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deimosphilic · 12 days ago

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Hello! Can I request something with John Walker (established relationship)? Maybe where reader meets his kid and Olivia for the first time? That or maybe John and reader takes care of reader’s baby niece together? Whichever is easier for you!!

to say you were nervous would be the understatement of the year.

it wasn’t about the judgmental stares or the whispers behind your back, not even about the headlines still circulating about him. you didn’t care what the public thought of you dating john walker. the man the world couldn’t forget, the one still infamous for spilling blood in broad daylight. let them talk. let them sneer. you knew who he was now, not who he had to be then.

no, none of that scared you.

olivia did.

the mother of his child. the woman who’d known him before the trauma, before the uniform, before the weight of the shield twisted his life into something unrecognisable. she was part of a version of him you could never touch, a version you’d only heard about in vague, careful sentences and half-finished memories.

she mattered. and now, you were going to meet her.

you weren’t foolish enough to think she and john were still anything; they weren’t. that chapter was long closed. but this wasn’t just some ex. this was the mother of his son. she had permanent space in his life, and you? you were still finding your place. so no, it wasn’t about jealousy. it was about approval. you needed her to like you, and not because you wanted validation, but because you knew how much peace her acceptance could bring. to him, to the relationship, to everything.

if she didn’t? you weren’t sure what you’d do. probably spiral. maybe implode.

“i’m nervous, johnny,” you murmured, voice small as you looked up at him with a shaky smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, a tell you couldn’t hide. “what if she hates me? or… or what if she thinks i’m not right for you? she knows you better than anyone, and—”

john didn’t let you finish.

he leaned down, closing the space between you, and pressed a slow, steady kiss to your lips. it wasn’t rushed; it was grounding. you felt your breath catch, your body leaning into his without thinking, the rhythm of your nerves faltering under the warmth of his mouth.

when he pulled back, his hands came up to frame your face, rough palms warm against your skin. his thumbs brushed over your cheeks like he was smoothing away every jagged thought.

“she’s gonna love you, baby,” he said, voice low but certain. “and my kid? he’s gonna love you even more. i promise.”

there was no hesitation in him, no flicker of doubt in his eyes — just that quiet, unwavering confidence he carried when he meant every word. and for the first time all day, you believed him.

when john knocked on the door, three quiet, tentative taps, it felt like the sound echoed straight through your chest. it didn’t take long for it to open.

olivia stood there, framed in the doorway, her presence softer than you’d expected. “hi,” she greeted, voice gentle, carrying a kind of warmth that immediately made your shoulders ease just a little. her smile wasn’t forced or polite; it was genuine, the kind that made it feel like she was inviting you into more than just her home.

she had their son in her arms, his small head tucked shyly into her shoulder. you’d expected a burst of energy or at least some curious staring, but he clung to her quietly, peeking at you with big, cautious eyes.

oddly enough, you found comfort in his shyness, mirroring your own in this moment. if you were both a little hesitant, maybe you could meet somewhere in the middle.

after the initial greetings, the four of you drifted into the living room, john guiding you gently with a hand at your back. you settled on the couch beside him, his son perched comfortably in his arms, while olivia took the loveseat across from you.

at first, you were quiet. not painfully so, but reserved, answering questions when they were asked, offering small smiles, and careful nods. when john’s son looked at you, you waved softly, your tone warm but tentative, not wanting to overwhelm him.

it was a slow easing in. the hum of conversation filled the space, olivia’s friendly questions softened the edges of your nerves, and john occasionally brushed his knee against yours as if to remind you he was there. you found yourself relaxing in increments, your words flowing a little easier each time you spoke, the awkward pauses between your sentences shrinking.

somewhere between olivia telling a story from john’s academy days and the boy quietly playing with the cuff of his dad’s sleeve, you realised you were laughing, actually engaging, instead of just hanging on the sidelines.

then john shifted, glanced at you with that small, knowing smile, and without a word, passed his son into your arms. the little boy came willingly, resting against you with a weight that felt strangely significant. and as you looked down at him, tiny fingers curling into your shirt, the last of your nervousness began to dissolve.

for the rest of the afternoon, john’s son seemed perfectly content in your arms, as if you’d been holding him forever. every so often, he’d tilt his head back to look up at you, his small mouth curling into a smile that showed just enough teeth to make your heart squeeze. his “conversations” came in bursts, half-formed words, excited pointing at things in the room, and little giggles when you mirrored his sounds.

somewhere along the way, the atmosphere shifted from polite to familiar. you and olivia found yourselves trading stories, most of them at john’s expense. it didn’t matter if they were from years ago or something that had happened on the way over; if it made john groan or roll his eyes, it was fair game.

olivia, with that mischievous smile of hers, told you about the time john got stuck halfway up a fence trying to impress some neighbourhood kids. you countered with a more recent tale, john insisting he could fix your leaky faucet without tools, only to make it worse.

by the third round of teasing, john was slouched back in the couch, his arm stretched along the back behind you, trying, and failing, to hide the smirk tugging at his mouth. ��you two are real funny,” he muttered, though his tone lacked any real bite.

even his son seemed to catch on, glancing between the three of you with wide-eyed curiosity, giggling every time you or olivia laughed. and with each shared look, each light-hearted jab at the man beside you, that lingering tension you’d been holding onto in the pit of your stomach slowly unravelled — replaced by something warm, easy, and almost domestic.

and when it finally came time to leave, you found yourself hesitating, dragging out small goodbyes. you hadn’t expected that. not from you.

#mars writes *:･ﾟ #john walker #john walker x reader #john walker fluff #us agent #captain america #thunderbolts #mcu #marvel mcu #avengers #new avengers #john walker smut #us agent x reader #us agent smut #captain america x reader #us agent fluff #captain america smut #captain america fluff

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deimosphilic · 12 days ago

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to say you were nervous would be the understatement of the year.

no, none of that scared you.

olivia did.

she mattered. and now, you were going to meet her.

if she didn’t? you weren’t sure what you’d do. probably spiral. maybe implode.

“i’m nervous, johnny,” you murmured, voice small as you looked up at him with a shaky smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, a tell you couldn’t hide. “what if she hates me? or… or what if she thinks i’m not right for you? she knows you better than anyone, and—”

john didn’t let you finish.

when he pulled back, his hands came up to frame your face, rough palms warm against your skin. his thumbs brushed over your cheeks like he was smoothing away every jagged thought.

“she’s gonna love you, baby,” he said, voice low but certain. “and my kid? he’s gonna love you even more. i promise.”

there was no hesitation in him, no flicker of doubt in his eyes — just that quiet, unwavering confidence he carried when he meant every word. and for the first time all day, you believed him.

when john knocked on the door, three quiet, tentative taps, it felt like the sound echoed straight through your chest. it didn’t take long for it to open.

oddly enough, you found comfort in his shyness, mirroring your own in this moment. if you were both a little hesitant, maybe you could meet somewhere in the middle.

by the third round of teasing, john was slouched back in the couch, his arm stretched along the back behind you, trying, and failing, to hide the smirk tugging at his mouth. “you two are real funny,” he muttered, though his tone lacked any real bite.

and when it finally came time to leave, you found yourself hesitating, dragging out small goodbyes. you hadn’t expected that. not from you.

#mars got mail *:･ﾟ #john walker ⋆#john walker #john walker x reader #john walker fluff #us agent #captain america #thunderbolts #mcu #marvel mcu #avengers #new avengers #john walker smut #us agent x reader #us agent smut #captain america x reader #captain america smut #us agent fluff #captain america fluff

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deimosphilic · 12 days ago

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PAS DE DEUX | JAMES "BUCKY" BARNES

SUMMARY ⋆ you and bucky had been torn apart by time, war, and everything in between. who would’ve thought it’d be the ballet, the one thing that never changed, that would bring your worlds colliding again?

PAIRING ⋆ bucky barnes x fem!reader

WARNINGS ⋆ suicidal ideation, auditory hallucinations, mention of sterilisation, lowercase intended, no use of y/n, povs are switching

A/N ⋆ bare with gang i don't write for bucky at all. this is a request so i hope i did it justice!!

TAGS ⋆ @merrydoemas

WORD COUNT ⋆ 5.7k

james barnes, 2027

bucky remembered you.

not much else endured — names, places, even pieces of himself had faded — but you remained. a flicker in the fog. he knew your face, though mostly from the worn photo steve had pressed into his hand, a desperate offering to memory. but some things didn’t need prompting. he remembered the way you moved, graceful and deadly. how you brought down ten armed men as if dancing through smoke and fire, the day steve tore him from hydra’s grip.

and beyond the battlefields and blood, he remembered softness. the warmth of your voice. the way your laughter wove easily with his sister rebecca’s, like music he hadn’t heard in lifetimes.

he remembered you, but it wasn’t enough.

after washington d.c., after the wreckage left in the wake of captain america, he searched for you. he scoured shadows, followed whispers, and hunted the ghost of one of history’s most infamous widows. but no matter how deep he dug, you were gone. vanished.

he saw you once. maybe twice. in siberia, buried in ice, encased in glass and silence. a body in a cryochamber. expressionless. still. back then, you were just another frozen weapon on the shelf. he didn’t know who you were. didn’t remember.

but now, with the fog lifted and the pieces returned, he knew. he should have known then. even as the winter soldier, even drowning in the dark, something in him should’ve stirred. should have recognised your shape. but he didn’t. he was too far gone.

even after the final battle with thanos, the search didn’t stop. victory meant nothing, not to him. not without you. he combed through every shadowed corner of the world, called in old favours, and stirred up ghosts from his past. but you were always just out of reach. a phantom slipping through cracks. a reflection in broken glass. a ghost, like he was.

then he met yelena belova. and with her came hope. sharp, fragile, dangerous. she could lead him to you.

through the years, he learnt the truth: what happened after his fall. how, without him, without dr. abraham erskine, the mentor who once shielded you, there was no one left to protect you. how the red room found you again. how they took you. broke you. used you.

turned you into a weapon all over again.

he was certain yelena would know you. even if your paths had never crossed, your name would’ve lingered, etched into red room history like a scar. and he was right.

“i knew her,” yelena said quietly. “she trained me.”

there was a flicker in her eyes — respect, maybe even reverence. “they called it an honour, y’know, to be trained by her.”

then, after a pause, softer still: “last i heard… she died. i’m so sorry, bucky.”

the words landed like a blow, but he didn’t flinch. he just stood there, still as stone, letting them settle into the hollow spaces inside him.

he had always known it was possible — likely, even. the years had passed like smoke, and hope was a fragile, foolish thing to carry for so long. but still, some part of him, buried deep, stubborn and aching, had believed he’d find you. that he wasn’t too late. now he knew. and somehow, knowing hurt more than not knowing ever had.

the grief wasn’t loud. it didn’t crash or burn. it was quiet and heavy. it wrapped around his ribs like wire. tight. breathless. it pulled him backward through time, to memories that didn’t always feel real. your laughter, your hands, the way you fought like fire and held people like they were glass.

you had survived so much. outlasted war, loss, and the red room itself. but not forever. and now, all he had left of you was memory. fractured, incomplete, but his. he would carry that. like penance, like prayer. because even though the world didn't know you, he did. and he wouldn't forget you, not ever.

he felt guilty for grieving you.

it haunted him, that ache. because the truth was, he remembered you longer than he had ever truly known you. a handful of moments, a few sharp memories carved out before everything fell apart. and yet those fragments had lived inside him for decades, outlasting empires, wars, and identities. it felt wrong, selfish even, to mourn someone whose life had barely brushed against his. who hadn’t asked to be remembered this way.

he hadn’t seen you in eighty years. he wasn’t sure if you’d still recognise him, if you’d want to. so who was he to carry this grief like a birthright? and yet he did.

after the blip, when he returned to a world that had moved on without him, he found steve who was old, tired, and done. and with that, something in bucky cracked. the one person who had always believed in him was gone, not dead, but gone all the same. chose a life that didn’t include him. chose peace, love, and a different ending.

and bucky was left with nothing but silence. he couldn’t find you. steve had let go. and suddenly, the weight of being alive felt unbearable. he never told anyone, but he wanted to die.

not in a blaze of glory, not in some final act of redemption. no. he just wanted to stop. to stop waking up to a world where you weren’t waiting. where no one was.

but he didn’t.

somewhere in the darkest part of him, something small and stubborn kept breathing. it was your voice, maybe, albeit not a memory, not a ghost, but a possibility. a thought.

if you were still alive, still you, you would never forgive him for giving up. you would’ve hated to find out he was gone. that he had ended it himself. that he couldn't bear to keep living in a world you once fought so hard to survive in. and that was what kept him going. not hope, not exactly. just the thought of you, angry, defiant, alive in his mind. you couldn’t live for him, but somehow, that gave him just enough reason to live for you.

sometimes, he could hear you. not in the way that made sense, not in dreams or hallucinations, but in the quiet moments, when the world slipped into silence and his mind cracked open just wide enough. you were there, barely a breath, a whisper curled around the edges of memory.

you never said much. never gave speeches or comfort or answers. just his name, soft and uncertain, like a question falling into darkness: "jamie?"

it was the way you used to say it, back when that name meant something. before the winter soldier. before the red room. before the world taught both of you that kindness could be taken and twisted into a weapon. some nights, that voice was all that kept him tethered. a thread, fraying but still there. he would lie awake, still as death, and listen, wondering if it was memory or madness, and which one he deserved more.

but not every whisper was gentle.

on his worst nights, the ones that clawed at his skull and pulled him back into blood and ice, your voice turned sharp. cruel. desperate. it wasn’t really you, not truly, but it sounded like you. and that was enough to make it real. you would beg him to kill himself. tell him it was time. that there was nothing left. that he didn’t deserve peace, didn’t deserve breath, didn’t deserve you. you would whisper it like a curse.

sometimes, he almost listened.

because part of him agreed. part of him believed you were right. that this world wasn’t made for ghosts like him. that all he’d done, all he’d lost, had left him too hollow to be anything but a burden. but the other part — the one that still clung to the sound of your real voice, the one that remembered your touch, your fire, your refusal to break — fought to hold on.

he never knew which voice was yours and which was his own self-hate wearing your face. but either way, they both lived inside him.

even after he found a new family, the thunderbolts, he still heard you.

he had hoped that would be the turning point. that surrounding himself with others like him, broken people trying to do some kind of good, would help stitch the wounds closed. he thought that maybe purpose could be enough. that maybe connection, even imperfect, could quiet the ghosts.

but healing wasn’t a destination. it wasn’t clean. it wasn’t linear. and it didn’t come just because he wanted it to. so even among them, even with the late-night laughs, the camaraderie forged in chaos, and the fragile trust that took months to build, he still carried you like a scar beneath the surface.

he still heard you in the quiet. still felt your breath at the edge of sleep. sometimes a whisper. sometimes a scream. sometimes just the crushing absence of you.

he had new people now. people who had his back, who saw the good in him even when he couldn’t. but it didn’t erase the past. it didn’t silence the voice in his head or stop the nightmares from dragging him under. he still woke up some nights gasping, soaked in sweat, fists clenched, heart pounding to the rhythm of a war long over.

no matter how far he came, a part of him would always be stuck in the shadows of his old life. in the blood. the ice. and in the soft, splintered echo of your voice. because some wounds don’t close. some ghosts don’t leave. and some people, no matter how much time has passed, never really let you go.

so when de fontaine announced that the new avengers were attending the ballet, bucky didn’t know what to do. she called it a pr move. something light, something polished, something to make the world see this fractured, lethal team as human, as heroes. a night of elegance and spectacle that might soften their edges in the public eye.

but to bucky, it wasn’t just a photo op. it was a battlefield.

he hadn’t stepped foot inside a ballet theatre in over eighty years. hadn’t let himself hear the music or see the way dancers moved like breath turned to motion. he couldn’t. not after you.

you had danced with a grace that made violence look like art. every step you took had meaning. every turn, every pause was all deliberate, fierce, alive. he remembered the way your body moved with purpose, even off the stage. even in combat. especially in combat. ballet was in your bones. it was how you survived, how you fought.

and now, watching someone else do it, watching another body take the stage in your place, felt unbearable. he couldn’t watch someone else chase perfection in pointe shoes when the last dancer he ever truly saw was you.

so no, he wouldn’t go. he couldn’t pretend this was normal. couldn't sit there in a velvet chair, surrounded by applause, and act like his chest wasn’t hollowed out by the memory of you.

james barnes, 1944

“where’d ya learn all that?” he asked with a soft smile as the music faded, the record slowing to a stop, its final notes curling into silence like smoke.

you turned toward him, still catching your breath from the dance, eyes alight with something distant, maybe a memory. when you saw his face, your smile widened, warm and genuine in a way few people ever got to see.

“красная комната,” you said quietly. “the red room. it’s where i was raised.”

your words hung in the space between you, delicate and heavy all at once.

you didn’t say it with bitterness, not exactly, but there was something behind your voice. a weight that never really left. the dance had looked effortless, beautiful even, but now the truth behind it gave it a new shape. discipline forged in violence, elegance born from survival.

he didn’t say anything right away. just looked at you with that half-smile you’d always loved, the one that tugged a little more on the left side, the one that said more than he ever needed to.

“s’pretty,” he mumbled after a moment, his voice low and a little rough. he took a few slow steps toward you, hands finding their way to your waist like they belonged there. like they always had.

“you’re pretty,” he added under his breath, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “but you already know that.”

there was that familiar glint in his eye, the boyish confidence, and the easy charm. but underneath it, something softer lived. something quieter. admiration laced with a kind of reverence, like he couldn’t believe you were real and right in front of him.

he pulled you closer, close enough that the space between you all but disappeared, the fading light from the window casting shadows across his face. you could feel the steadiness of his hands, the warmth of him, the way his touch was gentle and careful, like even after all this time, he wasn’t sure he deserved to hold you.

his lips found yours in a kiss that was warm and easy, like it had been waiting to happen. no hesitation, no weight, just the quiet thrill of two people falling into something they hadn’t dared name yet.

his arms slipped around you, steady and sure, pulling you closer until you were pressed against him. he kissed you like a secret, like a promise tucked into the corners of a quiet room. there was a smile playing at the edge of it, his smile, cocky and soft all at once, the kind that said he knew exactly what he was doing and exactly what it meant.

it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t heavy. it was new, a moment suspended in time before the world asked either of you to be anything but this.

when he pulled back, just slightly, his nose brushed yours, and he didn’t let go. his hands stayed at your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like he wasn’t ready to let the moment slip.

“you always dance like that?” he whispered, a little breathless, a little smug.

and the way he looked at you, it was like he already knew this would be the memory he’d hold onto when everything else started to fall apart.

you smiled, mischief dancing in your eyes, and guided his hands gently to your waist.

“like this?” you murmured, then began to turn the two of you slowly, spinning across the creaking floorboards in a rhythm only you seemed to know.

his hands settled into place, warm and steady against you, while yours found their way to his chest, resting lightly above the soft thud of his heartbeat. he followed your lead without resistance, a lopsided grin playing on his lips as he moved with you, slightly offbeat but entirely focused on you.

there was a kind of softness in the way you danced — playful, easy, unguarded. the room faded as the two of you turned, the faded light catching in his hair, in your smile. you could feel his gaze lingering on you, not just watching but seeing you, like he was memorising every detail.

no words were needed.

he pulled you just a little closer, and you let him. the music was long gone now, but you kept moving anyway, caught in something quieter than sound, something tender, just beginning. and for that moment, nothing else existed. just the hush of the room, the warmth of his touch, and the silent certainty that whatever this was between you, it was real.

david h. kotch theatre, 2027

you stood in the wings, cloaked in shadow, lungs rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. the soft rustle of costumes, the distant hush of the audience, and the faint hum of the orchestra tuning up, pulsing around you like a heartbeat.

you had your part to play and you would play it to perfection.

years ago, you had slipped through the cracks of the red room — barely, bloodied, but breathing. you had walked away from the only life you’d ever known, carving your escape out of silence and scar tissue. freedom was not the thunderous thing you once imagined. it was quiet, uncertain, and terrifying. but it was yours.

so you shed the name they gave you like old skin, buried the weapon they had made, and reached for the one part of yourself they had never fully stolen, the dance.

ballet had always been more than movement. it was memory, control, and power without violence. a language your body remembered even when your heart did not. onstage, you weren’t their soldier, their project, or their ghost. you were something else. something more.

and tonight, beneath the lights, before the watching eyes of strangers and shadows from the past, you would become her again. even if only for a moment.

you were dancing swanlake, tchaikovsky’s tragic masterpiece, where beauty meets sorrow and love is stained by illusion. you had been cast as odette, the white swan, pure and aching and doomed. and with her, of course, came odile, the black swan, seductive and sharp, a mirror twisted by control.

it felt too fitting to be coincidence.

the curse that bound odette, trapped between woman and swan, self and spell, echoed something deep within you. she, too, had been reshaped by forces beyond her choosing. she, too, had been a prisoner in her own skin. you understood her in a way that went beyond performance. you carried her.

by day, you had been a soldier. a weapon moulded by red room hands, precise and unyielding. by night, you were a ghost in your own life, clinging to whatever pieces of yourself remained after the silence, after the missions, after the blood. you knew what it was to live in halves.

and so, as you moved across the stage, you weren’t just telling odette’s story; you were telling yours. every gesture, every breath, was a reclamation. a quiet resistance. an elegy for the girl who once believed she would never escape the cage. and in the spotlight, cloaked in silk and sorrow, you were finally free, even if the freedom only lasted until the final bow.

through the haze of stage lights and shadowed silhouettes, your eyes caught on a figure in the crowd; half-obscured, still, familiar in a way that made your heart stutter. for a moment, the world shrank. the music, the stage, the years, all of it faded beneath the unbearable possibility that it was him.

you hadn’t let yourself think about him in a long time. not since you learnt he was still alive. haunted, altered, but breathing. the knowledge had settled in your chest like a stone. you could’ve reached out. could’ve searched for him. but the idea of facing what you’d lost was too heavy. it was easier to tuck him away in some quiet corner of your mind, behind walls built out of necessity, not indifference.

you had planned to see him once. just once. after it was all over — after the red room, after the missions, after you were finally free. you had imagined it so clearly: one look, one moment, and maybe something unspoken would pass between you.

but then thanos came.

and in an instant, you were dust, gone from a world that already felt like it had no place for you. five years lost to silence, suspended in nothing. when you returned, everything had shifted. the world kept moving, and you barely recognised it. or yourself.

whatever chance you might have had to see him again had vanished like you did. too soon, too suddenly. and yet, tonight, from behind the safety of the stage, you swore you saw him. not a memory. not a ghost. him, bucky. your james.

and you didn’t know if it made you want to run or breathe again.

bucky, on the other hand, saw god.

not in the stained-glass, scripture-bound way he'd once been taught as a boy, but in the sudden, soul-stopping stillness of recognising something he thought he'd lost forever.

there you were — or someone who looked achingly like you, a relative perhaps — centre stage, draped in pale silk and moonlight, moving with a grace that shattered him. swan lake. of course it was swan lake. the one you used to hum under your breath while cleaning your weapons, the one you claimed was every kind of heartbreak wrapped into music.

he couldn’t move. couldn’t breathe. the theatre faded around him. the velvet seats, the orchestra, and the noise all fell into a dull blur. his entire world funnelled into the single image of you spinning beneath the lights, arms soft, posture regal, gaze distant. it was you; it had to be you.

because no one else moved like that. no one else danced like every step was stitched together from pain and precision, as if the body had long since learnt to speak where words had failed. and in that moment, watching you dance, bucky didn’t just remember. he felt it all over again. your laugh, your scars, your hands in his, your goodbye that never came.

you were alive, and he didn’t know if it was a miracle or a reckoning.

he’d been told you were dead.

those words had come from the very person now sitting beside him, and for months it had been the final nail in the coffin of his hope. he hadn’t questioned it, not really. he’d accepted it the way someone accepts gravity: painful, inevitable, and beyond his control.

and now, sitting there in the dark, watching you move across the stage like smoke and light, he didn’t know what to feel.

it wasn’t yelena’s fault; he knew that. she’d only passed along what she’d been told, what she likely believed herself. but still, something inside him cracked. the betrayal wasn’t hers. it was the world’s. fate’s. his own, maybe, for giving up when you hadn’t.

a hollow ache bloomed in his chest as he stared at you, his eyes tracking every movement like a soldier following a target, but softer, like he might miss something if he blinked. you were breathtaking. not just for your beauty or the way you danced, but because you were real, alive, even after everything.

he wanted to stand. to call your name. to close the distance that had once been oceans and decades and war. but he stayed rooted to his seat, frozen under the weight of memory and disbelief.

still, bucky hoped you could feel him there. that something in you might stir, the way it always used to when he entered a room. that maybe your heartbeat skipped the way his had. that the connection neither of you had ever spoken aloud but had always felt like gravity hadn’t faded with time or pain.

he was trying to reach you the only way he could. with his eyes, his silence. with the ache he’d never managed to bury. and he prayed you’d look back.

even after the number ended, even after you disappeared behind the curtain, he could still feel you. your presence clinging to the air like smoke. it lingered in the space between breaths, in the silence that followed the music, and in the hollowness that only you had ever been able to fill.

he felt young again. not in body, but in spirit, in the way his heart stirred with something raw and aching and impossibly hopeful. for a moment, he was the boy from brooklyn again. before the war. before the metal. before the world had carved itself into him.

and then, just as quickly, shame crept in.

what was he thinking? that after eighty years of darkness and ruin and blood, you would simply look at him and see what once was? that time hadn’t changed you both beyond recognition? he felt foolish for even hoping. the man he was now, the things he’d done, the pieces of himself that had been lost or buried — he wasn’t the boy you had known. and maybe you weren’t the girl he remembered, either.

as the applause died down and the lights dimmed, bucky sat motionless in the dark, feeling the weight of the past press down on him — softly, but with unmistakable force. you had haunted him for decades. now, it seemed, you were real again.

he knew he’d have to face you later, at the after-party. valentina had made it clear: it was essential they congratulate the performers, mingle for a few photos, and smile for the press. pr optics, she’d called it. normally, bucky would’ve played along, done what was asked without complaint. but that was before he saw you.

you stood beneath the stage lights like no time had passed at all; eighty years vanished in an instant. still carrying that quiet, effortless strength. still as graceful. still as heartbreakingly beautiful. and it terrified him.

because he didn’t know how to talk to a ghost, especially not one still breathing.

alas, he had his orders, and bucky barnes knew all too well how to follow orders, even the ones that twisted in his gut. smile for the cameras, shake hands, and play the part. he could do that. he’d done worse for less.

but beneath it all, there was another mission, one he hadn’t voiced aloud. one that had nothing to do with pr or team optics. he needed to know if it was really you. or just a shadow, a lookalike, a cruel twist of fate wearing your face.

he tried to reason with himself, to find the logic in it. a granddaughter, maybe. a niece. some distant bloodline echoing your features and your fire. but the idea was laughable, impossible.

you’d told him once, quietly, on a night when your walls had dropped just enough, about your graduation from the red room. how they sterilised the girls. how it wasn’t a ceremony, but a sentence. and he remembered the coldness in your voice when you said it, the finality. that had happened before you'd ever met him. before dr. erskine pulled you out, before you ever knew freedom, however fleeting it had been.

there were no descendants. no legacy but you. so whoever had just danced the soul of swan lake into the room — whoever had just brought his entire world to a standstill — that had to be you. it was the only answer that made sense.

when the afterparty began and his team were herded in like reluctant celebrities, bucky kept to the shadows, where he felt most at home. he lingered near the edge of the room, drink in hand, half-listening to the polite laughter and hollow chatter around him. brooding came easy, especially tonight. you hadn’t appeared yet, and part of him hoped you wouldn’t.

because he didn’t know what he’d do if you did, what he’d say, or how he’d carry himself. should he pretend not to know you, treat you like any other stranger in the crowd? or worse, should he try to be the man you remembered? the one from 1943 with too much charm and not enough sense. the one who hadn’t yet been broken open and stitched back together into something colder.

neither option felt right. neither version of himself felt real anymore.

so he stayed where the light didn’t reach, watching the entrance, heart beating too fast for a man trained to stay calm. waiting for you, for the past, for whatever would come next.

he found himself hoping yelena would say something, anything. a glance, a name, a passing remark that confirmed he wasn’t losing his mind. but she remained silent on the subject, casually sipping her drink, her expression unreadable. the longer the silence stretched, the more doubt crept in. maybe he really had imagined you up there.

he hadn’t realised just how deeply he’d come to associate ballet with you until tonight. every movement, every poised step, every breath held in time all echoed you. you were the definition of grace in his memory, the embodiment of beauty shaped by discipline and pain.

so maybe that’s all it was, an illusion born of longing. maybe his mind, always too loyal to the past, had filled in the blanks and painted your face where it didn’t belong. and yet, he couldn’t let it go. not when the memory had felt more real than most of the life he’d lived since.

when a broad shoulder bumped against his, bucky glanced up, pulled from his spiralling thoughts. the rest of the team had gathered nearby, crowding around a small group of dancers, offering smiles and stiff congratulations. their voices were light, polite, and pr-friendly.

john stood beside him now, unusually quiet, his eyes fixed on bucky in a way that made him shift slightly. there was something in his expression, something bucky couldn’t quite place. not concerned, but close. not pity, but maybe worse.

bucky looked away, uneasy under john's gaze, and shifted his attention toward the dancers instead. he offered a quiet compliment here and there, nodding along, doing what was expected of him — just enough to pass as present.

then his eyes found you.

you stood a few steps away, speaking to ava, your posture relaxed, a soft, effortless smile curving your lips. that smile — he remembered it too clearly, like a thread pulled straight from another life. it hadn't changed.

he watched you closely, more closely than he should’ve. he traced the shape of your face with his eyes, the way your mouth moved as you spoke, and every subtle flicker of expression. you still spoke english like a native, fluent and smooth, but he knew better. you used to hide your accent, tucking it behind your tongue like a secret.

but it always slipped through.

there, just in the way you said a name or clipped the edge of a consonant, he caught it. that faint german lilt, subtle and nearly lost beneath layers of control, but unmistakable to someone who had once memorised your voice.

and in that instant, every doubt he’d harboured began to crack beneath the weight of recognition.

it was you. it had to be.

he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. your name left his lips softly, like something long-forgotten but never truly lost, almost instinctive. quiet, but heavy with everything he hadn’t said in all those years.

and somehow, you heard it.

your head turned sharply, eyes locking with his as though drawn by instinct alone. for a moment, the world seemed to still. voices faded, lights dimmed, and it was just the two of you, suspended in something too old to name and too deep to ignore.

the expression on your face was unmistakable: recognition, disbelief, and something like grief flickering behind your eyes.

you took a breath, and in that breath lived eighty years of silence, of separation, of survival. “that’s not my name anymore.”

the words weren’t harsh, just tired, almost fragile. barely a whisper, but it struck him like a wound. and that was how you returned to him. not in a warm embrace or a tearful reunion, but in a quiet sentence that told him everything had changed.

“sorry,” he murmured, the word almost catching in his throat. his voice was low, uncertain. not the clipped, hardened cadence he’d grown into, but something quieter. gentler. his eyes found yours, softened with something that only you had ever been able to draw out of him.

years of conditioning, of numb obedience and violence without question, seemed to fall away in your presence. like muscle memory of the soul, something ancient and unguarded surfaced. he didn’t look like the winter soldier in that moment. not even sergeant barnes.

he looked like the man who used to wait outside your dance studio with two cups of coffee and a crooked smile.

the silence between you stretched, but not awkwardly. it was heavy with the ache of recognition, with all the words neither of you had yet found the strength to say. you were still staring at him, guarded but not cold, and he wondered if you saw it too, that unspoken thread pulling between who you had become and who you used to be.

and he hated that he didn’t know how to reach across that chasm. not yet.

“i never stopped lookin’ for you.” his voice cracked under the weight of it. he was quiet and coarse, almost like he didn’t mean to say it aloud but couldn’t hold it in any longer. the words slipped from him with no bravado, no performance. just truth, bare and trembling in the space between you.

whatever tension buzzed in the room seemed to still. the others had taken a gracious step back, sensing the gravity of something unspoken. in the soft hum of music and clinking glasses, the world gave you both a rare sliver of silence.

your eyes didn’t leave his. you’d spent lifetimes imagining this moment, and yet it still managed to knock the air from your lungs. you could see it in him, that ache, that relentless thread of hope that had somehow survived every storm. and though your expression stayed composed, your voice softened, betraying something gentler underneath.

“i don’t doubt it, james.” there was no accusation. no bitterness. just quiet understanding. and for a moment, the past didn’t feel so far away.

he stepped in slowly, as if afraid the space between you might shatter. his hand lifted, hesitant at first, then found your cheek, fingertips brushing softly against your skin like he was afraid you’d vanish if he touched you too quickly. like he was still convincing himself you were real, something that he'd done many times before.

his eyes searched yours, wide with disbelief and grief still echoing in the spaces between his ribs.

“thought you were dead…” he murmured, voice frayed and barely holding together.

“me too.” the words left you on a breath, quiet and aching. a sad smile ghosted across your lips as you leaned forward, pressing your forehead gently to his. the contact was light, but it carried the weight of everything. of lost time, unspoken grief, and the quiet, impossible hope that maybe, somehow, this wasn’t a dream.

the exhale that followed wasn’t just relief; it was eighty years of silence, of survival without him, finally letting go.

#mars writes *:･ﾟ #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes angst #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #winter solider #the winter soldier x reader #the winter solder #bucky barnes smut #thunderbolts #new avengers #avengers #mcu #marvel mcu

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deimosphilic · 13 days ago

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it's friday night, i've had an everything shower, and now i'm lying in bed with a glass of wine and tumblr

#mars shares *:･ﾟ #this is the life

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deimosphilic · 13 days ago

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My friend keeps sending me your voidwalker x reader works and I think it's a sign to hit follow. It fills such a specific niche that I didn't even know I needed until they started sending me your fics and now I'm sat and ready for more :3

ahhh thank you so much!!

#mars got mail *:･ﾟ #sentryagent x reader will never be forgotten #i will feed you all with as much as i can #i love them so bad

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deimosphilic · 13 days ago

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mdni! perv!bob reynolds and super-hearing

ever since the serum had been injected into bob’s veins, everything had shifted.

it didn’t happen all at once, not like the movies promised. no, it was gradual, unnerving in its subtlety. the first thing he noticed was his sight. the world seemed sharper, edges more defined, and colours deeper and richer. he could read signs from blocks away, pick out the individual feathers on a bird mid-flight, or catch the twitch of an eyelash in someone across the room. at first, he thought he was imagining it, some placebo effect. but it only intensified.

then came the hearing.

he remembered the exact moment it hit him. he was sitting at the far end of the common room, alone, pretending to read, when he heard two of valentina's employees whispering at the other end. their voices were low and hushed, the kind of whisper meant to be private. but to bob, it was as clear as if they were right next to him. every word, every inflection. he could even hear the nervous swallow between sentences. it wasn’t just what they said; it was what they meant. the anxiety in their tone, the subtle shift in their breathing, the heartbeat that fluttered just a little faster when one of them lied.

he could no longer tune the world out, not really. every sound, every movement, every flicker of light or scent in the air felt amplified, pressing against his awareness all at once.

and though it made him powerful, it also made him restless. he was hyperaware. always alert, always listening.

especially when it came to you.

his senses were a symphony, and you were the constant note threading through every movement, every breath. whether you were near or far, awake or dreaming, he felt you in ways he couldn’t explain.

even when you weren’t in the room, he was attuned to your presence. the soft rhythm of your footsteps down the hallway, the particular cadence of your breath when you were lost in thought, the slight creak of the door when you entered another room — he noticed it all. he listened for you like instinct, like ritual.

your scent reached him before your voice ever did. that perfume you wore seemed to linger in every corridor, haunt every doorway. it wrapped around him like a memory, one that clung to the back of his throat and refused to leave.

your room was right next to his, a simple coincidence that became bob’s quiet obsession. the walls weren’t particularly thin, but they didn’t need to be. not for him. ever since the serum rewired his body, it took almost no effort to hear you, to tune in like your life was a frequency only he could pick up.

you didn’t have to be doing anything special. the ordinary was more than enough. you could be vacuuming, humming some tune off-key beneath your breath, and he’d still be listening like it was something sacred. the gentle thud of drawers opening and closing. the soft drag of hangers being pulled off the rack. the rhythmic pat of your feet on the rug as you moved around folding laundry or brushing your hair — he catalogued all of it.

but at night, that was when he listened the hardest.

when the tower was finally quiet. when the hum of voices and the click of boots had gone still. when only the moon dared cast its pale light through your curtains, then he’d lie still, eyes open in the dark, and listen.

and tonight, was no different.

he sat in his bed, spine pressed against the cool metal of the headboard, the room dim save for the soft glow of the moon spilling through the half-closed blinds. one hand rested on his cock, fingers moving in quick, desperate strokes. his other hand clenched weakly in the sheets, as though grounding himself.

he could hear you in the room next to him. could hear your quiet whimpers into your palm, could hear your fingers dipping in and out of your pussy, the lewd sounds it was making. hell, he could smell how wet you were.

god, that scent was burnt into his memory.

he had caught it once, faint and lingering, on a pair of your panties while you were away on a mission. he hadn’t meant to. at least, that’s what he told himself. but the moment it hit him, something inside him shifted.

it was warm, sweet, unmistakably you. from that moment on, he couldn’t forget it. couldn’t stop chasing it, craving it, thinking about it. it wasn’t just desire; it was obsession.

through it all, he listened, eyes shut tight, jaw tense, trying to pretend it was your hand instead of his. that it was your fingers teasing him, your touch coaxing out the ache he’d been carrying since the first time you smiled at him.

he imagined your thumb brushing over the sensitive tip and imagined the way you'd whisper his name in that soft, breathy tone that already lived in his head. he brought his own fingers to his mouth, sucking them in a daze, pretending they were yours, letting fantasy blur the lines of reality.

but it was the sounds that undid him most. the delicate whimpers, barely there, but so clear to him. each breathy moan sent a jolt through his spine, every soft whine feeding his need. and when your breath hitched — when your fingers must’ve circled your clit just right — he nearly came undone at the thought of what you were doing only a wall away.

but he held himself back.

he could tell you were close. it was the way your breath hitched, the subtle change in rhythm, and the quiet urgency in your touch. he knew every sound you made by heart now, and the slight shift in your whimpers was enough to tell him you were teetering.

still, he waited.

every muscle in his body was tight with restraint. the ache was unbearable, but he refused to let himself finish before you. his fingers were still in his mouth, teeth pressed into the pads just to ground himself, to keep the soft sounds of your name from slipping out. if he let it happen too soon, if he gave in before you, it would ruin everything.

then it happened, that sound. that desperate little moan, unmistakably yours, the one he’d memorised from dreams and half-lucid fantasies. it hit him like lightning.

only then did he let go.

his back arched slightly, breath catching in his throat as release hit him hard and fast. it came in warm, urgent waves across his stomach, leaving him gasping, shaking with the force of it — all from the sound of you, just on the other side of the wall.

one day, bob thought, he wouldn’t have to eavesdrop through the wall anymore. one day, he'd kneel in front of you and beg for you to use him in whatever way you pleased.

#mars writes *:･ﾟ #bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds smut #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds smut #sentry #the void #thunderbolts #mcu #marvel #avengers #new avengers

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deimosphilic · 13 days ago

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mdni! perv!bob reynolds and super-hearing

ever since the serum had been injected into bob’s veins, everything had shifted.

then came the hearing.

he could no longer tune the world out, not really. every sound, every movement, every flicker of light or scent in the air felt amplified, pressing against his awareness all at once.

and though it made him powerful, it also made him restless. he was hyperaware. always alert, always listening.

especially when it came to you.

his senses were a symphony, and you were the constant note threading through every movement, every breath. whether you were near or far, awake or dreaming, he felt you in ways he couldn’t explain.

but at night, that was when he listened the hardest.

and tonight, was no different.

god, that scent was burnt into his memory.

it was warm, sweet, unmistakably you. from that moment on, he couldn’t forget it. couldn’t stop chasing it, craving it, thinking about it. it wasn’t just desire; it was obsession.

but he held himself back.

still, he waited.

then it happened, that sound. that desperate little moan, unmistakably yours, the one he’d memorised from dreams and half-lucid fantasies. it hit him like lightning.

only then did he let go.

one day, bob thought, he wouldn’t have to eavesdrop through the wall anymore. one day, he'd kneel in front of you and beg for you to use him in whatever way you pleased.

#mars writes *:･ﾟ #bob reynolds ⋆#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds smut #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds smut #sentry #the void #thunderbolts #mcu #marvel #avengers #new avengers

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deimosphilic · 15 days ago

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VOYEUR? | ROBERT "BOB" REYNOLDS & JOHN WALKER

SUMMARY ⋆ john had you and bob wrapped around his pinky, what happens when you find out about each other?

PAIRING ⋆ john walker x fem!reader x bob reynolds

WARNINGS ⋆ MDNI! unprotected piv, handjob, groping, voyeurism, size kink, threesome, three horny mfs

A/N ⋆ this is how sentryagent x reader became sentryagent x reader. that's it.

WORD COUNT ⋆ 1.9k

before anything, john had both you and bob on speed dial, and neither of you had any clue about the other.

with you, it started as nothing more than convenience. late-night texts, vague and to the point. you up? or need you. you’d meet him halfway, just as unapologetically. no strings, no explanations. it was simple. it worked.

but with bob, it was different. there were no texts, no planning. bob just showed up, sometimes quiet, sometimes frantic. he’d knock on john’s door without warning, or worse, john would just walk straight into bob’s room like he owned the place. their rhythm was messy, chaotic, and entirely unspoken. it wasn’t arranged; it was instinct.

john texted you one night, nothing unusual, just i'm awake, and you didn’t think twice.

so you were definitely not expecting bob to walk into the room, especially not looking like that.

with his hair tousled, eyes glassy with need, and his breathing already uneven, he looked like he was one wrong glance away from coming undone. you didn’t have much time to process it, though, because john had you pinned beneath him, his hands locked around your waist as he used your body to match his relentless rhythm. every thrust pulling you into him, giving him all the leverage he needed.

each thrust was sharp, deliberate, and completely unrelenting. you had your fist in your mouth to muffle the sounds tearing from your throat, your free hand clutching at john’s shoulder like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. the room was thick with heat and motion and the subtle shock of someone else being there.

bob stood there for a moment, frozen — like he hadn’t expected to see you either. but the second his gaze met yours, there was something electric in the air. not jealousy. not awkwardness. just a slow, dawning hunger that said everything without a word.

john was too far gone to notice anything beyond you, completely absorbed in the way your body moved beneath him. in the tight grip of your thighs around his waist, in the dazed look on your face every time he pushed back in. quiet groans escaped him, low and steady, like the rhythm he’d fallen into, chasing nothing but sensation.

you tried to catch his attention, your voice slipping out in a breathy, half-formed moan, “johnny…”

he barely paused. “i know, baby, i know,” he murmured, his focus locked entirely on you. he thought he was reading you; he thought the way your voice trembled was from how deep he was, how good it felt. his thrusts didn’t slow, didn’t falter. he was still moving inside you, still watching your face like it was the only thing that mattered.

which made it all the more surprising that he hadn’t noticed your eyes weren’t just on him.

your gaze kept darting toward the doorway, flickering between john’s intense focus and the figure standing still at the threshold. bob hadn’t said a word, hadn’t moved, and yet his presence was magnetic. and john, still lost in his own rhythm, hadn’t seen it. not yet.

“no — fuck — john…” you gasped out, trying to form something coherent, but it was useless.

he was driving into you with such purpose, such unrelenting rhythm, that the words dissolved into breathy, broken sounds. you were trying to alert him, to pull him out of the fog, but he was too far gone. he was too focused on the way your body clenched around him, too high on the pleasure he thought you were both drowning in.

desperate, you reached up and grabbed at his shoulders, fingers digging in as you tried to shake him — not hard, but firm enough to urge his attention elsewhere. still, nothing. he groaned, mistaking your grip for more need, more encouragement, and kept going, unaware of the very obvious presence at the door that had turned your focus elsewhere.

you weren’t exactly helping the situation; your body was betraying you with every thrust. your walls clenched around john’s cock involuntarily, matching his rhythm and urging him on, no matter how hard you tried to focus. the moans you’d been biting back were spilling freely now, echoing through the room, breathy and raw. your eyes kept fluttering shut from the overwhelming sensation, only for you to force them open again, desperate to catch john's attention. but he was locked in, watching your face like it was the only thing that mattered, completely oblivious to the presence just a few steps away.

just when you thought john might never notice, a quiet voice broke through the haze.

“johnny,” came softly from the doorway.

john’s head snapped toward the sound, recognising it instantly. his eyes widened, then darkened, and a low noise rumbled in his chest — something between a groan and a laugh — when he saw bob standing there.

you turned your head back towards bob, surprised to see where his hand had ended up. he hadn't just been standing there idly; his hand was in his pants, his jaw set, and he was stroking his own cock. he looked almost conflicted, need and hesitation battling across his expression.

john didn’t say anything at first. the room held a thick silence, one layered with too many things unsaid. your breath caught in your throat, and even john’s hips stilled, but he was already grinning, wide and shameless, that familiar cocky glint in his eyes betraying how much he was enjoying the moment.

“c’mere, sweetheart,” john murmured, his voice low and teasing, eyes following bob’s every move.

bob had cautiously withdrawn his hand from his pants, now letting it play with the cotton as he padded toward you. his steps were soft, almost imperceptible, yet every shift of his weight seemed charged with nervous anticipation. john’s gaze never left him, studying the way bob hesitated just slightly with each step, caught somewhere between restraint and need, and it made the tension in the room thrum even thicker.

“tried to tell you,” you mumbled from beneath john, voice soft and breathless, your gaze flickering toward bob. your eyes were half-lidded, lips slightly parted and slick with sweat, catching the faint light as you tried to steady your breathing.

john’s head turned just enough to meet your glance, a slow smirk spreading across his face as he took in how completely drained and vulnerable you looked. his hand moved to tangle in your damp hair, fingers brushing along your scalp, and he paused to watch a bead of sweat trace a slow line down your temple. the intensity in his eyes was almost magnetic, like he could read every shiver, every heartbeat, every thought as if they were written across your skin.

“mhm,” john hummed, turning his attention back toward bob, eyes sharp and assessing.

his cock remained still inside of you, unmoving, as if frozen in place by the tension in the room. even when you subconsciously tried to shift and grind against him, your hips pressing in vain, he held firm, letting you feel the weight of his control. your thighs stayed locked tightly around his waist, muscles clenching instinctively, grounding both of you in the shared intensity.

bob lingered awkwardly at the side of the bed, his stance uncertain, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. his gaze darted between the two of you, wide and unsteady, drawn to the intimacy unfolding before him. even in his loose sleep pants, the outline of his cock was impossible to ignore, a silent testament to how deeply affected he was by the scene.

that was when john finally withdrew from you, giving you a moment to catch your breath, although you had whined at the sudden emptiness, your body slick with arousal. he shifted slightly, rearranging both of you on the bed so there was space for bob to sit beside you. the movement was deliberate and calculated, leaving just enough room for him to slide in comfortably while still keeping you fully within reach.

“you just wanna watch, bobby?” john’s voice was low and teasing, eyes flicking between bob and you as he slowly began to push back inside of you.

bob let out a soft, needy whine, his body tense as he quickly freed himself. his gaze was locked on the two of you, and the rise and fall of his cock against his stomach betrayed how badly he wanted to be closer, to participate, to feel.

you shifted one hand from john’s shoulder to bob, your fingers wrapping gently around his cock. you started slow, your touch light but deliberate, tracing along his length with a care that had him catching his breath.

john was still inside you, his movements deep and steady but no longer frantic. each thrust sent a wave through your body, making it harder to concentrate, but you did your best to stay present, to share the moment between all three of you.

you let out soft, breathy moans, your head falling back slightly as your thighs held tight around john’s waist. your other hand clung to his shoulder, grounding yourself against the rhythm he kept.

bob was visibly overwhelmed, his mouth parted in a shaky exhale, his eyes flicking between your face and where your hand met his body. his hands had found their way to your tits, kneading them slightly. his expression was one of need and awe — a quiet kind of desperation.

john's gaze flicked between you and bob, dark with focus and intensity. his rhythm had picked up, his movements becoming more urgent as he drank in every detail: your flushed face, bob's awe-struck expression, and the way your bodies moved together in sync.

“you feel that, baby?” he murmured, his voice gravelly with effort.

you blinked down, breath catching as his hand moved from your hip to rest gently over your lower stomach, where a slight bulge met each deep thrust. his touch there was firm but careful, drawing out a soft gasp from your lips.

“there,” he said lowly, almost to himself, as if mesmerised by the way your body responded to him. “so small…”

the moan that escaped you wasn’t just from sensation; it was from the feeling of being completely surrounded, completely claimed, and completely full.

john leaned in a little closer, his other hand steadying your waist while he moved, grounding you both. you could feel how deeply you were being held, how attuned he was to your reactions, and how much he was savouring every second.

when you finally came, it felt like everything stopped for a moment. your breath caught in your throat, your fingers clenched instinctively around bob’s cock, and your body tensed beneath john’s steady weight. the sensation rippled through you, leaving you dazed and warm, your head tipped back against the pillows.

bob followed closely, jaw going slack as his own release overtook him. his fingers clutched at your tits, his chest rising and falling rapidly, a soft noise escaping him as he leaned into you. there was something quietly vulnerable in the way he looked at you — eyes wide, lips parted, seeking reassurance.

john wasn’t far behind. his rhythm faltered just slightly, his breath catching as he came. a low groan escaped him as he dipped his head, eyes fluttering shut, hands tightening at your hips like he was grounding himself in the moment.

even after his release, he didn’t pull out. he stayed close, his forehead resting against your shoulder, breath warm and uneven against your skin. the quiet lingered between the three of you. it was heavy, intimate, and unspoken.

after a long moment, john finally opened his eyes, the hint of a smirk pulling at his lips. he still didn’t move, his body relaxed against yours, content in the quiet, while his arm splayed against bob's stomach.

“we doin’ this again?” he murmured, voice low and rough with leftover breathlessness.

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