Hey, Recently Read Your Writing On Your Other Account And Was Wondering If You Were Going To Post Another

Ugh I need some good fic recs of Bucky being winter soldier PLEASE!!! I am BEGGING 😭

remember when.. I had this exact tea set growing up and miss it terribly

Fellow Top Gun Bob Floyd Enjoyers,, I got something cooking up Fr🧎 and I really hope you enjoy it when I post it tonight 🫣

Very tempted to give a sneak peak—

A FEAST

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick x Reader // has female parts !

A/N; okay so! This is a small Drabble so it’s like—cut short a bit? Along with this is a Drabble and uses female parts! Short word count! Also I’m still getting used to writing so I apologize if this is messy (┳◇┳) I will edit when I see fit for myself aha!

NSFW under the cut!

Gaz doesn’t know how he found himself in this position. His head full of lust, his tongue sucking up your lower lips. Your plush thighs on the side of his head, caging him in. And your soft mewls of pleasure make him twitch in his pants. He just came back from deployment—unlocking the doors of the shred house just to find you dressed in beautiful lingerie. And he couldn’t help himself. You were wrapped up like a present, from him to unwrap over and over again. And he loved it. His mind is fuzzy as he finds himself kneeled, while you’re laid on your back on the edge of the bed.

He eats you out like a starved man. Your plush thighs over his shoulder, while his hands rest under your upper thighs. His hands knead your flesh while his mouth slobbers against your wet slicked folds. He hums in delight as your taste fills his mouth. Your whimpered moans make him hard, but your lower lips make him harder. He’s still clothed in his shorts, yet he has no shirt. Your body lays naked on the bed. Sweat trickling down your forehead.

“Fuck love..” he whispers as his licks over your clit. The sounds of wet slurping noises follow after, sending waves of pleasure up and down your spine. He doesn’t speak to you—he speaks to your pussy. “So wet for me. So so fucking delicious.” He mutters, downright pussydrunk as his lips smack, covered in your juices.

His tongue is buried in your hole but peaks out to lick and feast more. Every time you try and squirm away his hold on you locks down. Forcing your body to push back up against his mouth, his nose, his face. His nose brushes up on your clit, officially making the majority of the bottom of his face wet with your slick.

His eyes close for a split second as he groans in pleasure. Inhaling your sex scent like it’s a new perfume. Slurping down your juices like a forbidden drink that’s supposed to be out of reach.

“Gaz!—Kyle.! Oh!” Your voice is hoarse as it calls out his Call Sign then his real name in pathetic mewls of pleasure.

One of your hands finds his head of hair, gripping it and making him grunt out. Your other hand trying to muffle your moans, yet proving unsuccessful as Gaz purposely trails up and down your wet folds and nips at your clit teasingly. Your body twitches in delight, his movements are so overwhelming. You can feel the knot in your lower belly. The way his tongue moves and explores your lower wet cavern. The way he doesn’t stop as he can feel you clench down on his tongue, only making him continue on more. He can taste you. He can feel you as you get more wetter under only his tongue and soft peppered kisses on your wetness.

Dripping, he thinks. You’re absolutely dripping. Soppy and wet and you coat his face so nice. His eyes peek open to look up. Your eyes are shut in pleasure and your mouth open as it produces those beautiful noises. His mouth leaves your soppy and quivering cunt for a moment, peppering wet kisses up your thighs. He can smell your scented body wash—inhaling it so nicely. But he cut himself short as his wet lips found your clit, his tongue teasing so nicely.

Sooooo, guess who’s writing a John Price x Reader where they’re childhood friends that love each other but won’t admit it! And years go by with communication that seems to diminish. Only for price to get a letter that he’s invited to a wedding…your wedding .! He doesn’t know how to feel, but he knows his heart pounds once again as his long lost love for you entere his mind….

There’s already two chapters in progress and my beta readers are helping out ! :]

Tw: cussing, angst, choking, bruises

Part 2

Words of Command - Part 3

The lights in Stark Tower dim on a gentle cycle—cool and golden like a fading sunset. You rub your eyes as the hallway stretches quiet and long before you, socks sliding soft over polished floors.

It’s late.

And you're exhausted.

You offer a tired goodnight to Steve, who nods with a warm smile from the common room couch, book half-forgotten in his lap.

Behind you… Bucky follows.

Silently. Footsteps so soft for a man made of steel and shadows.

You glance back at him. “You don’t have to follow me now,” you murmur, voice laced with sleep.

He tilts his head.

“Protection” he says simply.

Not a question.

A statement.

You bite your lip and nod—too tired to argue, too soft-hearted to tell him no. Still, anxiety coils in your gut.

You grab your Stark Phone and speed-dial Tony.

He answers after three rings, voice groggy and annoyed. “If this is about him eating toothpaste, I swear to God—”

“Tony,” you whisper. “He’s following me. Into my room.”

Pause.

“...Okay, that’s less funny. Still not my problem. Give him a blanket or something.”

“I don’t think he knows what blankets are, let alone boundaries,” you say, glancing at the man shadowing your every move like a silent sentinel.

“Yeah, well—RoboCop's not getting his own room until you've got him fully housetrained—Congrats, Thumbelina. You’re now the proud owner of a six-foot trauma-soaked heat-seeking murder puppy. Mazel tov.”

You sigh.

He hangs up.

You push open your bedroom door and slip inside, flicking on the lamp with a soft click.

The light spills across the room in a warm wash—cream walls, soft bedding, a shelf of books you haven’t had time to finish. It’s a safe space. Your space.

The Soldier follows.

And pauses.

Like an animal entering unfamiliar territory.

You move to the dresser, trying not to act weird. “I’m just getting ready for bed. You can—um… you can sit? Over there?”

He stands by the door. Watching.

Every mirror, every shadow, every flicker of movement, he tracks it all. Head snapping slightly, expression unreadable.

And then JARVIS speaks.

“Good evening, Miss. Shall I dim the—”

CLANG.

You whip around just in time to see him move—smooth and deadly, like a switch flipped inside his skull.

Arm raised, metal hand snapping toward a wall panel like he’s going to actually rip JARVIS straight out of the drywall.

“Shit—No!” you squeak, rushing forward.

He throws a glance over his shoulder—tense, locked in—but the moment his eyes meet yours, the storm stalls. His breathing is shallow. Pupils blown wide. JARVIS had startled him.

“Room compromised,” he says, clipped.

You place a hand on his arm—his flesh arm—and slowly ease him back.

“That’s just JARVIS. He’s… he’s like a ghost that lives in the walls, okay?”

He blinks. “...Ghost?”

You smile nervously. “He won’t hurt anyone.”

Slowly… so slowly… he lowers his arm.

But his eyes never stop moving.

You set your clothes down for the morning and glance over to find him standing in the corner, half-shadowed, metal hand flexing subtly at his side. Not speaking. Not relaxing.

Just watching.

“Do you… do you want to sleep?” you offer gently. “I could make a spot—on the wee couch, or…”

He doesn’t answer. But when you climb into bed, turn off the lamp, and settle under your blanket, you hear the smallest creak of the floor.

He moves.

He sits in the corner.

Back against the wall.

Facing the door.

Soldier on guard.

Watching.

Protecting.

Sometime in the night, you wake to a strange stillness.

The room is dark, but you can feel his presence.

Eyes heavy with sleep, you lift your head and see him still there—knees drawn up, eyes open.

He hasn’t moved.

Not once.

You whisper, “You can rest, too, you know…”

He says nothing.

But for the first time, his head tilts.

The soft hum of Stark Tower fills the silence like a heartbeat in a hollow chest. The skyline glows faint behind your blackout curtains, and somewhere distant, JARVIS murmurs about internal diagnostics.

But inside your room, there’s stillness.

You’ve long since drifted off to sleep, curled beneath layers of blankets, your breathing steady and quiet.

Across the room, seated in the corner where he’s kept watch for hours, Bucky or 'Soldat' is also asleep.

Or… trying.

His back is pressed against the wall, legs drawn in tight, arms rigid across his lap. He hadn’t meant to sleep. Hadn’t wanted to.

A whimper broke the silence. Bucky's head thrashed from side to side, his long hair flicking across his face with the movement. His metal fingers twitched and clenched.

But the moment his eyes had closed, the nightmare came.

His breath hitches.

It starts in his chest like a tremor, then takes hold—harder, faster. Metal fingers twitch. His jaw tightens. In the dark, his eyes move behind closed lids.

Russian words tumbled from his lips as his movements grew more agitated. Sweat beaded on his forehead as whatever nightmare has him in its grip tightened its hold.

Restraints.

Cold.

Hands.

Falling.

Needles.

The chair.

Pain.

The voice.

Pain.

That voice.

Pain.

"missiya" mission.

He jerks upright with a sudden violent inhale, like he’s surfacing from deep underwater. For a heartbeat, he’s not in Stark Tower.

He’s not in your bedroom.

He’s back in Siberia.

You jolt awake instantly—some part of your brain registering the shift in energy before your eyes even open.

But it’s too late.

The weight of a body is over you, the cold wrap of vibranium fingers tight around your throat.

He’s straddled you before his eyes even fully focus, breath ragged and guttural like a wolf mid-attack. There’s no recognition in his face—just movement.

You can’t breathe.

Your hands claw instinctively at his wrist—not to hurt him, just to get air.

Your voice comes out as a whisper, a desperate plea.

“Soldat—!”

The grip loosens instantly.

His eyes go wide.

Recognition blooms like a bomb going off in his chest.

He scrambles backward, nearly falling off the bed as his breath hitches and catches.

You swear for a second he looks at you like he’s seen a ghost.

“Handler,” he breathes, voice hollow.

A beat.

Then—

"Awaiting instructions, doll."

Ok—that's new—what the fuc—

The endearment slipped out, seemingly without his awareness.

Wait.

His voice.

You freeze.

The accent—it’s... lessened.

Still there, still faint, but there’s a tremor of something else beneath it. Something almost American. Like muscle memory from a past self is bleeding back in.

You massaged your throat, watching him warily. "What did you just call me?" you managed, your voice raspy.

You look at him—he’s curled into himself now, pressed against the far edge of your bed like he wants to disappear into the wall.

“Cryostasis?” he mutters.

A tremor starting in his flesh hand.

You frowned, confused by the unfamiliar term. "Cryostasis? What's that?" you asked cautiously.

His eyes darted to your face, then away, as though even acknowledging the question might be a violation of protocol.

"Cold comes. Then nothing." His odd new accent stumbled over the clinical description.

You whisper, “It’s okay.”

His head shakes—once, hard. “No.”

“That is not going to happen,” you say softly.

He doesn’t answer.

You reach for him—not fast, not aggressive. Just enough to brush your fingers against his sleeve. You’re shaking. So is he.

“I shouldn’t have woken you like that,” you whisper.

His eyes flash to yours.

“You shouldn’t come near me.”

He says it like a warning. Like he’s dangerous. A loaded weapon without a safety.

The morning light leaks into Stark Tower through sleek glass panels, catching dust motes in golden slants. The smell of coffee and toast drifts from the communal kitchen as the Avengers mill around in various states of half-awake bickering.

Tony is already three steps ahead, tapping away at a holographic interface while bemoaning someone using his milk.

You step inside, shoulders pulled in, your oversized hoodie swallowing your frame. Your neck is artfully concealed—layers of makeup, your hair tucked to one side, collar tugged high. You don’t want them to see.

Behind you, Bucky moves like a shadow—soundless but ever-present. His eyes never leave you. He doesn’t acknowledge the others.

“Jesus,” Clint mutters under his breath, low enough that only Natasha hears. “He’s still glued to her.”

Natasha doesn’t respond. Her eyes are locked on Bucky. Calculating.

Steve is seated at the far end of the room, newspaper in one hand, coffee in the other—but when you walk in, his eyes lift over the rim of the mug. They soften. Then narrow.

Then shift to the Soldier.

Something is off.

Tony glances up from his projections.

“Morning, Thumbelina,” he greets, in that usual teasing voice he uses when pretending not to care too much. Then his gaze flicks to you again—and he stills.

You’re not quite fast enough with your coffee mug.

His eyes catch the edge of discoloration peeking beneath your concealer—faint, but unmistakable. A handprint, forming from throat to jaw. Not quite healed. Not quite hidden.

His expression drops.

“What the hell is that?”

You freeze mid-sip.

The room goes quiet.

Tony’s voice cuts the air like a blade. “That better not be what I think it is.”

Your throat closes. “Tony—”

“I knew it. I knew the 'silent Soviet scarecrow' routine was just a breath away from having a full-on Hulk-themed episode!”

Bucky reacts instantly.

The tension in his shoulders coils tight like a sprung trap. His jaw clenches, head snapping toward Stark like a weapon finding a target.

One step forward—fast. Direct.

“Back down.”

His voice is low, cold. His accent is faded but not gone—words flatter, more clipped. American ghosts clinging to Russian steel.

Steve’s head tilts.

Tony lifts his hands, mockingly. “Oh, look at that! RoboRambo speaks. Did they teach you that in murder school or is that the accent of a guy trying to remember who he used to be?”

Bucky’s fist tightens. Metal groaning.

Your hand shoots out, placing it on his chest.

“Doll,” he says instantly, like the word grounds him.

"Stand Down ... Please"

He nods.

But his attention doesn’t leave you.

Not for one second.

Steve stands slowly. Not threatening. Just observing.

“You hear that?” he says quietly to the room, gaze on Stark but words aimed at Bucky. “His voice. It’s… changing.”

“Changing into what?” Tony mutters, pacing slightly now. “The warm tones of someone who nearly crushed her windpipe in her sleep?”

Bucky flinches. It’s subtle—but it’s there.

“Tony, please,” you whisper. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“Oh, no, I forgot—brainwashing, programming, whatever. But forgive me if I don’t want my employees being used as a therapy animal for the man who can snap necks like breadsticks!”

Bucky stares blankly.

None of the names or faces mean anything to him.

But the tension rising in you—that registers.

He steps protectively between you and Tony.

“Neutralize the threat,” he says coldly.

“No, no—” Your hands are shaking. “Don’t do that. There’s no threat. Tony’s just… being Tony.”

“Irritating?” Clint offers, trying to diffuse the moment. “Yeah, he’s great at that.”

Steve crosses the room slowly.

“Bucky,” he tries.

The Soldier’s gaze doesn’t flicker. His expression doesn’t change.

There’s no flicker of recognition in those eyes. Only patience. Obedience. A mind made of shattered glass slowly piecing itself back together.

You guide him gently to the table. He lets you. When you move, he follows. When you speak, he listens.

But when others speak?

He blinks. No comprehension.

“Why doesn’t he know us?” Natasha asks softly. Her words are for Steve.

“I don’t know,” Steve murmurs. “But the accent fading… that’s gotta be memory. It means someone’s still in there.”

Tony crosses his arms, looking you dead in the eye. “You need to be honest with us. If you’re in danger—”

“I’m not.”

“You could’ve died.”

“But I didn’t,” you say. Your voice is small. “And he stopped the second he realized.”

“And then went right back to calling you ‘Handler,’” Tony snaps.

How to Lose 'Bob' in 10 Days

Characters: Bob x Y/N, Robert Reynolds x Y/N, Sentry x Y/N, The Void x Y/N

Summary: You thought you'd lost, your husband, Robert Reynolds forever. Consumed by the Void and the chaos it left behind. But then you woke up in a world not your own. One where he's alive. Where he goes by Bob. Where he doesn't know you. To him, you’re a stranger. You have 10 days to lose him, before everything falls apart. But the cracks are already forming. Time stutters. Reality bends. And something followed you here, something made of grief, memory, and everything you refused to let die. As you try to lose Bob in 10 days, the world unravels with every lie you tell yourself. You’ll have to make an impossible choice: hold on to the man you love, or face the truth and finally let him go. Because if you don’t... this world won’t just end. You might go with it.

Word Count: 2081

Warnings: Mentions of grief, Violent/Graphic, A dark twisted version of How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, Spoilers maybe? (Please let me know if I should add anymore.)

Note from the author: This is my work, and I will be posting on here and @ strawb3rrygal on Archivesofourown. Keep in mind these are my ONLY TWO accounts. Please feel free to reblog if you like it! I've been working on this one as I write my other fic 'The Temp' which you can also check out if you'd like.

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Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that something was… wrong.

It started with the silence. The usual commotion outside her apartment — shouting neighbors, honking cars, the occasional bark of that yappy Pomeranian two floors down—had dulled into a hushed, almost reverent quiet. It wasn’t the peaceful kind. It was the kind that felt staged. Like the city had paused to see if she’d notice.

Even the air in the apartment felt heavier, colder. Like it had forgotten how to move.

She sat up in bed, slowly, rubbing her face with both hands. Her skin was clammy. Her breath fogged slightly in the air. She hadn't been sleeping well lately. Her dreams always ended with the same sensation, falling through a place she’d never seen, toward something that knew her name.

Y/N glanced around the room, but it felt… distant. The walls looked just a little too clean. Her furniture, though familiar, felt arranged by someone else. Her plants sat perfectly healthy on the windowsill, but she couldn’t remember the last time she watered them. Did I do that?

She moved to her cabinet, rifling through underwear with robotic purpose. Sometimes, she found comfort in small rituals wearing something pretty, layering clothes like armor. She settled on a violet lace set that used to make her feel soft and strong at the same time. She tugged on thick leg warmers, worn jeans, and her favorite winter boots. The white fuzzy sweater she pulled over her head enveloped her in warmth, but even its softness felt muted. Almost unfamiliar.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she padded into the kitchen or what passed as one. After Robert’s death, she’d left behind the bigger apartment, moved closer to her office, to the city, to noise. To distraction. Now, the noise was gone. The distractions had turned their backs.

She poured herself cereal, sliced up a banana, and scattered some chia seeds across the top like she always did. She chewed slowly, eyes drifting out the window and froze.

A billboard stood across the street. Large. White background. Red letters. It wasn’t there yesterday.

Y/N narrowed her eyes. The ad was for a new Broadway show she didn’t recognize. The slogan beneath it read: “It’s not too late to come home.”

She blinked.

Was it a coincidence? A strange marketing ploy? She tilted her head, as though looking at it from a different angle would explain away the chill creeping up her spine.

She shrugged, more to herself than to anyone, and looked away. But the sensation didn’t leave.

Finished with her breakfast, she slipped on her jacket, slung her bag over her shoulder, and stepped outside. The air bit at her cheeks. Pedestrians passed her with heads bowed, not making eye contact. No one bumped into her. No one spoke. The street was the same—and yet it wasn’t.

Her building’s bricks looked darker. The corner coffee shop had changed names. The newspaper vendor on 42nd street was missing. She told herself she must’ve overlooked it. Told herself she was tired. Still healing. 

But healing didn’t feel like this.

At work, everything looked normal. Her coworkers greeted her with practiced smiles. She smiled back. She said good morning. She walked to her desk and turned on her screen.

Y/N was a writer for the nation’s most beloved women’s magazine, a voice of modern relationships and hope-filled advice columns. She had a dedicated readership. A strong social media presence. A decent salary. On paper, she had everything.

But every word she wrote about love felt like a betrayal.

She wanted more. Real stories. Stories about people who were never offered the soft landings she described in her columns. She wanted to write about the cracks in the justice system, about prisons dressed as reform. About things that mattered. Things her boss didn’t care for.

In the beginning, she made it work. Being married to Robert Reynolds had made her an expert in the language of love. In heartbreak. In grief. But then… the Void. Then Thor. And then silence.

Y/N blinked at her computer screen. Her reflection stared back, faint in the black glass. She looked… slightly off. Like the reflection was lagging. Or waiting.

She reached out to shake the mouse and for a moment, just a moment, her reflection didn’t follow. She paused. A strange pressure built behind her eyes. Then the screen flickered on. Her inbox loaded. The moment passed. She swallowed hard and forced herself to breathe.

Maybe she was still dreaming. Maybe it was just grief. Maybe she was just tired.

But somewhere deep inside, something whispered You’re not supposed to be here.

A sharp tap on her monitor startled her. Y/N’s eyes snapped upward.

Tara stood there, grinning wide, her hair sleek and pin-straight completely different from her usual crown of soft, carefree curls. It made her look polished. Almost artificial. Like someone had run her through a filter.

“Morning, sunshine,” Tara chirped.

Y/N blinked. “Morning…”

“You ready for the meeting?”

“Which meeting?”

Tara laughed shaking her head. “The pitch meeting. Elise wants something viral. Fresh blood. She's been in a mood all morning, so bring the juice.”

Y/N nodded, but her mind was still half-submerged in static. The pitch meeting. Right. She’d forgotten. That strange fog hadn’t lifted since she woke up. She couldn’t tell if it was stress… or something more invasive. Something crawling just beneath the skin of the world. She rose from her chair, pushing aside the low thrum in her head, and followed Tara toward the glass conference room.

Then stopped. Her breath caught in her throat. Inside, surrounded by laughter and coffee cups, sat Marlene. Marlene who had spent last night on Y/N’s couch, red-eyed and blotchy, sniffling into a wine-stained hoodie. Marlene, who had sworn off men forever after the barista she’d been seeing ghosted her for not owning a French press.

And yet here she was. Early. Polished. Smiling. Her posture crisp, her lipstick perfect, not a tear-streak in sight.

Had she imagined it? The crying? The whole night?

Y/N sat beside Tara and forced herself to breathe, ignoring the pressure clamping down on her chest.

“All right,” Elise snapped, breezing in with the presence of someone who lived off cortisol and sugarless espresso. She clapped once. “Let’s talk ideas. Love, lust, the dopamine dance—whatever keeps readers clicking even when their rent’s overdue.”

Stella, their photographer, raised a hand like a schoolgirl on fire. “I got Sam Wilson to agree to a spread. Flight to New York is booked. We’ll shoot by Sunday.”

“Beautiful,” Elise said with a tight smile. “Next?”

Her eyes slid to Marlene.

Y/N braced herself.

Marlene blinked. For a second, her expression went blank like someone had unplugged her.

“Uhh…” she started, stalling. “I was thinking… maybe…”

Tara jumped in, her voice a little too bright. “We were discussing the new Avengers this morning.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed. The new Avengers? That was the first she’d heard of it.

Elise tilted her head. “Go on.”

Tara nudged Y/N with her elbow.

Y/N cleared her throat, racking her brain. She couldn’t think of anything New Avengers related so instead she said: “Maybe we flip the usual love column. Instead of giving advice on what to do… we show readers what not to do. Like…” She looked at Marlene and felt a little pang of guilt at her next words. “Sabotage a relationship on purpose.”

Elise raised a brow. “Intentionally?”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah…” She thought for a moment. “You know… every red flag. Clingy texts. Sudden jealousy. Oversharing childhood trauma on the first date. Show readers what bad behavior looks like in real time.”

A slow grin crept across Elise’s face. “Interesting. And what’s the hook?”

Y/N hesitated. She felt the weight of Marlene’s eyes. The clock ticked too loudly.

“How to… lose a guy?” she offered weakly.

Elise laughed, the sound sharp and amused. “How to Lose a Guy… in 10 Days. I like it.”

“Why ten?” Tara asked, leaning forward.

“Seven’s too short, and we go to press in twelve,” Elise said with a shrug.

The room buzzed with excitement. Everyone nodded. Marlene even clapped.

But Y/N felt nothing. Not pride. Not relief. Just hollowness.

Because in her world she hadn’t needed ten days to lose the love of her life.

Just one.

One catastrophic day when the sky cracked like glass. One moment when Thor’s lightning lit up the battlefield and left smoke and silence in its place. One breath held tight in her throat, when Robert, the Sentry, turned to her with eyes rimmed in black and begged her to forgive him. Forgive the thing he’d become.

Her smile stretched across her face like cellophane. Tight. Fragile.

Her fingers trembled.

“And… one more thing,” Elise said, voice slicing through the buzz. The room stilled. Every eye snapped to her. Even the air seemed to lean in.

“About the new Avengers,” she continued. “The column would really pop if the guy you lose was one of them.”

A collective gasp rippled across the table like a wave. Y/N blinked; a beat too slow. The thought hadn’t occurred to her before she’d have to actually date someone. Not theoretically. Not hypothetically. Actually. She hadn’t done that, not since Robert.

Her stomach dropped.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice hollow. “The new Avengers?”

Marlene let out a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Have you been living under a rock?”

“There’s a whole new lineup,” Marlene went on. “Less Iron Man, more... walking HR violations.”

Tara snorted. “God. Remember John Walker? He’s newly divorced, right?”

“Ugh, please don’t,” Marlene shuddered. “He smells like Axe body spray and bad decisions. Maybe she could go for someone less... sociopathic?”

Tara leaned forward, practically swooning. “What about Bucky? He’s handsome. Mysterious. That arm?”

Y/N didn’t respond. Her pulse had started to climb, a steady drumbeat of panic behind her ribs.

Elise tapped a pen against the table, calm as ever. “Maybe we should push for a deeper angle someone off-grid. The one no one’s cracked yet.”

Y/N glanced up. Something in Elise’s tone had changed. 

“There’s a mystery man in the files,” Elise continued. “Operates alone. They’ve been calling him Bob.”

The name landed like a grenade in her chest.

Y/N’s breath caught. “Bob?”

Elise flipped through her notes, reading aloud without a shred of awareness for the horror she was conjuring. “Yeah. Real name might be Robert Reynolds. He’s not officially affiliated, but our contacts say he’s powered. Dangerous. Probably not even registered. The government’s been hush-hush. Some kind of asset gone rogue.”

Y/N stopped breathing. Her heart pounded like fists against a locked door. That name. That name.

Robert Reynolds.

Her Robert. Her husband. Dead. Dead. Burned to nothing but a shadow at the edge of a battlefield. She had watched the light leave him, seen his eyes turn black, his voice split by the Void inside him. She held his body when it cooled. He was gone. Gone.

And yet…

Tara’s hand brushed hers. “Hey,” she whispered. “You okay?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her lungs had turned to glass. Her throat closed tight. This isn’t real. It can’t be real. Because nothing about her life since waking up had made sense. Her bedroom drawers had clothes she didn’t remember buying. The skyline was off, wrong buildings in the wrong places. Little things, piling up.

And now this.

Robert. Bob. Alive?

Elise looked up; one brow arched like a blade. “Is there an issue?”

Y/N stared at her, the world trembling at the edges. Like it might peel back and show her something too big to survive. Her mouth opened. Words didn’t come. But she forced herself to breathe. She had to. She had to play along. Had to get close. Had to see this man whoever he was. If it was really him. If it was a dream. If it was a lie.

“No,” she said finally, her voice hoarse and splintering.

She curled her fingers into a fist under the table, nails digging into her palm like a tether to her reality.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

And just like that, it was done. She had been assigned to destroy a man who wore the name and possibly the face of her dead husband.

And no one in the room even noticed the crack in her voice. Or the scream trying to claw its way out of her throat.

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Author Post Note: mueheh :)

🚨Help save my DISABLED Grandmother and my family from Gaza

I am Hamsa Mohammad, a 24 years old Engineer, I just graduated when the war occurred ! My mother and I were very lucky and escaped 5 Months ago .. but we left our hearts in Gaza! We didn't mean to leave them behind .. we feel guilty every single day that we're safe while they're not ! We tried everything but couldn't collect the funds, my mother is a single mother and we are barely managing to cover our expenses and sending them as much as we can to help them survive in Gaza . Until a friend I met here in Cairo, told me that hopefully you will help us ! 🙏🙏🙏 Help Me Rescue my Family of 4 from Gaza : • MY 83 years old DISABLED GRANDMOTHER (ستي فوزية) right before this war she suffered from a broken pelvis and a broken left hand, and she cannot walk or even go to the bathroom. She also suffers from severe heart muscle weakness and needs many medications, diapers and a urinary catheter ,they can't even find or afford proper drugs and painkillers , everything is extremely expensive PLEASE WE NEED TO GET HER OUT ASAP !! • MY SISTER AND HER FAMILY - Lamis and her husband Malik (29 and 32 years old) They're both sick and suffer from Hepatitis type A.

•Karma 3 Months Old: She is 3 months old , she was born through this terrible war in a tent .. She is malnourished , gets sick ,intestinal catarrh and fevers all the time ! •Ghaith 3 years old: He suffers from severe allergic reactions and he vomits, get sick all the time from polluted water and bad food They're all cramped up in a tentwith other people .. Please I PLEAD to you help them escape

PLEASE SAVE HAMSA'S FAMILY FROM GAZA PLEASE HELP US !! Donate HERE SHARE AND DONATE AND MENTION IF POSSIBLE !!

gofundme.com

Donate to Help me and my little family to survive!, organised by Samah Alghoul

Hello, my name is Samah. I'm a single mother with two daughters, Hamsa and… Samah Alghoul needs your support for Help me and my little

Donate HERE

EVERY € COUNTS !!!

We need the money for :

Travel arrangements to Egypt ( $5000- per person) for 4 family members.

Urgent Medical Treatment and surgery for my Grandmother( $3000-$5000).

Housing expenses.

Living and transportation expenses during the initial period of travel.

Food and medical expenses.

VERIFIED FUNDRAISER BY @nabulsi

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