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[🌞] Headcanons of Marvel Men when you put too much sunscreen on them (on a beach date!).
(including Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Stephen Strange, Peter Parker, Bob Reynolds, Joaquin Torres, Johnny Storm, Logan Howlett, Steven Grant, Marc Spector, Jake Lockley)
Steve Rogers
• “That’s… uh, a lot, doll.”
• Tries to be polite but ends up looking like a frosted donut.
• Keeps rubbing it for like ten minutes but still shiny.
• “Better safe than sorry, right?” he says with an awkward smile.
Bucky Barnes
• Deadpan stare. “You tryna camouflage me or something, doll?”
• You giggle; he smears some back on your nose/cheek in revenge.
• “Guess we both need touch-ups, huh?”
Stephen Strange
• Tries to keep composed but clearly unimpressed.
• “You’ve… created an impenetrable mystical barrier of SPF 5000.”
• Overly dramatic, magically cleans the excess off.
Peter Parker
• “Uh... I think that's enough for, like, ten of me."
• Nervous laughter, completely white-faced.
• Lets you smear it on anyway because he doesn’t want to make you feel bad.
• Laughs so hard after he saw his face, nearly falls off the chair.
Bob Reynolds
• "Oh... that’s… quite a lot, isn't?”
• Tries to help you wipe it off carefully with a towel.
• Laughs shyly, “Well, at least I won’t burn for the next decade.”
• Helps rub the excess onto your arms so it doesn’t go to waste.
Joaquin Torres
• “Whoa, cariño, you tryin’ to bake me or marinate me?”
• Laughs and flexes while you try to rub it in.
• “Go ahead, at least I’ll smell good.”
• Ends up helping you apply the extra on your own shoulders — teamwork!
Johnny Storm
• “Babe, I’m literally fire-proof!”
• But he’s laughing too hard to stop you.
• “You’re makin’ me look like a snowman! It's not winter!”
• Flicks some of the extra sunscreen back at you — turns into a full-on play fight.
Logan Howlett
• “Darlin’, I said some, not the whole bottle.”
• Growls playfully while rubbing it off with a towel.
• “Now I smell like coconuts. You owe me a beer after this.”
Steven Grant
• “Oh blimey, I look like a ghost!”
• Laughs, rubbing it in everywhere.
• “Thanks for looking out for me, though—I burn faster than toast.”
Marc Spector
• Raises an eyebrow.
• "That’s… generous of you.”
• Lets you finish anyway, lips twitching in amusement.
• “You know you could’ve coated the entire team with that much, right?”
Cell formulas replaced with gibberish. Alignment fucked. A whole pivot table moved to a sheet that doesn’t exist. Somewhere in the chaos, your hard-earned analytics are now #REF! and #DIV/0! and one lone cell that says “whoops lol”.
It’s 7:54 PM already. The office is empty except for the goddamn human disaster sitting three desks away.
“John,” you called, calm like a gun cocking.
He doesn’t look up from his screen. “Yeah?”
“Did you touch my report?”
A pause. His jaw twitches.
“No.”
“John.”
He turns in his chair slowly, sipping his energy drink like a beer in a 1950s Western.
“Look, maybe the file just—y’know—glitched or something. These drives are weird. One time I lost a whole memo because I opened it in WordPad.”
“Why were you even using WordPad?”
“I don't know, it looked trustworthy,” he says.
You rub your temple. “So what— you think my Excel file corrupted itself for the third time this month while only you were working on the server?”
“Could’ve been the cloud.”
You narrow your eyes.
He shifts under your stare, then leans back in his chair like he’s casually flexing under that dress shirt. His sleeves rolled and tie loosened. Smug-ass smirk on his face like this is all hilarious.
You stand.
He watches you cross the floor. Doesn’t flinch when you stop right in front of him. Your hands go to your hips. His eyes flick there for a second before dragging themselves back up to yours.
“I know you did it.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t.”
“…Excuse me?”
He shrugs, smile cocky now. “Just said I didn’t touch it. Technically. Well, could’ve been... an automation script.”
“But you don’t know how to make automation scripts.”
“Not true. I Googled it.”
You lean in close. His grin falters for half a second—just a flicker. You’ve got him. The man’s got the subtlety of a brick through a glass door.
“John,” you say quietly. “Are you sabotaging my files so I’ll stay late and spend more time with you?”
He holds your gaze, swallows.
Then mutters,
“…Romantically.”
You stare at him.
He smiles like a kid caught red-handed with his hand in the cookie jar and somehow thinks that if he just keeps smiling, he won’t get in trouble.
“I brought snacks tho?” he offers, like a peace treaty. He reaches into his desk and pulls out a crumpled protein bar and a sad-looking sleeve of Oreos.
You snatch the Oreos. “You’re an idiot.”
He grins. “Your idiot.”
You groan and turn back toward your desk. But his voice stops you halfway.
“Hey,” he says again, quieter now.
You glance back at him.
He’s rubbing the back of his neck. Looking weirdly earnest. Sheepish, even.
“I just… like working with you,” he says. “You don’t treat me like a screw-up. You actually make me wanna try. And, uh… yeah. I’m bad at flirting.”
You blink. You weren’t ready for sincerity. Especially not from him.
You sigh again. “Next time, just ask me to stay late. I might’ve said yes.”
He perks up. “Yeah?”
You roll your eyes. “Under one condition.”
“Anything.”
“You’re fixing that spreadsheet. Right now. While I watch.”
“…Can I at least sit in your chair while I do it?”
i just finished watching squid game and i have this crazy idea of tony stark making squid game themed bonding activity with avengers, thunderbolts, guardians, fantastic four, etc.
tony is the front man ofc, maybe the vips gonna be the og6?
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You’re the type to casually lean on his shoulder, wrap an arm around his waist, or rest your hand on his thigh during meetings. Bob gets so still when you do this—like a golden retriever who doesn’t want to scare the butterfly that landed on his nose. At first, he thinks it’s a fluke or that you didn’t mean it. But when you keep doing it? He’s internally combusting (in a good way).
[📼] Headcanons of Marvel Men when you dragged them to watch horror movies together.
(including Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Peter Parker, Loki Laufeyson, Stephen Strange, Logan Howlett, Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr, Steven Grant, Joaquin Torres, and Johnny Storm)
Tony Stark
"Horror? You mean, like, fake horror or 'this is gonna traumatize me' horror?"
Jokes the entire time.
Throws popcorn when jumpscares hit—at the screen.
Lowkey startled multiple times but pretends he’s not.
“I wasn’t scared, I was just reacting for your entertainment."
Ends up clinging to you when he thinks you won’t notice.
Steve Rogers
"Sure, I can handle a horror movie."
Lies.
Eyes go wide during creepy music build-ups.
Gasps quietly when something jumps out, then looks embarrassed.
Subtly scoots closer.
Probably ends the night saying, "Let’s balance that out with a comedy next time…"
Bucky Barnes
"No. Absolutely not. I’ve been through enough horror already."
Yet… ends up watching it.
Stone-faced the whole time, like nothing phases him—until a ghost crawls on the ceiling.
“I'm done. That’s some unnatural shit.”
Secretly enjoys how you clutch his arm.
May or may not use the excuse to keep his arm around you all night.
Peter Parker
"Uhh—like horror-horror? Like, paranormal or slasher? Wait—is it gory?"
Nervous bouncing leg.
Grips the popcorn bucket like it's a lifeline.
Hides behind a pillow but still peeks through.
Ends up holding onto your hand like it’s his lifeline.
“Next time can we watch Pixar instead?”
Loki Laufeyson
"Pathetic mortals and their idea of horror. I could do far worse with a flick of my hand."
Unbothered… until the atmosphere gets too real.
Quietly mumbles, “That spirit’s possessing the wrong vessel…”
Smirks, but you catch the tension in his shoulders.
“I am not afraid. But if you are… you may cling to me.”
Ends up clinging to you later when a exorcism scene goes wrong.
Stephen Strange
"I’ve literally fought creatures from beyond time and dimensions, this is nothing."
Fully confident. (at first)
Then something moves in the corner of the screen and he pauses like: “…Okay, that was well done.”
Watches with arms crossed and half-judging the plot.
Casually throws his cape over your shoulders when you get scared.
Will not admit it if he flinched even once.
Logan Howlett
"Tch. Waste of time. Horror ain’t scary when you’ve lived through it."
Sits grumpily.
Grumbles at characters making dumb decisions.
Until the chainsaw scene starts. Then he tenses.
Might slip an arm behind you like it’s no big deal.
“If anything touches you, I’ll gut it. Even if it’s fictional.”
Charles Xavier
"As long as I don’t accidentally pick up on your panic, this should be enjoyable."
Calm and collected.
Then you jump, and it makes him jolt too.
Chuckles softly, brushes your hair aside, whispers: "You’re more entertaining than the film, my dear."
If you already watch it once, would definitely reading your mind halfway through just to know when the scares are coming (he cheats!).
Erik Lehnsherr
"I don’t see the appeal of fear-based entertainment.
Sits through it quietly… at first.
Then absolutely tenses when something crawls across the ceiling backward.
Narrows his eyes like he’s about to metalbend the ghost.
"Why would you enjoy this?"
Kinda loves the way you press yourself against him.
Steven Grant
Super enthusiastic—loves horror lore.
“This one’s got great reviews! You’re gonna love it!”
Halfway through: whispers history of the haunted object on screen “Y’know, in ancient Egypt, they used to believe—”
Will totally grip your hand during scary bits though.
After? “Brilliant film! Fancy another one? Or should I… walk you home?”
Joaquin Torres
“Horror night? I’m in!”
Brings snacks, cozy blankets, a positive vibe.
Ends up screaming once and then laughing at himself.
Constant commentary like: “Nooope. Couldn’t be me. I’d be OUTTA there.”
Sneaks an arm around your shoulders “for comfort.”
Afterwards? “You should totally sleep over—uh—so you’re not scared, of course.”
Johnny Storm
Grinning when you tell him. “Pfft. Horror? Babe, I’m flame-proof.”
Smug at first, loudly mocking the movie.
Then a REALLY good scare hits and he yells and popcorn goes flying.
“I’m still not scared! Just startled!”
Whispers in your ear, “We should do scarier things after this, yeah?”
[🧸] Headcanons of Marvel Men react to you giving them a custom Build-A-Bear dressed like their superhero self:
(including Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Peter Parker, Loki Laufeyson, Logan Howlett, Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr, and Steven Grant)
Tony Stark
"You... made me a plush Iron Man? Seriously?"
Acts all cocky at first, but you can see the soft smile creeping in.
Places it right on his workshop desk like a trophy.
Sometimes talks to it while working.
Lowkey proud and posts it on social media with the caption: "Someone special made this. Eat your heart out, world."
Steve Rogers
Stares at it for a long moment, heart swelling.
"You made this for me?"
Gets so flustered he can't stop smiling
Places it neatly on his nightstand, and if you tease him, he just clears his throat and says: "It's good to have reminders of people who care."
You'll catch him glancing at it more than once.
Bucky Barnes
Blinks at it like: "You got me a bear... with a metal arm?"
Picks it up, turning it around and poking the little plush arm with a smirk.
"Looks just like me, huh?"
Keeps it on his bed, and if anyone teases him, he'll straight-faced say: "My emotional support bear. You got a problem?"
Peter Parker
Absolutely loses it, pure sunshine grin.
"You built a Spider bear??? For me?? I'm framing this!"
Hugs it immediately and definitely shows it off to Ned and MJ like a proud dad.
Sleeps with it the first night
Probably names it something cute like Spider-Bear Jr.
Loki Laufeyson
Looks at the little horned plush and lets out a soft chuckle.
"A miniature version of myself? You've got good taste."
Pretends to scoff a first, but he's deeply touched.
The bear is always sitting on his bookshelf or desk like a tiny prince.
Use magic to make the bear nod or wave at you when you enter the room.
Logan Howlett
Holds it awkwardly, staring at the little bear with its tiny claws.
"…You made me a bear that looks like me?"
Grumbles about it, but you catch him resting it on his nightstand, where it stays forever.
When you’re not around, he probably mutters at it: “They got a weird way of showing they cares.”
Charles Xavier
His face lights up with genuine delight.
“You thought of this for me? That’s adorable.”
Places it somewhere close, like on his desk or the shelf in his study.
Will definitely tell others about the gift like a proud boyfriend: “They made me a little Xavier bear, can you believe that?”
Erik Lehnsherr
Raises a brow at the Magneto-themed bear.
“You’ve got a twisted sense of humor.”
But the way his fingers linger on the helmet and the small detail of the cape says it all — he loves it.
Keeps it somewhere safe, maybe in his study, and if you ever visit, he’ll always point at it with a soft smile: “I never thought I’d look good in fluff.”
Steven Grant
Literally gasps, wide-eyed: “Is that me? In plush form??”
Over the moon. Hugs it and even gives it a name like “Little Stevie”
Sleeps with it, puts it on his desk at work, and shows it off to anyone who will listen.
“I’ve never had anything this thoughtful before... I’m gonna treasure this forever, you know.”
I had a dream about Bob (or... is it Sentry?) last night... and I think I must write it into a short-fic...
Bob Reynolds/Sentry(?) × Reader | 18+ MDNI
You’re lying on your bed, phone dimly glowing in your hand, the soft hum of the fan filling the silence. It's one of those nights where the world feels heavy, but you're too tired to care. Just endless scrolling. Mind somewhere between reality and the edge of sleep.
You don’t even notice when the shadows shift at the edge of the room.
“Hey,” a low, rough voice murmurs beside you.
You flinch slightly—he's just there. Bob Reynolds. Or is it the Sentry? You’re not even sure which version stands beside your bed. His eyes flicker between soft golden warmth and something darker underneath. But right now, he looks... human. Tired, gentle.
He sits down beside you without asking, the bed dipping under his weight. Then—slowly, so slowly—he lies beside you. Closer than he should be. One arm hooks around your waist as if it's the most natural thing in the world. His scent is unfamiliar but oddly calming, like ozone before a storm.
You blink. “What are you doing?”
“I just… wanted to be close to you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Is that okay?”
His tone is needy in a way that makes your heart twist. You’ve never seen a god tremble. But here he is—flesh and fear and golden eyes—curling into you like you’re the only safe thing left in the world.
Then comes the kiss. Soft at first. Uncertain.
But it deepens.
Your phone falls somewhere between the sheets. His fingers trail along your side, slow, careful, worshipful. Until they start to drift, lower. More bold. More wanting.
Your breath hitches.
From the other room, a sound—your mother’s footsteps creaking faintly on the floorboards.
You tense.
Bob leans in close, lips brushing against your ear with the ghost of a smirk, voice hoarse with tension,
“Don’t make a sound… or we’ll get caught.”
Your entire body burns.
You nod, barely, and he grins—just a little. That golden glint in his eyes flashes, not from power, but from the thrill. The danger.
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Summary: Mission gone wrong—Bucky becomes the Winter Soldier again, the team scrambles to fix him... but instead, they get Spanish Bucky?
(Part I) (Part II) (Part III) (Part IV)
(Inspired by Toy Story 3)
The team converged in the derelict main hall—a cavernous space once used for HYDRA briefings, now silent except for their heavy footsteps and heavier bickering.
Yelena dropped from a high vent with the grace of a cat, brushing dust off her shoulders.
“So,” she said flatly, “who tripped the alarm?”
John raised a finger—then immediately redirected it to Alexei. “He did!”
Alexei looked offended. “It was a beautiful button! Polished chrome, lovely red glow. How was I to know it would scream at us?!”
“I told you not to touch anything!” Ava snapped, emerging ghost-like from the wall behind them. Her hair was disheveled, voice sharp with irritation.
“I was admiring the architecture!” Alexei huffed. “This place is historical!”
Yelena rolled her eyes. “Of course. Let’s all die for the sake of your artistic appreciation.”
But before another insult could be flung, a crash echoed from deeper in the corridor. Harsh. Violent. Like metal snapping in half.
Silence fell like a dropped curtain.
Then—
From the far shadows, a shape emerged. Bucky.
His steps were quiet. Too quiet.
His expression—gone. Blank. Ice where his soul used to be.
“Hey! Bucky,” John called, waving. “There you are—"
He didn’t finish.
Bucky’s hand snapped out and clamped around Walker’s throat like a steel vice. Before anyone could move, he slammed him into the concrete wall with bone-rattling force. Dust exploded from the impact.
John gasped, feet dangling.
“Oh good,” Yelena muttered, drawing her sidearm. “The murder version’s back.”
Alexei surged forward, bellowing something in Russian—but Bucky turned, disarmed him with one swift, brutal twist of his arm, and sent him crashing into a pillar like he weighed nothing.
Ava reached for her phase tech—but Bucky caught her mid-transition. A single precise strike to the solar plexus dropped her instantly. She hit the ground with a grunt, breath knocked clean out of her.
“Move!” Yelena shouted, firing twice.
But Bucky was already gone.
One shot hit the wall. The other sparked off empty air.
He moved like shadow. Like death given shape.
The next time they saw him, he was behind Yelena. She barely managed to duck as his metal arm sliced past her, tearing concrete where her head had been.
She scrambled, kicked, shot again—nothing.
He vanished back into the shadows.
She pressed herself against a pillar, panting, blood roaring in her ears. Her hands trembled.
“He’s got the damn Winter update,” she muttered.
Then everything spun into chaos.
One by one, each member of the Thunderbolts fell—disarmed, subdued, outmaneuvered by a ghost of the past they had no defense against.
And finally, darkness took their consciousness.
The room was cold. Damp. Smelled like metal and rust. The prison block was carved into the lower levels of the HYDRA compound—forgotten, but not abandoned.
Each member of the Thunderbolts occupied their own cell, the bars thick and humming faintly with old tech. Dim overhead lights flickered in intervals, casting stuttered shadows across their faces.
Battered. Bruised. Pissed off.
Alexei shifted against the wall with a grunt, rubbing his shoulder. “Okay. Everyone alive?”
“No,” Yelena snapped from the next cell, her legs draped lazily over the bench. “I died. This is my ghost, and I’m haunting your stupidity.”
“Charming,” John muttered, crouched with his back against the bars. “I told you we shouldn’t have split up.”
“Oh, now you want to use teamwork?” Ava murmured, her voice barely above a whisper as she rubbed at the bruising on her ribs. “Can we argue a little quieter? The walking Terminator is literally right there.”
All eyes turned to the end of the row.
Bucky stood just beyond the cells—still, silent, a sentinel of HYDRA’s cruel legacy. His face was unreadable, blank as carved stone. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe loudly. Just watched.
Like a predator waiting for movement.
Alexei leaned closer to the bars, dropping his voice. “Okay. We overpower him. Together.”
Yelena snorted. “Oh sure. What’s the plan? Sarcasm?”
“I’m open to it,” Ava said dryly. “But I might have a better idea.”
Before she could explain, John straightened suddenly and shouted, “What we need to do is distract him while I—”
BAM!
Bucky’s metal arm slammed against the bars between them.
The sound cracked through the corridor like a thunderclap.
Everyone froze.
Even the air stopped moving.
John blinked. “Okay. Not my best idea.”
From her bench, Yelena didn’t move—just stared at him with venom in her eyes. “If he doesn’t kill you,” she whispered, “I will.”
Outside the cells, Bucky starts moving like clockwork.
Step. Turn.
CLINK-CLINK.
The faint rasp of his metal arm echoed with every movement, pacing like a predator with no memory of who he used to protect.
They watched him in silence.
“Okay,” John whispered, wiping dry blood from the corner of his mouth. “So. Plan?”
From across the cell block, Ava gave him a pointed look. “You had a plan last time. You also had a concussion two minutes later.”
“Not my fault he fights like a blender full of knives.”
“He is a blender full of knives,” Yelena muttered from the far end, lying sprawled on the cold bench like she was in a grave. Her voice was dry as desert sand. “You don’t fight the Winter Soldier. You outsmart him.”
Alexei stirred, sitting up with a sudden spark in his eyes. “Or... we do both.”
Yelena narrowed hers. “Is this going to be another one of your ‘get help’ ideas?”
“No! This one is better.” He puffed up his chest. “You pretend to be dead. I do something heroic.”
Ava groaned softly, resting her head against the wall. “Yeah, great. Diversion, misdirection, and brute stupidity.”
“Exactly!” Alexei grinned, like he was presenting the finest strategy of the Cold War.
Yelena sighed through her nose, but she smirked despite herself. “Fine. Let’s combine it.”
They exchanged glances through the bars—silent nods, one after the other. A pact made in whispers and scars.
Outside, Bucky continued his pacing. The arm ticked. The eyes didn’t blink.
The plan was on.
It began with a scream.
Yelena thrashed violently in her cell, unleashing a flurry of guttural Russian curses as if her very soul were clawing its way out. Ava collapsed against the bars beside her, gasping, clutching her ribs in a pantomime of panic.
Across the block, Alexei let out a pained groan worthy of a Shakespearean demise. “Ohhh nooo,” he moaned, gripping his chest and sliding to the floor, “my old Soviet heart—!”
Bucky halted mid-step.
His metal fingers flexed once, slow and deliberate. He turned his head just slightly, wolf-like curiosity flickering behind those glassy eyes. No recognition. Only calculation.
“Oh no!” John called out with all the acting talent of a third-grade tree in a school play. “She’s seizing! Somebody help!”
The moment Bucky stepped toward Yelena’s cell and unlocked the door with a mechanical click, Ava was already in motion. Her foot flicked up a hidden blade from her boot, and just as he pushed open the bars—BOOM! She phased out of her cell with a crackle of energy.
She opens the rest of the cells.
In an instant, it was chaos.
Ava stabbed him clean in the thigh. Yelena landed a brutal roundhouse to his side. Alexei, ever dramatic, leapt in with a piece of busted porcelain—probably from the toilet, swung it aggressively.
John tried to join in, slipped on the floor, and faceplanted with a grunt.
For a heartbeat, it worked.
But Bucky moved like a storm. Even mid-glitch, he fought with frightening grace. His arm caught Ava mid-strike and threw her across the block, her body slamming into bars with a sickening clang.
Summary: Mission gone wrong—Bucky becomes the Winter Soldier again, the team scrambles to fix him… but instead, they get Spanish Bucky?
(Part I) (Part II) (Part III) (Part IV)
(Inspired by Toy Story 3)
The Quinjet rumbled through storm-thick clouds, slicing through the dark like a predator on a hunt. Inside, red lights pulsed low and slow, casting everyone in a dull crimson glow that did nothing to ease the tension. The air was thick with the sharp tang of gun oil, leather, sweat, and the lingering scent of Alexei’s dubious protein bar that smelled faintly like smoked rubber.
Yelena slouched in her seat, twirling a throwing knife between her fingers with the kind of lazy grace. She glanced across the cramped cabin, her voice dry and cutting as she muttered, more to herself than anyone else,
“Another quiet infiltration with America’s knock-off and Soviet Thor. Lovely.”
John, ever unable to let anything slide, straightened indignantly. His jaw tightened under his helmet strap. “I’m not a knock-off,” he said, louder than necessary. “I’m a remix.”
Across from him, Alexei let out a hearty snort, the kind that sounded like gravel in a cement mixer. “You are not even remix,” he said, stretching his legs with a grunt. “You are karaoke version. Bad one. With subtitles out of sync.”
John’s eye twitched, but before he could fire back, Ava let out a sigh sharp enough to cut through steel. She leaned her head back against the vibrating wall of the jet and muttered, “Can we not start another pissing contest before we even land?”
In the farthest corner of the jet, Bucky didn’t look up. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, metal fingers working over the same pistol with practiced ease. The click and slide of his maintenance routine was practically meditative. Without glancing at anyone, he muttered, “Just tell me where I’m dropping.”
A voice crackled to life in their earpieces, smooth and all-business. “Team Thunderbolts, your objective is simple: infiltrate the HYDRA-affiliated compound. Gather intel. Shut it down. Non-lethal if possible.”
Yelena rolled her eyes so hard it was audible. She said under her breath, “Non-lethal? We're literally a bunch of deadly assassins."
Bucky raised an eyebrow but said nothing, still polishing the barrel of his gun like it owed him money.
John scoffed. “Remind me to check your kill count next time we play bingo,” he muttered.
Alexei grinned, the kind of grin that said I heard that and I will make it worse. “Bingo? You play old people games now?” he said, nudging John’s boot with his own. “Ha! I knew your haircut screamed Florida retirement home.”
Ava’s hand went up, not to stop them—just to rub her temples. “Can someone opens the hatch now? I better jump than listening to their nonsense,” she muttered.
Above them, a bag jostled loose from the turbulence and hit the floor near John’s feet with a thud that sounded worryingly metallic. He stared at it like it might explode.
“That better not be one of your packs,” he said, glaring at Alexei.
Alexei puffed out his chest. “Of course it is! I combine grenades and vodka in same pouch. For morale.”
Yelena gave him a withering look. “That’s how you lost your eyebrows in ’98, remember?”
“They grew back. Stronger, like me.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose. “God, I miss Sam,” he muttered.
Ava chuckled from behind her mask. “Sam wouldn’t last five minutes in here with us.”
“Tell him he has to hand over a list of his past crimes before he can join us,” Yelena said idly, inspecting her nails like she hadn’t just insulted half the team.
The jet lurched again as the voice in their comms returned, more strained this time. “Landing in five. Brace for drop. And try—please—to act like a cohesive unit.”
No one answered. They just shifted, adjusted their gear, clicked safeties on and off like it was second nature. The floor beneath their boots vibrated harder as the Quinjet descended.
Bucky stood first, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and checking the sidearm at his hip. “Let’s just get this over with,” he muttered. “Before Alexei starts telling his Chernobyl story again.”
Alexei’s face lit up like Christmas. “Ah! That was glorious day! I wrestled a radioactive—”
“NO,” came the collective groan.
As the rear hatch creaked open and wind howled in, the Thunderbolts lined up, tense and twitching with anticipation. The night air hit their faces like a slap, cold and sharp.
They might’ve been the most dysfunctional unit in existence—but they were a unit. And they were ready to drop into hell.
The vent cover gave a faint clink as Yelena popped it open and slid in first, landing with a catlike thud onto her elbows. The shaft groaned softly under her weight, dust puffing around her like smoke. Behind her, Ava materialized through the metal itself, phasing in without so much as a ripple of sound.
Yelena scowled into the dark ahead. “I hate vents,” she muttered, elbow-crawling forward.
Ava’s voice came through her comm, dry as ever. “Better than babysitting Alexei and Walker.”
“They are like two bears fighting over one braincell,” Yelena grumbled, pausing to shove a dangling cobweb off her face. “And the braincell is malfunctioning.”
Ava gave the closest thing to a laugh she could while crawling through a metal tube. “You’re not wrong. At least Bucky saner than most of us.”
Yelena snorted. “Bucky broods. He broods so hard the temperature drops when he walks past. Like a winter.”
A pause.
“Do you trust him?” Ava asked suddenly, her voice a little quieter.
Yelena stopped moving, just for a second. “Yeah. I trust his bullets more than I trust most people,” she said. “But if he turns, I shoot first.”
There was no response—just the soft grind of Ava crawling behind her. Agreement, maybe.
They reached a corner, and Yelena peered through a grate into the dim control room below: monitors, guards, coffee cups still steaming.
She grinned. “Showtime.”
Ava nodded behind her, already syncing her phase jump.
“Let’s ruin their night,” Yelena whispered.
And they dropped in like vipers.
A heavy security door hisses open and Alexei barrels through with all the grace of a runaway snowplow. Behind him, John jogs in with his taco shield up, eyes darting around like he’s waiting for applause.
“I should lead. I’m technically the Captain,” John whispers.
“You are not even captain of your own ego,” Alexei snaps back, already halfway through the corridor.
Their footsteps echo too loudly against the concrete. Neon lights flicker above as they pass old HYDRA signage—some in German, others just scratched out in blood. A patrol turns the corner ahead. They freeze.
Alexei grins, cracks his knuckles, and mutters, “Finally.”
John groans. “We were supposed to do this quietly—!”
Alexei doesn’t listen. He’s already charging.
Bucky moves through the shadows like he was born there. His rifle stays close, his steps lighter than the wind that rustles through broken windows overhead. Every breath he takes is measured, every glance deliberate.
The compound is a maze of decaying steel and old war secrets, and he knows how to read it. He skirts the patrols easily, sticking to blind spots and crawlspaces. The smell of mildew and copper clings to the walls. Somewhere, a radio hums static, but no voices follow.
He pauses at a locked door. Old security. Nothing modern. His metal fingers slip a knife from his belt and pry it open like cracking an egg. Inside, files. Servers. Evidence. He grinned.
Whatever HYDRA’s hiding here, he’s going to burn it to the ground.
Bucky’s breath came slow, measured. Something felt wrong.
Clang.
A soft shift of metal. He turned.
SLAM.
The doors behind him snapped shut with mechanical finality. Bucky spun around, weapon ready, already lowering into a crouch.
From the far shadows, a voice slithered in—smooth, smug, and unhurried.
“Ahhh… James Buchanan Barnes. Or should I say... the Asset.”
Bucky didn’t flinch, but his jaw clenched. His grip on the gun tightened.
A man stepped into the dim light. Designer turtleneck. Sharp cheekbones. Slicked-back hair that practically screamed self-importance. His smile was all theater—slow, indulgent, like he’d waited years for this moment.
“Who the hell are you?” Bucky growled.
The man bowed with mock elegance. “You can call me Lotto. Full-time fan of your work.”
Bucky didn’t lower the weapon. “Whatever you think you’re about to do—don’t.”
“Oh, but I must.” Lotto’s grin widened as he pulled a leather-bound manual from under his coat. The cover was cracked and worn, its pages yellowed and fraying. In the flickering emergency lights, the blood-red HYDRA emblem still gleamed faintly across the front.
“For science,” Lotto said, flipping through the pages. “For nostalgia… and, of course, for personal satisfaction.”
Bucky took a step forward, voice harder now. “I’m not that thing anymore.”
“Let’s find out, shall we?” Lotto found the page. His fingers hovered. “Some scars never truly fade.”
“Longing.”
Bucky’s eyes widened. The sound of the word struck something deep, visceral. He staggered a step.
“Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak.”
“Stop.” Bucky’s voice broke low in his throat. His heart pounded against his ribs. He tried to lift his gun, but his fingers twitched—spasming.
“Furnace. Benign. Nine.”
His knees buckled. A high, ringing noise pierced his ears.
“Homecoming. One. Freight car.”
A low, guttural snarl escaped him.
Then silence.
Bucky straightened slowly, unnaturally. The fight drained from his eyes, replaced by a glassy, cold stillness. His breathing evened out. Mechanical, hollow.
His finger curled over the trigger with eerie calm.
The Winter Soldier had returned.
Lotto took a pleased step back, watching him with glee, like a conductor before a dangerous symphony. “Ah… there he is. Like putting on an old suit,” he whispered.
Bucky said nothing.
But the lab’s temperature seemed to drop.
Something coiled in the air.
Lotto was still smiling when Bucky’s gaze snapped up—and for a flicker of a second, something resisted in those steel-blue eyes.
Summary: Mission gone wrong—Bucky becomes the Winter Soldier again, the team scrambles to fix him… but instead, they get Spanish Bucky?
ACT I – MISSION IMPOSSIBLY DUMB
The Thunderbolts are sent on a high-stakes covert mission to dismantle an underground arms operation rumored to have HYDRA remnants involved. The team splits up,
Yelena and Ava sneak through air vents like spies who hate each other’s breathing patterns.
Alexei and John Walker argue the whole way—about strategy, sandwiches, and who’s America’s real sweetheart.
Bucky is sent in alone for recon because “he works better solo”.
Bucky wanders into what looks like an abandoned lab—but it’s a trap. He’s ambushed by masked soldiers and paralyzed by a HYDRA-tech shock device.
Then, dramatic slow-mo as the villain enters: Lotto, a smug Eurotrash scientist who talks like a Bond villain with a podcast. He reveals he’s been waiting for Bucky. Lotto holds an old HYDRA manual and says the trigger words.
Winter Soldier Mode: Activated.
ACT II – PRISON BREAK AND... TE AMO?
The team is captured, locked in cells side by side, still bickering. Bucky, now full Winter Soldier, watches them like a silent security camera with a knife.
Alexei: “Let me talk to him, we bonded over soup once.”
Yelena: “That was beet soup and lies.”
They try to plan a jailbreak—but argue too loudly. Bucky slams a baton against the bars and everyone shuts up like schoolkids caught passing notes.
That night, they pull off an escape plan involving improvised lockpicks, Alexei pretending to faint, and Yelena screaming in Russian. It works. They corner Bucky, and in desperation, Alexei finds a dusty Russian manual on HYDRA reprogramming.
He mutters the first phrase,
“Solnishko krasnoe.”
Suddenly—click.
Bucky freezes... then dramatically pivots.
And with perfect Latin flair, he smolders,
“¿Dónde estoy? Qué hermosa criatura eres...”
(Where am I? What a beautiful creature you are...)
He’s looking at Ava.
Everyone stares.
John: “Why is he talking like Antonio Banderas?”
Alexei: “I may have read the wrong manual. Or the right one?”
Now Bucky’s in Spanish mode—suave, romantic, and full of smolder. He winks constantly, uses unnecessary flourishes, and calls Ava “mi fantasma hermosa.”
They haul Bucky along as they prep for the next phase of the mission. He keeps doing random salsa spins and offering Ava roses he somehow finds???
Ava, the least prepared for attention, is red-eared and furious,
Ava: “Will you STOP it?”
Bucky: “Oh... mi corazón...” (Oh... my heart...)
He sulks like a sad flamenco dancer.
ACT III – CHAOS, COMBAT, AND CORAZÓN
Lotto's lair is booby-trapped and crawling with guards. The Thunderbolts storm in—Spanish Bucky included. He immediately saves Ava from a plasma blast.
Cue a dramatic moment. Bucky dips her mid-battle, dodging bullets as they twirl. Music swells (somehow).
Yelena: “ARE THEY DANCING?!”
Alexei: “This is the most romantic firefight I’ve ever seen.”
Walker: “We need therapy.”
In the chaos, Lotto tries to re-trigger Bucky—but nothing works. Turns out Spanish Bucky overwrites the Winter Soldier code.
Bucky KO’s Lotto with a dramatic one-liner,
“Lo siento... pero el amor es más fuerte que tú.” (Sorry… but love is stronger than you.)
They win
ACT IV – BACK TO BASELINE
Back at base, SHIELD delivers the actual correct manual. Alexei reluctantly reads the right sequence.
Click.
Bucky returns to normal. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief.
Bucky looks around, confused, but avoids eye contact.
Yelena: “You okay?”
Bucky: “I'm fine.”
Alexei: “You danced.”
Bucky: “Nope.”
Later, Ava quietly admits to Yelena, “I’ll miss the Spanish one a little…”
And elsewhere, Bucky reads a Spanish dictionary in secret.
the writer’s dilemma:
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