely had time to register the intrusion before you were gagging, spit pooling around him and dribbling from your lips as your eyes swelled.

You groaned loudly as your tongue lapped at the velvety skin and your thighs clenched together tightly.

"I don't think so brat!" Steve growled, forcing his cock impossibly deeper into your throat, "You don't get to enjoy your punishment."

Your eyes widened as tears began to spring from them, mind hazing over in just the way you needed. In that moment there were no other thoughts, no pleasure, this was just about him and that's exactly what you needed to empty your brain of everything else.

Steve slipped a hand into your hair and gripped it painfully at the scalp, making goosebumps shoot from your scalp to your neck.

His fist tightened on your hair and he held you in place as he began rocking his hips at speed in and out of your mouth, ignoring the gargles and spit as he used you.

"That's it," He groaned, "There's my good girl."

You whimpered around his length at his approval, as more tears slid down your cheeks.

"Yeah you are." He groaned again, slapping your cheek firmly with his free hand, "Fuckin' crying around my cock like a good little whore."

His hips retreated slowly, pulling his length to rest on your lips before pounding it back in and bruising your throat as you choked.

You were a mess, face red and puffy with tears, spit lacing your chin and dribbling onto your thighs while Steve grunted and groaned in pleasure, delivering slow blow after slow blow to your abused mouth before he finally stilled, holding your head impossibly tighter in his grip and cumming with a moan.

His intense gaze never left yours as rope after rope of warm cum filled your throat.

"Hold it." He ordered before withdrawing his cock and releasing your hair.

You sealed your lips tight, holding his salty, thick come on your tongue as you watched him carefully tuck himself away and straighten his clothes. 

When he was done he finally turned back to you. 

"Let me see." He demanded and your mouth dropped open, tongue wiggling desperately.

He smirked proudly seeing his spend still sat waiting in your mouth. He brought his face closer to your own and suddenly spat onto your tongue.

"Swallow." He ordered and you closed your lips once more, allowing the combined fluids to slide down your throat before opening your mouth again and showing him your clear tongue.

"Good girl." He purred, stroking your cheek gently and you instinctively leaned into his hand, seeking out his touch as you came down from the submissive high.

Steve dropped to the floor before you, bending his legs at the knee and spreading them wide.

"Come here." He said softly, pulling you into his arms.

He spent a few minutes gently stroking your hair, telling you how good you were, how proud he was.

When your breathing returned to normal he placed his arms around you, pulling you into a hug and placing his chin on top of your head.

"Do you wanna tell me what's wrong now?" He asked.

"I'm scared..of planes..." You whispered, clutching onto his chest and nuzzling your face into his shirt.

"I understand.." He began, but you cut him off before he could continue.

"No you don't.." You whispered, "My parents..they died..in a plane crash."

You allowed the tears to fall, crying softly against him.

You felt his arms stiffen around you before he pulled you impossibly closer and placed soft kisses to your head. 

He didn't ask any more of you, he didn't pry, he just held you. He held you until your brain was clear and your anxiety settled and for the first time since it happened, you had told someone of the trauma and it felt freeing. 

Everything Tag - @late-to-the-party-81

@the-wandering-wonder @rnurse-kole @chemtrails-club

Tony stands in his lab in the middle of correlating data when your note pops onto the screen. He reads it immediately and, predictably, is already irritated. Muttering to himself, he adjusts the system as he works.

“Yeah, yeah, inefficient—sure.”

FRIDAY speaks up, calm as ever. “Mr. Stark, something is coming through the data feed.”

Still half-focused on your note—and begrudgingly aware that it is, in fact, improving his workflow—Tony waves her off. “Of course it is.”

There is a beat, and when FRIDAY responds again, her tone is more precise.

“No, Mr. Stark. The false feed. An inbound packet.”

That pulls him up short.

Tony pauses, his expression shifting as he turns fully to the screens. “That’s not possible.”

He pulls the packet into isolation, running it through every safeguard he has out of habit and necessity. When it comes back clean—too clean—he opens it. The data integrates seamlessly, and that alone tells him where it is from.

Hydra.

“They shouldn’t even know where to—”

He stops as the first file resolves.

Project Designation: Mirror Protocol. Blood samples. Tank-bred infants. Viability rates. Genetic alteration. Enhancement markers.

Tony exhales slowly. “Okay… that tracks—”

Then the file expands.

Additional subjects. Failed iterations. Mortality in infancy.

Two viable.

“…that doesn’t track.”

He leans in, opening the next file.

Second subject. Male. Designation: Brother. Parallel enhancements. Parallel training.

FRIDAY overlays the data. “Cross-referencing—genetic similarity detected.”

Tony drops his head for a second, staring at the floor before dragging a hand over his face. “The hell… you’ve got to be kidding me.”

When he looks back up, he keeps going.

Deviation report. Mission failure. Attachment to a civilian.

Tony’s voice lowers without him realizing it. “He defected.”

He opens the next file.

Assignment logs populate the screen.

Assigned agent: you.

Directive: terminate.

Tony goes still. “…no.”

But he does not stop.

The combat logs begin to scroll, dense and relentless. Images follow—grainy, fractured, but clear enough. The fight is brutal. Prolonged. Inefficient in a way that does not match anything he has seen from you.

FRIDAY fills in the gap. “Engagement lasted twenty-seven hours. Significant structural damage recorded.”

Tony watches, unable to look away. “Why didn’t you just—”

He cuts himself off.

The final image resolves.

The body.

The aftermath.

Termination confirmed. Method: manual.

Tony covers his eyes with his hand, pressing his fingers briefly against his face. “…Jesus.”

It takes him a moment before he can bring himself to open the last file.

When he does, it is worse in a different way.

Post-mission instability. Loss of control.

Images flood the screen—destruction, bodies, collateral that no directive would have sanctioned.

Tony straightens slowly, hands settling on his hips. “That’s not mission behavior.”

“Reconditioning protocols initiated,” FRIDAY confirms.

He scratches at the back of his neck, unsettled. “Yeah… no kidding.”

For several seconds, he just stands there, staring at the data without really seeing it, trying and failing to process the scope of it.

FRIDAY breaks the silence. “You should call Ms. Rogers.”

Tony snaps immediately. “Don’t call her that.”

He exhales, sharp and uneven, then pushes the screens outward again. “…call everyone.”

It does not take long for the room to fill.

You and Steve take your usual place by the window. Natasha, Sam, and Bucky gather near the table. Thor stands in the corner, quiet and watchful.

Tony does not ease into it. He does not have it in him. The screens flare back to life behind him, filling the room with cold light.

It takes only seconds for the shift to happen.

Steve’s attention goes to you immediately, not the screens. Something in his posture tightens, concern already written across his face.

Bucky watches Tony first, then turns to you, his expression sharpening into something cautious and searching.

Natasha leans forward, scanning ahead, already assembling the shape of the information before it is fully explained.

Sam’s reaction lags a beat—confusion first, then dawning concern.

Thor says nothing, but his focus moves from the data to you just as quickly as Steve’s did.

Tony swallows once, then says it, more carefully than usual. “There were two of you.”

The screen shifts.

Your counterpart appears.

Sam leans forward. “Wait—there was more than one?”

Natasha sits back slightly now, still reading, still calculating.

Bucky’s jaw tightens, his entire posture going rigid.

Tony hesitates—just for a second—before continuing.

“He defected.” His voice is quieter now. “They sent you after him.”

The footage plays.

The fight fills the space—violent, drawn out, wrong in a way that is hard to articulate. Not the efficiency they have seen from you. Not the control.

No one speaks.

No one moves.

You step forward.

Just one step, closer to the screens.

Your eyes lock on the image of the body.

“We were teenagers,” you say, voice even. “He deviated from directive.”

A small pause.

“I was reassigned.”

Tony’s voice drops almost to a whisper. “You killed him.”

You nod once.

“Yes. I plunged my hand through his chest and removed his heart while he was still breathing.”

A beat.

“It took longer than expected.”

The image lingers—ruined, unmistakable.

You do no look away.

“He became attached to a girl after a mission,” you continue, as if reciting something already processed. “He wanted a normal life.”

The room stays silent.

And then, without warning—without any change in your voice—tears begin to fall.

Slow. Unacknowledged.

Steve shifts closer, his hand coming to rest lightly at the small of your back, grounding but not interrupting.

At the table, Bucky does not move at all. Something in his expression changes, recognition threading through the tension—something too familiar.

Natasha watches you, not the tears, but the disconnect between them and your voice.

Sam exhales slowly, shaking his head once, unsettled in a way he cannot quite hide.

Thor’s gaze remains steady, understanding settling in without surprise.

You keep looking at the screen.

“He hesitated,” you say quietly.

A breath.

“I didn’t.”

No one is looking at the data anymore.

Only you.

The silence stretches between all of you for an unbearable length of time.

With a breath, you turn and leave. Quietly.

Steve hesitates only half a second before following.

No one else moves.

He catches sight of you in the hallway, already heading toward the stairs, and falls in behind you without a word.

Your pace is quick—not running, but only just contained.

He calls your name once. You do not turn.

He lengthens his stride, gradually closing the distance.

You still do not stop until you reach the roof.

The wind catches your hair immediately, the sky wide and bright above you. You move straight to the edge before finally coming to a halt.

Steve steps out behind you.

You stand with your back to him, your breathing already uneven, coming in short, broken pulls.

He closes the distance but stops a step behind you, leaving space.

Careful, low, he says your name again.

The only sign you heard him is the slight tension that moves through your shoulders.

The silence between you stretches, thin and sharp, like something that might snap.

When you speak, your voice catches. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

You try to steady yourself, reaching for the familiar structure of logic, your tone flattening even as it wavers at the edges. “It was a completed directive.”

You shake your head once, still not turning. “It does not affect current operations.”

“That’s not what this is,” Steve says gently.

His hand lifts, hovering just short of your shoulder before he lets it fall again, giving you the space you are clearly trying to hold onto.

You shake your head again, sharper this time. “He deviated.”

A breath that does not quite come clean. “He compromised the mission.”

“He was your brother.” The words land.

The tears come harder this time, not quiet, not controlled—spilling freely down your face. Your nose clogs with it and you cut your hand sharply through the air, as if you could dismiss the thought entirely. “That’s not—”

Your voice catches, frustration breaking through as you choke on the words. “That’s not what he was.”

You turn away, still keeping your back to him, and start to pace. The movement is sharp, uneven, your control slipping with each step.

The words start coming faster now, pulled loose by memory. “He hesitated—”

You nearly stumble on flat ground, catching yourself as your breath stutters. “He wouldn’t move—”

Your hands lift, cutting through the air as if you can force the memory into something structured, something manageable. “He kept talking about—”

The thought breaks apart before it finishes.

You stop, still not looking at him. Tears continue to fall unchecked. “I didn’t hesitate.”

Your hands drop, trembling now. “I wasn’t supposed to—”

Your breathing turns ragged as you start pacing again. “I didn’t—”

Steve moves then, slow and deliberate. “Hey—”

He steps into your path, stopping you mid-motion.

You do not resist. You do not even really see him.

Your gaze fixes somewhere on his shirt, unfocused, your vision blurred with tears, your cheeks flushed, your breathing coming in shallow, uneven gasps.

He does not hesitate this time.

His arms come around you, firm and steady, pulling you in.

For a moment, you go completely still.

Then it all gives at once.

Your body collapses into him, the tension draining out in a rush. You shake in his arms, your breath breaking apart completely as the sobs hit, messy and uncontained. Tears and snot soak into his shirt and you do not even seem to notice.

Your voice is barely there, fractured and small. “I didn’t—He—I—”

Steve tightens his hold, anchoring you. “I’ve got you.”

One hand moves slowly along your back, the other steady at your shoulder. “You’re okay.”

When your breath catches again, sharp and uneven, he lowers his head slightly, resting it against yours. “I’m here.”

The words are quiet, but they do not waver.

Gradually, your arms come up, wrapping around him, holding on now instead of just being held.

Your breathing starts to slow—still uneven, still catching—but deeper than before.

The tears taper off, leaving behind small, shaky inhales and quiet sniffling.

Neither of you moves. Neither of you speaks.

You just stand there, held together by the space between his arms and your grip on him—and for now, that is enough.

The group has moved into the common area. Tony stands off to one side, working through a cluster of screens, though his movements are slower than usual, less certain. The others keep their voices low as they talk—Natasha, Bucky, and Sam seated across the couches, Thor standing apart, his attention fixed on the doorway they all expect you to come through.

When you do, the shift is immediate.

You and Steve step in together, your pace steady now but measured, as if each step is placed with intention. His hand rests at the small of your back, light but constant, a quiet point of contact that does not waver.

Your face is still flushed, your eyes rimmed red, the swelling not yet gone. Your breathing has steadied, but only just—slow, deliberate pulls that still carry the echo of what came before.

There is a darkened patch on Steve’s shirt where your tears soaked through. He does not try to hide it.

Conversation fades the closer you get, until it disappears entirely. Neither of you sits right away. Steve does not move away.

Natasha is the first to take it in fully—your face, the set of your shoulders, the hand at your back, the damp fabric. Her gaze lingers only a second before shifting away, storing the change without comment.

Beside her, Bucky notices just as much. Your face. Steve’s proximity. The way he stays where he is. Something in Bucky’s posture adjusts, but he does not look away this time.

Sam hesitates, his expression tightening with uncertainty before softening as he takes in your state.

Tony keeps his focus on the screens, or at least pretends to, though his attention flicks toward you more than once—taking in the details, the difference, the closeness.

Thor watches openly from where he stands, calm, almost solemn, as if the shift makes immediate sense to him.

With a breath, you move first, taking a seat at the edge of the couch. Steve remains standing just behind you, his hand shifting from your back to your shoulder, a steady, grounding presence that does not ask for attention but does not disappear either.

For a moment, no one speaks.

Then Sam does, tentative but genuine. “You… good?”

Your gaze lifts to him. You take another breath, deeper this time, and when you answer, your voice is even again.

“I will be.”

Tony huffs lightly, only half turning in your direction, his tone edged with forced normalcy. “So… Hydra’s apparently in the business of oversharing now.”

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, irritation slipping through. “Which is great. Love that for us.”

Natasha’s eyes flick to him. “They wanted us to see it.”

Tony exhales, turning back to the screens. “Yeah, well. Message received.”

Natasha’s gaze shifts to you for just a moment before she adds, quieter, “Not just us.”

No one argues that.

The silence that follows is brief, but heavier now.

Bucky breaks it, his voice controlled, deliberate. “They’re escalating.”

Tony lets out something that is not quite a laugh. “No kidding.”

Bucky’s eyes move to you, steady this time. “They’re not just targeting anymore.”

You tilt your head slightly, acknowledging the point, and he finishes,

“They’re provoking.”

Thor’s voice cuts in, calm and certain. “They strike not at the body, but at the spirit.”

Tony glances over, irritation returning in a familiar way. “Yeah, we call that psychological warfare.”

Thor does not react to the tone. His gaze shifts briefly toward you. “It is no less dangerous.”

Behind you, Steve’s hand tightens slightly on your shoulder—not restraining, just anchoring.

“It doesn’t change the mission.”

The words settle over the room, steadying it.

You lift your hand, covering his briefly, a small squeeze before letting it fall away again.

“It changes their strategy,” you say, drawing in another slow breath as you center yourself fully. “Not mine.”

No one pushes back. No one asks for more.

The room settles into a quiet acceptance—not resolution, but something close enough for now.

Steve’s thumb moves lightly against the back of your neck, a small, absent motion meant more to keep you present than anything else.

Bucky notices it. Something at the corner of his mouth almost lifts before he reins it in.

Natasha sees that too and files it away with everything else.

Tony catches the movement last. His gaze lingers for a second—on you, then Steve—before he turns back to his screens without a word.

Part Seventeen

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You swallowed hard, your throat practically constricted with anxiety. Yesterday's simulation exercises had included direct oversight. Bruce's theoretical frameworks, Tony's technological intuition, Sam and Clint's comedic relief, Steve's strategic guidance. Now, with miles of empty air between you, the mission felt impossible.

"Okay, give me a sec... Pulling up sat visuals now..."

The displays activated in synchronised cascade, each screen populating with layered intelligence feeds. Behavioural analytics, biometric profiles, and predictive modelling algorithms refined through decades of S.H.I.E.L.D. operational data.

"Looks like... four hostiles patrolling the upper deck," you reported. "Two on starboard side, near the bow, and two near the stern. They're armed, semi-automatic rifles. Movement is staggered, but their routes overlap every thirty seconds. You'll need to time your approach."

The tactical overlay system rendered patrol routes in crimson vectors, creating patterns eerily similar to the mutated cardiovascular systems documented in Leekie's controversial research. The parallel seemed fitting, given that the vessel belonged to MutaTech.

"Sounds straightforward enough. Anything else I should know?" Steve asked; still calm, still confident. As if he was already way ahead, processing multiple contingencies and analysing potential outcomes with the efficiency born from decades of field experience. This was one guy who very clearly did not need Stark's cleverly-designed software.

"Yeah. There's a security camera mounted above the bridge. Rotates every ten seconds. You'll need to avoid that, or you're gonna have company fast."

"She knows you've done this before, right? This is her first mission, not yours?"

Natasha's transmission carried the same edge you'd grown accustomed to over the past few months. That subtle inflection. It was the same tone she'd used during your conversation in the library.

"Play nice," Steve chided, but you could hear the smile in his voice, a deeper understanding of the team's new precarious dynamics. "How else is she gonna learn?"

Just then, OmniSight's predictive algorithm highlighted Steve's intended exit trajectory, confirming what mission profiles had documented repeatedly:

Predictive Alert: High Probability Action Detected

Subject: Captain Steve Rogers

Action: Unassisted Leap from Bay Door (No Parachute)

Probability: 94%

Projected Outcome: Safe landing with minor impact force.

Recommendation: Monitor trajectory and provide situational support.

Along with the visual display came the audio alert in your earpiece.

"Predictive Analysis. Captain Rogers is likely to exit the aircraft without a parachute. Estimated probability, ninety-four percent. Recommend trajectory monitoring and environmental updates."

As if on cue, you watched him advance toward the back of the Quinjet. Your breathing stuttered. Not in a swooning way some might expect, but out of admiration. Well, that's what you told yourself, at least.

And then he was gone, executing the free-fall exactly as OmniSight's behavioural modelling had predicted, his trajectory a perfect arc through the night air. Captain America, turning gravity into a suggestion rather than a law.

Your heart lurched into your throat as the monitors tracked his descent. This was not something you'd ever get used to. That much was evident. You held your breath until the moment Steve broke the surface. Only then did you allow yourself to exhale, sinking back into your chair.

"You don't have to track him every second, you know," Natasha's voice filtered through your earpiece. Zero attempt at hiding or even suppressing her irritation. "Steve's been doing this since before you were born." The statement served as both tactical observation and carefully engineered reminder of hierarchical experience. You knew it as well as she did.

You had taken yourself out of the house for a change of environment, that environment being a coffee shop in town, where you had ordered your favourite drink and settled at a table before pulling out your laptop and continuing with your story.

You immersed yourself in your fantasy world, plot flying through your fingers at speed while your drink got progressively more and more cold. You didn't care, you'd still drink it but you just had to get those sentences down before they flew out of your head.

It was your passion, writing fanfiction about your favourite hero, building an online following on your blog from like minded people who enjoyed the fantasy of placing themselves in your stories.

You were so focused on what you were doing that when a shadow fell over your form and a voice spoke, you didn't even lift your gaze from your screen, fingers still flying across the keyboard rapidly.

"Hey do you mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full." Came a low sultry voice.

"Sure." You muttered quickly as you typed.

"Thanks." The voice replied and you just about registered the scrape of the chair opposite and a figure dropping down into the seat.

"No problem." You mumbled once more, gaze still firmly on the screen.

"What are you working on?" The voice asked.

You bit your lip, fingers stilling on the keypad as you skimmed over your previous sentence, now making no sense to you after the stranger's question scattered your thoughts.

"Oh it's nothing.." You breathed as you tried to remember what you were writing, "A story....fantasy stuff."

"Sounds interesting." The voice said.

"Mmhmm." You hummed in annoyance, wishing he would just shut up so you could concentrate.

"Who's it about?" He asked and you released a sigh before finally lifting your gaze from your screen and allowing it to fall over the stranger.

"Oh shit..." You spat erratically, as your heart rate increased and your eyes fell onto the very object of your fantasies, Steve Rogers, superhero, Avenger, known all over the world and you were sat here writing fanfiction about him.

Your face turned a deep maroon and you began stuttering as he let out a soft laugh.

You quickly closed the laptop lid and tugged at your sleeves.

"You didn't..see that did you..." You whispered in embarrassment.

"No but I saw my picture." He smirked and you swore you got even redder, if that was even possible.

"No. God no." You mumbled to yourself, "Jesus I'm so sorry."

"Don't be, I'm flattered." He smiled reassuringly and you swore you went to heaven right there, because Steve Rogers was sat opposite you, smiling at you.

"God.." You breathed, placing your palms on your cheeks in an attempt to cool them down.

"Can I read some?" Steve asked and your eyes widened in fear.

"Absolutely not." You said all too quickly.

"Come on, it's only fair since I'm the muse." Steve smirked and you felt a knot building in your stomach.

"No seriously it's... I write... it's niche.." You mumbled out, because that was the only word you could thing of to describe what you wrote. How could you begin to describe the type of stories you indulged in, the dark versions of Steve that plagued your dreams and the utter filth that you put on the page. From kidnapping, to forced pregnancies, to criminally insane.

What you wrote was the most depraved and dark of fantasies and although you weren't alone or embarrassed by what turned you on, you certainly didn't want the man himself reading what came from your warped mind.

"Niche?" Steve asked with a raised brow, interrupting your inner turmoil.

"Yeah." You breathed, biting down on your lip as you sunk back in your chair.

"You're really gonna say no to Captain America." Steve smirked once more.

Your mouth opened and closed in response as you failed to find the words to express your disapproval and all too suddenly your laptop was swiped from in front of you.

You watched silently with sickness rising up your throat as he opened the laptop and his eyes began to flick back and forth across the screen.

He shuffled in his seat and suddenly rose, face flushed and eyes looking anywhere but at you.

"I need to get going," He mumbled quickly, pointing at the door, "Sorry, I have uhh....yeah..."

He made a quick getaway, door clinking shut behind him and his coffee left forgotten on the table.

"Fuck." You hissed at yourself. You were mortified, you'd just scared off Captain America.

It had been a few weeks since your encounter with the man of your dreams and you were still reeling with embarrassment.

You'd been so caught off guard by the interaction that even your followers had noticed your sudden silence and despite sending well wishes and queries, what could you say?

'Oh yeah guys I actually met the guy we all drool over, but managed to repulse him with my fucked up brain.' Yeah that wasn't happening.

Instead you'd been focusing on getting through each day, trying desperately not to picture the look on his face as he scrambled to escape your presence.

You were walking home one evening, taking your usual route down a quiet path when a hand suddenly clasped around your mouth and a hard body braced against your back.

You let out a muffled scream as you twisted against the body trying to break free.

"Ssshhh shhh it's me, it's Steve Rogers." Steve said sternly in your ear and you stilled.

You whimpered into his palm, suddenly processing the fact that he was holding you so tightly, yet there was no danger around, so what was he doing?

"Let's not pretend you didn't ask for this." Steve sneered and you suddenly felt a sharp pinch in your shoulder and your eyes rolled before it all went black.

Your eyes stung as they flickered open slowly and you became suddenly aware of the ache in your wrists. You tried to bring them towards you only to be halted by something digging into your skin.

Tilting your head back, you suddenly gasped, realising your hands were cuffed to a bed frame above your bed. You swallowed a whimper as you cast your gaze around the room, gulping harshly when it fell on Steve's figure.

He was sat on a chair at the side of the bed, elbows on his knees watching over you with intrigue, as your brain began to process the situation.

"You're finally awake." He smiled.

"Steve...what...." You whispered in confusion.

"I'll make this simple for you okay?" Steve said, interrupting your mumbles.

You nodded quickly as a few tears escaped onto your cheeks.

"I'm getting old, I need a wife, I want kids and modern dating is one minefield I don't want to step into." He informed you, "I knew you were perfect the moment I saw you."

Your eyes widened and a shudder rolled through your body.

"You can't..please let me go..." You began pleading.

"Hey!" He yelled and your mouth snapped shut, "Look, you of all people know how this goes, so let's skip over the part of the plot where you beg me to leave, where you form a plan to run only to wind up back here again and let's move onto the part where we start our lives."

"You can't do this." You whispered.

"I can and I did." He continued sternly, "Now you're smart enough to know that I'm stronger than you, I have contingencies in place, so let's not be so melodramatic about this."

You allowed a sob to escape as more tears freely fell over your cheeks, bottom lip trembling in fear.

"You're real pretty when you cry sweetie," He smirked, "But it's for the wrong reason. I don't wanna hurt you, but I'll do what I have to to make you comply, understood?"

"Yes." You muttered under your breath.

"Good. We're getting somewhere." He grinned, standing up from his chair and placing his hands on his hips.

You couldn't believe this was happening, you had to be dreaming right? This was just your mind playing tricks on you. You'd read and written too many dark stories and now your brain was focusing on that.

The sharp pain shooting through your wrists was enough to quickly bring you out of that thought and back into the reality laying before you.

"My...my job?" You murmured questioningly, surely your boss would notice you missing.

"You sent an email resigning this morning." Steve informed you.

"Oh god..what about..." You began to cry.

"About what?" Steve coaxed.

"My blog.." You trembled, sure it was silly to worry about considering what was happening, but it was what your brain went too in the moment. The one thing that you had outside of your mundane life.

"Your blog. I'm sorry sweetheart but it had to go." Steve said through gritted teeth.

"What?" You gasped.

"When we announce our engagement, I can't have my fans doing a deep dive on my fiance and finding out she ran a blog of stories about me." He said in an authoritative tone, "Especially the depraved, twisted shit you were writing honey."

"I put years of work into that." You cried more to yourself than anything else. Years of work not only gone, but spent writing about a man who had no problem taking you against your will. A man that you had put on a pedestal and worshipped.

"And those years led you straight to me, where you belong." He scolded, "So I think it all worked out don't you?"

You began to sob, breath catching in your throat.

"Now, I'm gonna be nice and give you an hour to yourself to come to terms with everything," He began, "And then when I come to get you, I expect you to be ready to move on, got it?"

"You're insane." You whispered.

"Hey!" He yelled angrily and his hand came down, slapping you across the cheek with a loud thud, "Let that be your first warning, you don't speak to me that way. I've given you what you want, I've given you what you've been fantasizing about, you wanted this, you wanted to be taken."

"No." You cried as your cheek stung.

"You did and that's not all I saw, you want me to touch you, to rape you. "He sneered, "You want me to claim every part of you, until you have no choice but to remember who you belong too. Those were your words sweetheart, not mine."

"No..." You breathed once more through the tears.

"Don't worry honey, we'll get to all that fun stuff." He smirked, "For now, rest, breathe or whatever so that we can get started. I'll be back in an hour."

With that he stomped out of the room, slamming the bedroom door behind him and leaving you to try and figure out what the hell was happening.

As your time alone passed, you were finally able to steady your breathing and your tears slowly seised.

You tried to think logically, how would fictional you handle this? You'd written this trope so many times that you'd already been through every possibility.

You knew he was too strong to over power, he was a super soldier and you could barely lift a bucket of water without your muscles trembling.

He had connections that you couldn't even begin to dream of, so you knew if you ran or tried to tell someone it would be useless.

Could you play along? Do as he expected until you worked out how to get out of here?

You knew he'd see through your attempt to over play it, to make him think you loved him. No you'd play this differently, he was wrong about you, you could figure a way out of this eventually, whether it took a day or a a year. You were no one's to take. You belonged to no one.

Steve came back through the door a while later and you narrowed your eyes at him as he stayed in the doorway, palm spread on the open door.

"Are you ready to comply?" He asked.

"Yes." You sighed, relaxing your eyes and averting your gaze.

"Good girl, I'm glad." Steve said with a smile as he walked around the bed and unlocked your cuffs.

As soon as your wrists were free you sat up and gently rubbed at the sore skin with a hiss.

"Now, how about I give you a tour of our home?" Steve smirked with his hands on his hips.

You knew there was no point arguing, not now.

"Sure." You mumbled with a flat lipped smile.

You gently shifted your legs off of the bed and stood, taking a few steps towards the bedroom door before you suddenly stilled.

"Uh uh uh." Steve tutted.

"What?" You gasped in shock as you turned to face him.

"Give me a kiss first." Steve smiled playfully and your eyes widened.

"I... I.." You began to stutter.

"I thought you said you were ready." Steve interrupted.

"I am... I just..." You took a deep breath before continuing, "Steve, you have to understand, you've literally given me an hour to come to terms with this."

"I know that but I know you." He replied, "I know you've already plotted out one hundred different scenarios for this very situation, thought through every possible outcome and you know exactly how this ends, so it shouldn't be that hard for you to wrap your head around should it?"

"I.." You breathed shakily.

"Should it?" Steve said more firmly with a scowl.

"No.. Steve.." You relented.

"So, about that kiss." Steve smirked.

You took another deep breath before crossing the space between you, scolding yourself for marvelling at his height close up.

Your hands hung limply at your sides as you perched on your tip toes and placed a quick peck to his lips.

Before you could retreat, Steve grabbed your face in both palms, pressing his lips more firmly to yours and coaxing them open with his tongue. You were unable to stop yourself from responding as the kiss turned fiery and hot, sending a shockwave down to your core.

"Mmm perfect." Steve murmured against your lips before he finally released you.

Steve guided you around the house with a firm hand on your spine, excitedly telling you about each room and his plans for some of the spaces now you were living there.

When he got to the room he was insistent on turning into a nursery, you had to bite down on your lip to stop from yelling at him and calling him a psycho. Instead choosing to nod your head and offer fake smiles in response.

The tour ended in the kitchen, where Steve informed you that despite living in the 21st century, he still expected his wife to do most of the cooking, although he didn't mind taking over from time to time.

"You look good in here." Steve gushed as you trailed your hand along the counter, trying not to roll your eyes in disgust.

"So what do you think honey?" He asked and you stilled, offering him a small smile.

"Yeah...it's nice." You responded quietly.

"Just nice?" He scoffed, "Our whole future is gonna be in this house sweetheart, we're gonna get married, have a whole bunch of kids."

"Mmhmm." You mumbled back as your eyes scanned over the space.

"Now I know about your implant." He said suddenly and you looked back at him in shock. He placed his hands up to placate you before continuing, "But don't worry. We'll have the doctor come take it out before the wedding."

"What?" You hissed.

"What? Did you think I was gonna wait to start having kids?" He chuffed, "Sweetheart, you're lucky I haven't cut it out myself."

"No Steve...Please... I just...I'm not ready." You breathed.

"Well you'll have at least 9 months to prepare, so get used to the idea." He responded harshly, before his gaze suddenly darkened and his eyes roamed over your figure.

"You hungry?" He asked as he closed the gap between you and you instinctively placed your arms over your stomach.

"Not really." You replied with a shake of your head.

"Well I am." He smirked, "Ravenous in fact."

You gulped nervously as his body heat engulfed you with his proximity to your own trembling form. He gently took your hand and tugged it away from your body, dragging it down to his crotch where he shoved your palm against his hardened cock.

"You feel that? That's all you sweetheart." Steve flirted.

You stayed silent, unable to stop your eyes from glazing over as you felt his cock twitch through his pants.

"Does it feel as good as you imagined?" He purred, "I was gonna make our first time special but I don't think I can wait. Seeing you walking around our home, it's doing things to me."

He released your hand and quickly took your hips in his palms, lifting you onto the counter and pushing your skirt up over your thighs before you could stop him.

"Steve..please..." You whimpered in protest, watching as his eyes narrowed and his jaw ticked angrily.

"I swear to god, if the next words out of your mouth are asking me to stop I'm gonna lose it." He spat.

A tear slipped onto your cheek while you stared back at the dangerous man, knowing there would be no stopping him even if you continued with your pleas.

"Well?" Steve grunted harshly.

You swallowed and shook your head in submission.

"That's what I thought." Steve said, his scowl being replaced by a smirk as he slid his palms along your legs.

He quickly hooked his finger tips through your underwear and tore the fabric away while you gasped.

You watched as he pulled the fabric to his nose, eyes rolling back in his head as he inhaled your scent on the scrap of material with a groan.

The fabric was soon tossed to the side and Steve hastily shoved his pants and boxers down to his thighs, releasing his monstrous cock and stoking over the veiny flesh.

"I read some of your stories while I was preparing for you to come home." Steve admitted in a sultry tone, "Read all the depraved things you wanted me to do to your body, to your sweet little cunt."

"They were just stories Steve." You whispered as your thighs shook.

"No honey, they were fantasies and I'm about to make them come true." He smirked back.

He took your knees in his hand, pushing them open to reveal your core to him with a pleased smile. He dragged your ass to the edge of the counter and guided his tip to your hole before pushing it in without any warm up.

You let out a scream at the intrusion that quickly turned into a moan, as your walls stretched to accommodate him and wetness began dripping around his length.

"There we go, fuck. You needed this huh?" Steve grunted as you allowed your body to relax back onto the counter. You knew there was no fighting this, so you may as well let yourself enjoy it, your escape could come later.

"Look at your blissed out face." Steve chuckled as he forced himself to the hilt, "Just needed my cock in you to help you adjust huh?"

You gasped as he pulled all the way out before taking your hips in his palms and slamming back in.

"Needed me to show you just how good I can destroy your cunt."

He began pounding into your pussy, his groin hit yours with every thrust, as his balls slapped against your ass and you knew it wouldn't be long before you were screaming in pleasure.

"Fuck that's it honey, feels so fucking good." Steve grunted in pleasure.

You could feel every ridge of his thick cock as it began to slip in and out of you with ease, the sounds of wet slapping beginning to fill the room.

"I'm gonna give you everything you've always wanted." He groaned, "Every dirty thought. Every. Fucking. One."

You felt a hand release one of your hips before it was suddenly around your throat and your eyes widened, snapping to his in shock as his fist tightened and your cunt throbbed around him.

"Yeah I knew you'd like that." He grunted, "You favoured my hand around your throat a lot in your little writings."

Your moans became pornographic as the blood flow to your brain slowed and he kept hitting the spot inside you that had you cascading towards the edge.

"Gonna make you cum just like this." He groaned as he neared his own end, "With your life in my fuckin' hands."

You felt like you were going to black out with pleasure, unable to form a single coherent thought as he continued pounding into you mercilessly.

"Fuck sweetie, cum." He ordered, "Right fuckin' now"

You screamed loudly, back arching off the counter as your coil snapped and your pussy clamped onto Steve's cock, feeling him shoot his cum inside of you.

"Fuck, there we go, shit." He panted, releasing your throat as he sloppily thrust his cock into you, working you both through your orgasms.

You sagged against the work top panting, as Steve pulled out of you with a hiss.

"Look so good filled with my cum." He panted, using his finger to gather up the liquid pooling down your crack before pushing it back into your abused pussy.

"More where that came from." He chuffed, "This is just the start of our life together sweetheart. So rest while you can, you're gonna need it."

Everything - @late-to-the-party-81

@the-wandering-wonder @rnurse-kole @chemtrails-club

This happens every two months or so. You love the man, but he needs to stop trolling at this point. After this rewatch, you’ll probably regurgitate Val Kilmer’s lines while you brush your teeth in the morning.

Wanda rolls her eyes so hard you think they might get stuck like that forever.

“This is the last time, Sam!”

But Sam smiles through the crowd’s boos. Even while the team complains, they take their positions on and around the couch anyway. Yourself included.

Because everyone loves him, and it’s just your fucking luck he loves Top Gun.

Two: find a comfortable surface.

The common room couch? Real nice surface. Of course a government-funded cohabitation facility for their top operatives can afford Egyptian cotton-upholstered furniture.

Three: be extremely tired.

The most recent mission you completed just finished debriefing in the afternoon—a few hours before movie night. It was a track-and-extract of a trafficking ring, except you got assigned the track part, and that was a lot less fun. The stakeouts were long, and the car you sat in had aged leather seats that dampened the already stale air. No air conditioning—can’t risk turning on the engine. No activity around the building you watched, either.

Stretch that out for some days, and naturally, all you wanted upon touchdown was a hot shower and a bed with springs.

Top Gun, a soft couch, and fatigue. Those three variables are enough to force you asleep, but just to be as empirical as possible, you have to list down another.

Four:

Get Steve Rogers to sit next to you.

Technically you didn’t get him to. He sauntered in late, saw the only open spot, and helped himself.

Suspicious, come to think of it. Why did nobody sit next to you? Nat and you would whisper quipped commentaries at each other. Wanda and you are close enough friends to cuddle. Sam would take the opportunity to further grind your gears by manspreading—his hobby is grinding people’s gears.

“Comfy?”

Steve is dressed in gray sweats and a simple t-shirt, its deep blue bringing out his eyes.

He’s the one who looks comfortable, if anything. You’re tempted to thumb at his shirt sleeve and ask about the thread count, but like a normal human being, you nod your yes and watch the opening credits roll.

You can feel his blue eyes on the side of your cheek before he looks at the screen, too.

The moment the movie begins proper, you find yourself muttering the opening line.

“Ghost Rider, this is Strike. We have unknown contact. Inbound Mustang. Your vector zero nine zero for bogey.”

Steve chuckles next to you and the warm sound coaxes your eyes to meet.

What happens next is automatic: seeing him smile makes you do the same.

The movie continues on, but its familiarity begs your attentions to wander. They instead pay dues to the gravity of his forearm, which nearly brushes yours. In the dim, you catch a glimpse of a vein that runs down one side like a river, and file the image away as inappropriate.

That’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Your boss, good friend, and the entire nation’s moral compass, who keeps a list of the best places to get apple pie. You will direct your gaze with the respect he deserves.

And you do. Except in schooling your vision, your other senses betray you.

He smells good.

That thought feels way more inappropriate than looking at his forearm—which, for the record, you have seen and touched, all in a professional capacity. So you chose to stare at his hand again and hold your brain back from cataloging the scent of his soap, shampoo, or whatever combination of product that has your heart kicking like it wants out of your chest.

Steve Rogers doesn’t cure insomnia. He worsens it—or so you think.

Sleepy is the last thing you are, until the minutes tick by and sleep claims you anyway. You remember yawning while watching the nightclub scene. Iceman wore a pair of aviators indoors.

By the time the flying part of Top Gun rolls around, you don’t get to watch it: you’re knocked out cold.

─ ·✶· ─

When you wake up, cold is the last thing you are. Partly because the common room is designed to bleed with sunlight.

It’s morning, just the top of—yellow rays cut through the windows, no cloud in the sky to block its path.

Your skin feels warm.

It’s really no surprise. Steve Rogers is lying next to you.

How he is lying next to you is a surprise. The man’s broad frame looks cramped on the inside part of the couch, but nothing on his face betrays discomfort. He’s sound asleep, one arm folded under his head, the other slung loosely on your waist—not quite encircling it, just resting. His chest rises and falls slow. You realize this because you have both hands on that exact part of him.

Oh, shit. You’re touching his chest.

It turns out you shifted your palms a little too quickly, because Steve begins to stir. His tendency for alertness quickly revealed blue eyes that blinked once, twice, thrice—before his gaze eventually focuses on you. He doesn’t yawn, perhaps as confused as you are.

“Morning,” you whisper, almost sheepish.

He hums back. “Morning.”

“Uh… What happened?”

It’s quiet for a bit. You’re not sure if his brain has caught up. He’s staring—not the kind of stare you see on the field. Softer. Blue eyes study your face, then the position you’re in, piecing together the scene.

“You fell asleep last night,” he finally says, running his fingers through his hair. They fall across his forehead like the most good-looking bad news you’ve ever laid your eyes on. “Guess I must’ve fallen asleep, too.”

The untangling happens slowly. He lifts his arm away from your waist, props himself up on one elbow. You take the chance to sit and stretch, pretending that a tight neck is your number one concern and not the growing warmth on your cheeks.

“Can’t believe none of them woke us up,” you murmur. “Sam should be banned from picking Top Gun ever again.”

He chuckles. The sound still hits you like it did last night, amplified now by the lack of distance between you. But Steve finally stands up, folds his arms behind his head, then extends them. He repeats the motion a few times. You feel bad—his circulation must be damn near cut off after sleeping weird the entire night on a couch far too small for two.

“Well… at least we’re well-rested.”

You blink, taken aback.

“You slept well?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he nods, “you?”

Now that the question ricocheted back, you realize you don’t feel shitty where you should. Your limbs aren’t particularly sore. Your head feels clear after the initial fog.

Well-rested. Is this what it feels like?

“I think so,” you reply. There’s a smile on his face when you look back at him: small and slightly lopsided. He looks handsome.

Then he extends a hand, as if he knew that smile would make your knees buckle.

“C’mon, I’ll make you coffee.”

The second time happens two weeks later.

The Quinjet’s hum was almost an alien silence after the fight.

It was tough. Only three operatives were deployed: you, Nat, and Steve—top operatives, yes, but still only three. You went up against a swarm of mercenaries, their guns blazing, while the team’s equipment was mostly stealth gear not even half the enemy’s firepower.

You managed by the skin of the edge of your teeth. The word barely doesn’t quite cover it.

After putting the jet on autopilot and complaining about rancid intel with adrenaline-flooded veins, the three of you fall quiet.

Fatigue creeps in.

Last part of the mission: get through a five-hour flight back to New York.

Natasha sits in front of you, rebuilding her usual mask of nonchalance—you can see it in her sigh as she buckles up. The earlier combat chipped at her cool, and reasonably so: being in this line of work for most of her life doesn’t change the fact that it only takes one bullet to end it.

And boy, were there quite the number of bullets.

Steve chose the spot next to you, despite all the empty space in the cabin. You thought maybe he wanted to huddle, talk about the mission, see how you held up. You were the only non-Avenger in this assignment—it was reasonable to assume you wouldn’t be as used to this as they are.

But it’s been a good ten minutes and he hasn’t said a word.

A moment of uncertainty grips you. Post-mission, he’s usually corralling the team, checking morale, doing a small debrief of his own. Granted, there’s only you and Nat, so maybe there’s no need for that, but…

…is he alright?

Just as you look over to your side, concerned, you feel warmth, weight, and a brush of something soft.

You can no longer move.

Because Steve is asleep, and his head was on your shoulder.

His seat isn’t exactly glued next to yours, but close enough for him to bridge the gap. You watch the blonde strands of his hair press against the black of your tac suit and think about all the times you felt his weight on you—the most recent being his back glued to your chest while he shielded you from a bullet hail, just before you managed a rocky takeoff.

Aside from that? Fingers around your wrist during training. “Nice try,” he said once, as if your uppercut wasn’t the most predictable move ever. A friendly hand patting your shoulder after.

But never like this.

It takes a lot of effort for you to stare at something else that isn’t him.

Your gaze unfortunately lands on Nat, less than five feet in front of you.

She’s already smirking.

You look down on your lap, slightly embarrassed and left with nothing you can do. A little less than five hours to go on this flight.

Might as well get some shut-eye.

─ ·✶· ─

“Hey.”

You blink awake, nearly jumping upright. Natasha chuckles, patting her hand on your shoulder.

“Easy, there,” she nods towards the cockpit. You see a familiar sight.

“We arrived. Get some real rest after the debrief.”

You rub the sleep away from your eyes. “Thanks.”

You glance at Steve. He’s already in the middle of getting out of his seat.

You wonder if his head on your shoulder was part of a dream.

At least the third time happens somewhere with a bed, which of course you argue over.

Steve starts it.

“I’ll take the couch.”

You thumb the hem of your tank top. “You know, I was going to say that.”

“That’s kind of you,” he smiles, “but please.”

He gestures to the bed the both of you are ever-so-politely “no, you”-ing over: it’s rickety and is clothed in the thinnest sheets ever, sure, but there’s only one of it, so naturally this battle of politeness has to be fought.

You raise a brow challengingly. “If you take the couch, I’ll take the floor.”

Steve’s expression hardens like he took that personally. “No way am I gonna let you.”

“Then take the bed.”

“Where will you sleep?”

“The couch.”

“But it’ll be uncomfortable.”

“Aha,” your lips curl into a smile, “so you admit that the couch is uncomfortable.”

He looks away. You can tell he’s holding back his face from breaking out into a disbelieving grin.

Eventually, like an overly-used television trope, the inevitable consensus is that you are going to share instead.

Funny how—even during the back-and-forth—it felt like it was always going to come to this. Like you’d surrendered sharing the bed as an eventuality rather than a possibility.

Funny how you could feel him thinking the same.

Which leads you to this point in time:

Two hours past midnight, T-minus five hours before your mission starts. Nothing high stakes—it’s just the two of you—but still, at this rate, you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow.

The night coats the safehouse in darkness, bedroom included: the curtains are drawn and the night light is off to hide you better.

Even in the dim, you can glimpse the outline of him. He’s in a t-shirt and sweats again.

His weight on the bed next to you is unmistakable. You try to recall the last time you didn’t sleep alone—except for the times you fell asleep with him.

You can’t remember.

He breaks the silence thirty minutes after you said your good nights.

You’re counting.

“Can’t sleep?”

You shift from your side to your back.

“You caught me. You?”

He’s seated instead of lying down, spine pressed against the brittle headboard.

“Same.”

You pause. Look at him from your spot on the pillow. His profile is sharp where the dark should dull it, or maybe you’ve just memorized it so well. Still, there’s something unreadable about him.

“Does it happen often?” you ask.

He looks down at you, blue eyes soft. “Sometimes. Often enough.”

You let the answer sink in—Steve Rogers, super soldier, can’t sleep—and shoot him a wry smile.

“Maybe you ought to lie down, if you want to try and sleep?”

He let out a quiet, humorous huff. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Then he makes himself comfortable next to you, head finally touching the pillow. You feel the cotton of his shirt brush against your bare shoulder. His weight is more prominent now, and there’s a faint smell that reminds you of a forest after the rain. The blonde of his hair brings you back to the Quinjet—weeks ago at this point, but your eyes remember.

He’s so close. If your fingers even so much as twitch, they’ll probably kiss his.

“Why can’t you sleep?” he asks, voice low.

You stare at him. The last time you saw him sideways like this was after movie night.

Why can’t you sleep? It’s been such a big part of your life, you forget why.

“It’s just difficult for me,” you start, “but these days… I’m not sure.”

He lets you find the thread, shifting so he’s facing you. You begin to face him, too—like your shoulder blades and his are long lost twins.

You finally tell him.

“I get a feeling that something is going to happen, and I need to be ready for it.”

Something in his eyes shines just then: a mosaic mix of regret and recognition.

Thirty-three minutes since ‘good night’, and in this nocturnal darkness, you see a kind of light.

On the surface, Steve couldn’t be more unlike you. Yet you find that the two of you are more similar than you initially thought.

You’re both soldiers who are good at your job, partly because of this: the alertness in your souls that demands one eye ever-watchful. The spirit of a sentinel that doesn’t know what peace is because it’s never learned.

They say there’s no rest for the wicked. Here he is, the truest heart of them all, not even sleepy.

In his wordless glance is an understanding. You have no need to explain.

But then his eyes start to wander and you wish he would say more, because the trace of his gaze feels too intimate for teammates.

Yet it tastes familiar.

Has he looked at you like this before? Ocean blues drag a path down your face, brushing past your lips in a swoop so secret you’d miss it if you blinked. His gaze veers off the side, but not away from you. Is he studying your cheek? The shell of your ear?

What on earth does he see in you?

You speak because the space between your ribcage hurts.

“We’re gonna be so fucked tomorrow morning.”

His laugh is quiet, more apparent in his face instead of the volume of his voice. There it is, the distraction you needed—except the sensation in your chest tugs stronger. Just once, but enough for you to notice.

Of course you’d fallen for him. There’s no way you wouldn’t.

But you’re a soldier, and so is he, and there’s work to do tomorrow.

To your mild surprise—and his, in the small shine in his eyes—you yawn.

It’s strange. It should keep you up, this proximity with him. Though your relationship with Steve is comfortable, the context around this situation should make you feel more uptight rather than relax.

You think about the man in the meeting room and the man you spar with. He advocates for calm decision-making, but eggs you on with a cheeky “that all you got, agent?” on the training mat. Both versions of him are here with you. In bed. A decision he made calmly.

How is it possible to be nervous and unwind at the same time?

A few seconds pass, and you yawn again.

“That’s your cue,” he smiles wryly. It shoots an arrow through you.

“Yeah. Try to get some sleep,” you smile back, turning to face away from him before he sees the crack in it. “Good night, Steve.”

“Good night.” He says your name, and that’s the last thing you hear.

Your lullaby.

You don’t know he falls asleep right after.

─ ·✶· ─

Steve wakes up first—he has a tendency of doing that. It means he’s the first witness to a softness that wrecks him.

Somewhere in the night, your bodies turned to face each other.

It reminds him of sunflowers.

Unlike that time after movie night, there’s more space between you. A part of him mourns the distance, though sharing a bed already signals a lack of.

Another part of him is happy he gets to see your face.

You look peaceful like this. Not that you look troubled when you’re awake. Just… something about your eyes closed, the space between your brows completely relaxed, your lips ever-so-slightly parted—it’s not a sight he gets to see often, especially not in this sort of terrain.

You might be in a safehouse, and the bed springs might be rusted by age, but the thin line between consciousness and sleep encourages the mind to wander—and for a man of discipline, wandering is dangerous. It tempts him with thoughts that taste more like dreams.

What if you weren’t in a safehouse? What if this was your bed—yours and his—and sharing it wasn’t birthed out of politeness?

What if this is just something he gets to see every morning?

You stir gently. A stray strand of hair falls on your face. He lifts his hand up to tuck it back.

Stubbornly, it slips back to where it landed before. He smiles.

This dream will soon end, he realizes. In a matter of minutes, he feels the sun rising behind his back, a treacherous thing that beckons another fight for someone else’s future.

When you open your eyes, you’ll go back to being soldiers. You’ll call him Cap on the field.

Last night’s memory surfaces. He holds on to the shape of his name in your voice.

The bright morning erases long shadows. For once, he wishes it didn’t.

He allows himself one final thing.

Fingers cradle your cheek, thumb brushing the soft of it. In your sleep, you lean into his touch. His breath snags, and so does his heartbeat.

Then, after the pang’s echoes die down, Steve rests a hand on your shoulder to wake you.

The fourth time happens because you ask for it.

He’s been up reading by the lamplight, only one chapter in when he started, now halfway through—a sign that the hour is later than he thinks it is. The book isn’t a particularly riveting one, either: time passed in a crawling pace with each page. Where he thought his ambivalence towards the subject matter would put him to sleep, here he is.

Wide awake on page 257.

Awake to hear the knock on his door. Three times. Soft, almost imperceptible.

Steve stares like he knows who it is already. The book is placed on the nightstand.

He opens the door to see you.

The sight tears him two ways.

You’re in short shorts and an oversized tee that has seen better days. He would see the print on the front if you weren’t hugging a folded-up blanket against your chest. There’s a sting on his sternum—from how you trust him enough to appear at his doorstep halfway through dawn, and from the look on your face.

It’s the look of someone who’s trying their best to sleep, but can’t.

“I didn’t think you’d be up, I’m so sorry,” you breathe, surprised.

He’s aware of the concern bleeding through his every gesture. You haven’t told him what you needed and he’s already holding the door wide open.

“Hey, no, don’t be. What’s wrong?”

You part your lips, deliberating.

“I can’t sleep.”

It’s as simple as that, but he knows exactly how difficult the battle is.

He nods, feeling his jaw clench. He hides his hands in his pockets—if they had their way, you’d be in his arms by now, but that’d be selfish of him.

Because clearly there’s something you want to tell him. Something more. He watches as you seem to debate for and against yourself: the toll of sleeplessness on you renders your expressions crystalline.

He waits patiently in the doorway. A quiet encouragement that yearns to surround you in louder ways.

You finally find the words.

“The last time I had a good night’s sleep was at that safehouse.”

He remembers. It was the night he wished you weren’t just agents on a mission. It was the night he got to stare at your back, wishing for a world where pulling you against his chest won’t make things complicated.

He swallows. “Me, too.”

In time’s desert, it’s these little memories he shares with you that dot the landscape like oases. You discovered these sacred places together, where you may fix what the journey broke.

But they’re still few and far between. The rest of life is a white noise: all those mission briefs and debriefs used to mean something, now they just chip away at the memory of what sanctuary feels like.

And yet he recalls the details perfectly. Enough to conjure a balm that is his own imagination. He pretends you’re next to him, weight sinking on the bed, hair splayed on his pillow. He pretends some nights. Most nights.

Every night.

“Can I please sleep with you?”

You ask before he can offer, then cut in before he responds.

“Not like that,” you stammer, distraught, “I mean—”

“No, I know what you mean, it’s okay.”

You laugh weakly, gesturing at your blanket. “I don’t want to seem presumptuous, it’s just that my room is—”

“Four floors down, yeah,” he knows the way there because he’s considered it more than a few times.

Steve’s hand lands gently on your shoulder, guiding you inside.

“Don’t worry about it. Come on.”

You cross that hallowed threshold into his room. Steve clicks the door closed before leading you towards the bed. It’s much too dark—and too late—for a room tour, anyway.

He unfurls his comforter, and in doing so notices the way you watch him. In another time and place, he’d be more amused at the way you looked: like you were standing at attention.

You don’t climb into the bed until he does.

“So you brought your own blankie?” There was a hint of a tease in his question, though not at all unkind.

You pout, sitting on the bed. Said blanket is still in your arms.

“It’s not a blankie.”

“Then why’d you bring it?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, “didn’t want to steal yours from you.”

He smiles, lifting his comforter as if telling you to make yourself at home in it.

“I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“Of course. We’ve slept in worse conditions, haven’t we?”

That pulls a smile out of you, and it scares him how pleased he is with himself.

But you settling underneath his blanket and onto the bed pleases him more. He watches on a propped elbow as you adjust your head on his pillow, and he’s grateful that you’re here—in more ways than one.

That you’re here is something he’s always thankful for. That you’re here in his room instead of the other way around is a special occasion to be grateful. Being in your bedroom—in your bed—would mean enveloping himself in you, and there was no way he’d survive that.

The thought alone already makes him want. He’s not accustomed to it.

Soon, the two of you are lying face to face. He catalogs the way you fit into his space: perfectly.

“You okay?” he asks.

You answer with a nod and a quiet “yeah, better now.”

There’s a moment where all you do is look at each other. It suspends the very thing you came looking for, eyes open, expectant.

“Steve?”

“Mm?”

Then you do that thing again when you hesitate with your words, before finally stringing them together.

Like earlier, it’s a request. As if he’d ever refuse you anything.

“Can I hold you?”

He breathes through a sudden wave of emotion, like a dislodged splinter in a dam.

You’re asking him for permission, but in doing so, he feels like he’s been given it—you want the very thing he’s longed to give you since that night on the couch.

So he doesn’t answer with words.

His arm circles around your waist while the other cradles your nape, both pulling you closer. Your legs brush. You let out a sigh of capitulation.

There’s a thrum in his spine as you move, too—you nestle your face in the crook of his neck, both hands resting against his chest. He wonders if you can feel his heartbeat.

How many lines have he crossed by doing this? The list of his transgressions runs long.

For once, he doesn’t give a damn.

He holds you tight. You bury yourself in him. The warmth that has soothed him many times seems to bleed like an open wound—there was no need to hide behind stations or the guise of propriety.

Together, the two of you are broken pieces of different things, laid in a perfect fit. Breathing. Craving the rest only the other can bring.

A hard life melting into a soft place, where he doesn’t have to choose between love and rest.

You bring him both.

“Steve?”

“Mm?”

He likes this refrain: you calling his name, him answering.

You look up at him from the hug. He dips his chin down to meet your gaze.

“Thank you.”

I should be the one saying that, he thinks to himself, but this is no time for emotional revelations. Not yet—you’re too tired for it.

So he pulls you in closer like closer was ever possible. You find shelter in the hollow of his neck again, nose kissing his throat. He strokes a gentle hand down your hair, feeling you sigh warm air against his skin. Your t-shirt is soft against his. His other palm presses steady on your back.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

Soon enough, your breathing evens. You’re asleep.

He remembers the safehouse this time, the peaceful look on your face. He remembers clinging onto those last few minutes of closeness before the call of duty snuffs out peace. The light of day always makes the lines between you that much clearer.

Like tide, you’re further away from him when the sun is up.

For now, he allows himself one small thing.

He leans down and kisses your crown, breathing in your shampoo. His lips press one, two, three more times, wandering further down: your temple, your eyelid, your cheek—each breaching a boundary.

Each bearing a promise.

There’s no assignment come morning. No more reason to run.

Tomorrow, he’ll tell you how he feels.

A thumb brushes your lower lip, careful not to wake you.

That one will have to wait until tomorrow, if you’ll let him. The only thing he can do now is dream of it.

He hopes this is the last night he’ll dream of it.

taglist: @pinksplace @thceseus @theworstwolvie

The next morning, all of you gather in the briefing room again.

Everyone falls into familiar positions, but not quite the same. Steve stands close enough to you that your shoulders brush—not by accident.

At the front of the room, Tony paces. Screens behind him flicker through satellite feeds and data logs, the glow reflecting sharp angles across his face. He fidgets with a rubber-band ball, snapping it between his fingers as he talks, his agitation obvious in every movement.

“Hydra went loud last time. They don’t do that without a follow-up.”

Natasha’s voice is steady. “They got a reaction.”

Bucky’s comes lower. “They’ll want another one.” His eyes flick to you.

You meet the look without hesitation. “Then we deny it.”

Thor watches from the wall, silent, his gaze shifting between each of you before settling—briefly—on you again.

Sam studies you for a moment longer than the others, concern still lingering, before he looks back to Tony. “What’s the plan?”

Tony exhales, snapping back into something closer to control. “Simple. Convoy with high-ranking Hydra brass. We intercept, capture if possible, eliminate if not, and get out.”

No one argues.

The room breaks, and you move out as a unit, you and Steve falling into step at the rear without a word.

The quinjet holds steady above the convoy.

Tony signals, and Thor drops first. Lightning strikes before he lands, the impact carving a crater into the road and forcing the lead vehicle to a halt.

Sam follows, already airborne, circling into overwatch. No drones—yet.

You, Steve, Bucky, and Natasha drop behind the last vehicle and move forward as one.

Like before, you and Steve sync naturally, side by side.

Unlike before, Bucky stays close—just off your shoulder, but not drifting.

Tony’s voice cuts over comms. “Nice and simple. Let’s keep it that way.”

The Hydra agents pour out to meet you.

The first wave goes down fast. Clean. Efficient.

Then—

Something shifts.

Their movement slows. Angles change. Formation breaks in a way that is not chaotic—it is intentional.

Sam catches it first. “They’re stalling.”

Natasha’s already there. “No—they’re setting something.”

A door on the center vehicle slams open. The sound cuts through everything.

For a second, the fight stalls.

A lone figure steps out. And looks directly at you.

He has your brother’s face. Not perfect.

The posture is wrong. The way he holds himself is off—subtly, but enough. Something in the movement doesn’t match the memory burned into you.

But the face is there. And that’s enough.

The blood drains from yours. You stop.

Steve stills beside you immediately.

Bucky sees it a second later—your reaction, then the figure—and something hardens in his expression.

Over comms, Tony does not even try to hide it. “…no, no, no—what the hell is that—”

The copy tilts his head, studying you.

Then he says your name.

The voice is just off enough to make it worse.

“Looks like you found our father.”

Steve goes still. He remembers.

The memory flickers—training rooms, old footage, the word used just to throw him off balance.

This is not random.

You try to hold onto the differences. The stance. The tone. The way he breathes.

You know it is not him. You know it.

“You’re not—”

The words slip out before you can stop them.

You clamp your mouth shut.

Hydra moves. All of them.

Every line tightening, closing toward you.

Natasha, Bucky, and Steve shift instantly, closing ranks around you.

Steve’s voice is firm, right at your ear. “Hey—stay with me—”

You take a breath. Then another. And move.

You break from the formation, driving forward through the Hydra line.

There is no hesitation now. Every strike is clean. Brutal. Efficient. You do not stop.

Not until you are standing in front of him. Your face is tight with something sharper than anger.

Your voice drops, low and final. “You’re wrong.”

Your hand drives forward. Through bone. Through muscle. Through everything in between.

Shock flashes across his face.

Your fingers close around his heart. Still beating. You rip it free.

The body collapses at your feet.

Silence hits for half a second.

Then—

“Fuck me.” Sam’s voice cracks through comms, stunned.

Thor looks at you once—just once—before turning back to the perimeter.

Tony exhales sharply. “Yeah, okay, they’re officially insane—”

Natasha does not miss a beat, dropping another agent. “No. They’re precise.”

Bucky stands close now—closer than before—watching you with something that is not surprise.

Recognition. Too close to his own past.

Steve is already there, just behind you. He does not say anything. Does not pull you back.

He just turns with you as the fight resumes.

Hydra does not hold. They begin to pull out almost immediately.

Sam calls it. “They’re pulling back!”

Tony’s voice sharpens again. “Yeah. Because they got what they wanted.”

The quinjet lands.

You regroup quickly and board without discussion.

At the back, you sit beside Steve again.

Calm. Composed.

Like nothing happened.

Except for the blood still dripping from your hand onto the floor.

The silence holds for the entire flight back to the compound.

No one breaks it.

Steve shifts beside you at some point, his arm settling loosely around your shoulders. Not restraining—just there.

Your hand hangs low at your side, angled away from your body so the blood will not stain your suit.

It drips anyway. Slow. Steady.

No one speaks.

No one looks at you for long.

Sam swallows, glancing back once before turning away just as quickly, like he is not sure what he is allowed to see.

Up front, Natasha watches through the reflection in the glass, her expression unreadable—eyes tracking, cataloging, not judging.

Bucky does not look away at all. His gaze stays fixed on you, something in it shifting as recognition settles in, piece by piece.

Beside Natasha, Tony flicks through screen after screen at a sluggish pace, movements mechanical. He is not really seeing any of it.

Thor sits across from you and Steve, completely still, his head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed—whether in thought or restraint, it is impossible to tell.

The only sound is the low hum of the engines.

And the quiet, intermittent drip of blood hitting the floor.

Steve’s eyes track it eventually.

His arm tightens just slightly around your shoulders.

He still does not say anything.

All of you file out of the quinjet in silence.

It reminds you, distantly, of the first time you walked into the compound with them—but the mood is nothing like it was then.

No one says anything as you move inside.

Without discussion, the group drifts toward the briefing room, pulled there more by habit than intent.

The silence follows.

You take your usual place by the glass, leaning into it lightly.

Steve stays at your side.

After a moment, he steps away just long enough to grab a cloth and a small container of water. When he comes back, he takes your hand without asking and stands in front of you, carefully cleaning the blood away.

You let him.

Tony pulls up the mission footage, the screens flaring to life—then almost immediately dismisses them. He turns instead, focusing on you, his voice low.

“They built that for you.”

Natasha does not look away from where she stands. “No. They deployed it.”

Sam drops heavily into a chair, elbows braced on his knees as he stares at the table. “That wasn’t random.”

You lift your gaze from your hand, from the slow, deliberate way Steve is working, and look at him. “No.”

Bucky watches you, then Steve, then your hands—your fingers in his, the blood coming away in dark streaks. “It was close.”

You catch it immediately. Physically. Psychologically.

Steve does not look up, but his voice is firm. “Not close enough.”

He finishes cleaning your hand but does not let go right away.

You give his hand a small squeeze.

He looks up then, meeting your eyes.

“It wasn’t him,” you say quietly.

Bucky does not hesitate. “I know.”

The words settle.

You look at him for a moment.

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hit the same,” he adds, just as steady.

Natasha’s gaze shifts between the three of you, taking it in. “They’re learning where to apply pressure.”

Tony drags a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Yeah, well. Next time we push back harder.”

You glance toward him only briefly before your focus returns forward. “They’ll escalate.”

“So will we.” Bucky’s voice is lower now, only half-directed, but it lands all the same.

No one argues. No one adds to it.

The room begins to empty without instruction, each of them peeling away one by one, the quiet holding.

You and Steve are the last to move.

When you step into the hallway, Bucky falls in on your other side, the three of you walking together for a few steps.

He keeps his eyes forward as he speaks. “You didn’t hesitate.”

You shake your head. “No.”

His hands flex once at his sides before easing again. “That’s the part that sticks.”

You glance sideways at him. “It was necessary.”

Bucky looks over, meeting your eyes. “Yeah.”

A small nod. “Still sticks.”

The understanding passes between you without needing anything more said.

Then Bucky turns off toward his room, leaving you and Steve to continue down the hall together.

You stand in front of your brother. No— the copy.

Your hand is warm. You feel it—the contraction. The heart. Still beating in your grip.

His voice carries to you. Not the copy. The real one.

Then, over it—

cold, precise—

“Terminate.”

The world fractures. Blood. Debris.

His face—again, again, again— overlaying itself until it stops making sense.

The words echo, overlapping, distorting.

He hesitated.

You did not.

You do not know which one is yours.

You jerk upright in bed.

The movement is violent enough to tangle the sheets tighter around you, trapping your legs as you try to move.

Air will not come.

You double forward, hands braced against yourself, dragging in shallow, broken breaths that never quite fill your lungs.

Your chest tightens, throat closing down on every inhale, each one thinner than the last.

Your body shakes. Uncontrolled.

You cannot place where you are. Cannot place when.

The room does not exist yet—only fragments of the nightmare still clinging to your vision, bleeding into the dark.

Your head spins, vision narrowing at the edges as the lack of oxygen catches up with you.

You try to breathe—

fail—

try again—

Nothing settles. Nothing slows.

Your fingers curl into the sheets, gripping hard enough to anchor yourself to something real—but it does not feel real.

Not yet.

Several doors down, in another room, FRIDAY speaks into the quiet. The lights come on at the same time, cutting through the dark.

“Captain. Ms. Rogers needs you.”

Steve blinks awake, vision still blurred, mind not fully caught up. The name does not land at first—then it does, all at once. He is moving before the thought finishes, out of bed and into the hallway in a single motion, already heading for your room.

The door slides open just before he reaches it. He does not slow.

You are doubled over on the bed, fighting for air that will not come, sobs tearing through your chest hard enough to make your whole body shake. You do not see him. You do not register anything beyond the panic closing in around you.

Steve crosses the room in two strides. He does not hesitate—just gathers you up and sits, pulling you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you with a firm, steady hold that does not waver.

“Hey—hey—I’ve got you.”

His hand moves into your hair, fingers threading through slowly, grounding as he repeats the same words over and over in that same calm, even tone. You cling to him immediately, disoriented, your vision blurred, your chest tight and refusing to cooperate. Words fall out in fragments that do not quite connect, catching on each broken breath, but he does not try to piece them together. He just stays with you.

After a moment, he shifts slightly, instinctively rocking you both in a slow, steady motion, the rhythm matching the cadence of his voice. It takes time—long enough that it almost feels like it will not—but gradually your breathing starts to change. Still uneven at first, still catching, but deeper. Slower. Syncing with his.

The tension drains out of you in pieces, leaving you heavy, exhausted, but still holding on. You do not let go of him.

When your breathing steadies enough, Steve leans back just slightly, enough to see your face. His hand comes up, gentle but sure, guiding your focus back to him.

“Talk to me.”

You hesitate, your gaze dropping to the collar of his shirt. You take a breath. Then another. A third before the words finally come.

“It was brutal,” you say, your voice quieter now but still edged with something raw. “He paused. Had me pinned. Blood and sweat—both of us. His hands were around my throat. I was seconds from blacking out… and then his grip loosened.”

Your fingers tighten slightly in his shirt without you noticing.

“I moved on instinct,” you continue. “I killed him the harshest way possible.”

You look up then, meeting his eyes. There is no hesitation in him. No flinch. No disgust. Just steady, grounded understanding—and it lets you keep going.

“The fight lasted twenty-seven hours, five minutes, and thirty-two seconds.”

A tear slips free before you can stop it. Steve brushes it away with his thumb without interrupting.

“We were both raw by the end. Trading insults as much as blows. Neither of us wanted to kill the other at the start. I thought I could talk him around. That I wouldn’t have to finish it.”

You shake your head faintly, the memory pressing harder the longer you sit in it.

“We tore each other apart. Inside and out.”

Your eyes close for a second, but it only sharpens the images, so you open them again, locking onto his, grounding yourself there.

“I lost control,” you admit, the words coming more evenly now, even as they land heavier. “Completely. I tore through the town we ended up in. Anyone who crossed my path…” You swallow. “They didn’t survive.”

The room feels smaller for a second.

“It lasted longer than the fight. Three days. I moved through the countryside like a weapon.”

A pause.

“They had to shut me down.”

Steve’s jaw tightens, but he does not interrupt. Does not look away. He just stays there, holding you steady.

“Reconditioning wasn’t punishment,” you say after a moment, your gaze slipping off him briefly. “It was correction.”

His hand comes up, two fingers under your chin, guiding your face back toward him. When your eyes meet again, his voice is low and certain.

“You’re not that anymore.”

Your brow creases slightly. You cannot fully agree with that—not honestly.

“I can still do it.”

Steve nods once, accepting the truth of that without hesitation.

“Yeah,” he says. Then, after a beat, “But you’re choosing not to.”

That lands differently.

You do not argue it.

Instead, you lean into him, your head settling against his shoulder, your hands still holding onto him as if letting go might undo the fragile calm you have found again. Steve’s arm tightens slightly around you, his other hand moving slowly along your back, steady and grounding.

He does not say anything else.

He does not need to.

And for now, neither do you.

Part Eighteen

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