bisexual-spiderling

[bisexual-spiderling]

I'll Crawl Home To Her

summary: all the ways joel miller loves his pretty, little wife. and all the ways she loves him right back.

pairing: husband!joel miller x wife!reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, traditional gender roles, pussy eating, vaginal sex, semi-public, exhibitionism kinda, dom/sub undertones, car sex, biting, dirty talk, joel is a certified munch, feminine reader, a whole bunch of tooth-rotting fluff

wc: 4.1k

note: something soft and sweet, tysm for reading, let me know what you think! <3

[masterlist] [read on AO3!]

Being Joel Miller's wife was, in short, marital bliss.

He loved taking care of you, and it showed in everything he did.

Joel always woke up earlier than you. On days he had to work, his alarm would rouse you just enough that you’d roll over to his side of the bed the moment he vacated it, soaking up his warmth and his scent, snuggling into his pillow. He’d kiss your forehead and tuck you in tight, and you’d fall asleep seconds after he whispered, “Have a good day, baby girl. Love you.”

And once you did finally roll out of bed, sunlight leaking in through the kitchen blinds, you’d find a fresh pot of coffee and your favorite mug sitting on the counter.

He worked long hours, but you could never fault him for it. He was doing it even in his old age to grant you the freedom to do any and everything you desired. Supporting you in all your endeavors no matter how fleeting.

When you’d picked up the hobby of gardening, Joel had taken you to three different greenhouses in one weekend and helped you till a section of the backyard to plant your seeds. And later that week, he’d come home with the back of his truck full of pretty white bricks to outline your garden with.

You’d mentioned once with your hands covered in suds how the dishes were your least favorite chore. You hated how they piled up so quickly, hated leaving them in the sink, how they felt never-ending.

“I can do the dishes, darlin’,” he’d said. “Just leave them for me an’ I’ll do ‘em after work every day.”

You loved him for the offer but refused. He already spoiled you enough as it is. You couldn’t imagine watching him standing at the sink every day after working for ten hours. “Are you crazy? No, I’d never let you do that.”

“Don’t bother me none,” he insisted. “S’only fair, considerin’ how good dinner is every night.”

The compliment made you flush, but still, you stood firm. Even when he’d come up behind you with a dish towel in hand, ready to take your place. You’d slapped his hands away. “Joel, no. Let me. Please.”

“Alright, fine,” he said, setting the towel on the counter. His hands found a new way to occupy themselves, though. Slipping beneath your skirt, squeezing at the softness of your thighs. “But at least let me get my desert.”

He’d had you bent over the countertop that night with your panties around your knees. He’d hummed his I love you’s against your spit-soaked clit in the middle of the kitchen and you’d felt like the most spoiled girl in the world. 

Even more so when he’d come home from work early the next day. He and Tommy walked through the front door with a brand new dishwasher in tow and spent all night assembling it.

Once, you’d been late coming back from the grocery store. Janet, the older woman who lived two houses down from you and Joel, had been berating the cashier for not accepting an expired coupon.

Confrontation had never been your strong suit, but it felt less like conflict and more like second nature to step in and defend a teenage girl just trying to do her job. You attempted to reason with Janet, explaining that it wasn’t the cashier's fault, that the use of her coupon perhaps just wasn’t meant to be. You’d even offered to pay for her entire shopping haul if it meant a break for the young girl. 

Of course, this wasn’t what Janet had wanted to hear, and she instead turned her anger on you. Your cheeks had warmed in embarrassment as she yelled your name aloud for all the other customers to hear, telling you to ‘keep your nose where it belonged.’ 

The whole interaction had frazzled you. But more than that, it had made you late. And while being screamed at so publically had certainly thrown you off kilter, the straw that broke the camel’s back was seeing Joel’s truck in the driveway when you got home. 

He had mentioned once how much he loved having someone to come home to. Had explained how seeing you standing there with a smile on your face waiting for him on the front porch every day made the long hours and unbearable heat worth it. But because of Janet, you weren’t there. 

Joel, your Joel—who always takes care of you, who would do anything for you, who puts your happiness above his own, the most selfless man you’ve ever known—had come home to an empty house. Worked twelve hours beneath the Texas sun to come home to absolute silence.

It didn’t matter that you’d left a note on the kitchen table, you’d meant to get back before he could ever read it.

The tears had come quickly. The embarrassment, the frustration, the anger you felt on that young girl’s behalf, came rushing to the surface all at once.

He’d left the door unlocked for you, like usual, and the moment you stepped inside you could hear the familiar, heavy sound of his boots on the wooden floor. “Hey, sweetheart. How was your—?”

Before he could ask any questions you’d flung yourself into his arms, needing comfort, needing to show him how much you loved him. To prove to him that you weren’t home but you wanted to be, more than anything. “I’m so sorry,” was all you managed to choke out. 

Joel, who valued your safety above all else, immediately stiffened yet pulled you closer, wrapping his big arms around your shoulders, his warm hand splayed across the small of your back. “Hey, hey—shh, what happened? Talk to me, sweet girl. C’mon.” 

He cradled your face in his palm, holding you gently as if you were the most precious thing because, to him, you are. He wiped your tears away with the rough pad of his thumb and listened as you explained, “I—I wasn’t here waiting for you! I’m sorry—I…I tried to come home as fast—as fast as I could but—!”

“S’okay, baby. I know you’ll always come home to me, alright? I’m not mad. Could never be mad at you, y’know that.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, to the arch of your brow, to the bridge of your nose. He rubbed soothing circles into your skin until your tears slowed and your breaths found their normal cadence once again. And then, because he knows you, he asked, “What really happened?”

And you tell him. Every detail. And Joel stands there, holding you, listening with bated breath. 

When you finish, he pulls his shoulders back with a newfound objective. “M’gonna go talk to Lee,” he said.

Janet’s husband was a good man, you knew. Similar to Joel in the way of being a nurturing sort of husband. A hard-working man with never a bad thing to say about anyone. “You don’t have to,” you tell Joel. “What she did was wrong but I’d rather she takes it out on me than a kid at their first job.”

He shakes his head. “Can’t just let it go,” he said. “She disrespected my wife. Not the kinda thing I can turn the other cheek to.” 

“Joel—don’t…don’t—” You weren’t sure what you were asking. His insistence didn’t surprise you in the least, but you didn’t want to start anything that would disrupt the peace the two of you’d spent so much time cultivating.

He seems to understand you despite your lack of vocal explanation. “Just gonna have a word with him, sweetheart. That’s all.”

Before he walked out the door, he asked very specifically for the Mediterranean chicken dish you’d made for him last week. Which was strange only because he never asked for anything specific; he simply asked you to cook whatever you felt like, and insisted that somehow you knew his cravings better than he himself did. 

It wasn’t until fifteen minutes later, as you put the chicken in the oven that you realized he’d done it to distract you, to take your mind off the situation at hand while he went and handled it. Helping you without even being in the same room.

When he came home, Joel answered all of your questions at the dinner table and said that he and Lee had shared a beer and talked it over. Warned you to expect an apology the next time you and Janet crossed paths. 

And sure enough, that weekend there was a knock on the front door. 

Joel stood behind you, a looming, protective presence at your back. A safety net as your neighbor apologized for her actions and offered a plate of chocolate chip cookies as amends.

You forgave her, of course. Even invited her in so the two of you could talk about it over a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade on the back porch. She compliments you on the roses growing in your garden and you clip a couple off to send her home with.

Problem solved. Amends made. 

All because of Joel. 

Your closest friends even teased you about it from time to time, making jokes about how spoiled you are, and about how much he cares for you.

When you’re out having a girls' night with the three of them, you share laughs and chips and salsa and have one too many glasses of wine. They all discuss sharing an Uber, but you interject to say, “No worries. Joel will make sure we get home safe.”

And they tease you about that, too, telling you, “You’ve got that big man wrapped tight around your little finger.”

But you’re not wrong, and you suppose your friends aren’t, either. Because he shows up at the diner ten minutes after you send him a text message, and deals with four drunk young women with such grace it’s almost astonishing. Even pulls a soft, secret smile as he listens to the group of you giggle together at something that’s probably not nearly as funny to him.

You asked him about it later, about that gentle amusement he wore, and he explained simply, “What makes you happy makes me happy, darlin.’” 

And you understand exactly what he means. Understand how your happiness, your frustrations, your love is mirrored perfectly in his heart. Because you feel it, too.

It’s why whenever he says he’s craving something, whether it’s fast food or some elaborate dish, you’ll always find a way to get it onto his dinner plate that night. It’s why you make an extra stop during grocery shopping to get that local ground coffee he likes. 

He’d said once how much he loves the way pale blue looks against your skin, and every time you shop for clothes you find yourself gravitating towards the shade. 

You do his laundry and put a towel in the dryer every time he steps in the shower so it’s warm when he gets out. You teach him about skincare and he sits dutifully in bed every Sunday night with a face mask on and a pore strip on his nose. You schedule his doctor and dentist appointments and have never once been successful at fighting off your wide grin as you tell the receptionist on the phone that you’re his wife and they refer to you as Mrs. Miller for the remainder of the call.

Give and take, push and pull—the two of you fit seamlessly together. You take care of him, and he takes care of you, and whatever was left each day you figured out together.

So, when you make your way to the kitchen one early morning to see his lunch still in the fridge, untouched, and his coffee mug in the sink and not the dishwasher, you know something must have gone awry. Something to disrupt his morning routine.

You find your phone only to read a text message he’d left you at six this morning. 

Good morning, sweet girl. Slept through my alarm, might have to stay over today to finish. Love you.

Joel’s an independent man, you know. Perfectly capable of taking care of himself. And you know he’ll likely buy lunch for himself and Tommy, likely some gas station pizza and a soda. But you don’t like the idea of him needing to do that. Don’t like the idea of him eating anything you don’t make for him just the way he likes.

So, you spend the morning getting all dolled up. You wear that pale blue sundress he likes. You curl your hair, coat your lashes in mascara, and spray that expensive, vanilla-scented perfume he got you for your birthday last year. 

And then you grab his lunch from the fridge and make your way to the construction site. You find Joel’s truck easily and park beside it. You’re not sure why, but being here makes your heart race. 

You’ve met the majority of the guys on his crew, and they all know who you are. Countless times you’ve forced Joel to bring in containers full of cookies and pastries you’d bake the night before to share. He’s even brought a couple of them home for dinner before, and invited their wives and kids to fill your home with a little extra love and laughter for the evening.

But for some reason, this feels…different. Like you’re encroaching on their territory, invading space that doesn’t belong to you.

They’re working inside some big structure that has only the framing and roof finished, wooden beams allotting space for each room. You can hear them shouting at each other and the sound of hammers striking nails into place. Somewhere a little further into the building, there’s the mechanical whirring of a drill, but you see no face you recognize.

One of the younger-looking men up in the rafters notices you first. “Well, hello there pretty little lady. Did you need some help?”

You open your mouth to speak, to ask where you might find Joel or even Tommy. But then—

“Dean, you look at my wife like that again and it’ll be the last time you have eyes to look at anyone.” Joel rests his hand on the small of your back as he saddles up to your side. You turn to face him, and can’t help your smirk upon discovering the intimidating scowl on his face that he directs to Dean. “Understand?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry about that, Mrs. Miller.”

“It’s alright, Dean. You didn’t know,” you insist. But Joel narrows his eyes even further and doesn’t stop until you playfully hit his bicep. “It’s fine.”

His expression softens considerably when he looks at you, deep frown turning into a warm smile instead. “Hey, baby girl.” Joel pulls you close, pressing his lips to yours, kissing you softly. Nothing out of the ordinary for him, nothing you don’t expect. But what you don’t expect is for his hand on the small of your back to sink lower, grabbing a lewd fist full of your ass.

The surprise has your lips parting, but Joel only takes it to his advantage, tongue slipping between them to glide smoothly against yours.

When he finally pulls away your face is flushed and he wears that satisfied smirk like armor. He glances up at Dean, whose ears are now red-hot even though he tries very hard to pretend like he’s busy. “I’m taking a twenty. Be back in a bit.”

He takes your hand in his and leads you back outside, and once he opens the passenger door of your truck he’s quick to put his hands on your hips and lift you to help you inside. 

You expect him to close the door and round the front of the truck to get in behind the wheel, but he doesn’t. Before you’re even able to turn and tuck your legs inside, he’s pushing you back against the leather seats and sliding his calloused hands up your thighs beneath your dress. “Joel,” you say, but you don’t attempt to stop him. 

The passenger door’s propped open, just enough to shield him from view as he stands behind it. “You’re so pretty,” he murmurs, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your panties. He tugs them down and peppers open-mouthed kisses across the exposed skin of your chest, teeth nipping at your cleavage. But then he’s biting you—hard, and pressure pools low in your belly as his tongue flicks over the hurt to soothe. “Always take such good care of me. Had such a rough morning but seein’ you changes it all around.”

You’re giggling uncontrollably, overwhelmed by his sudden need, basking beneath the warmth of his praise. Your hands find his hair, tugging lightly at the ends. “We shouldn’t,” you say. “Someone will see. You’re crazy, old man, do you know that?”

“Yeah, crazy for you.” Normally you’d scold him some more, accuse him of being the absolute cheesiest man that you’ve ever met. But you don’t have the chance before he’s pushing your knees apart and pressing those hot, wet kisses to the inside of your thighs. “Can front all you want, but I’m not dumb, baby. Think you got all dressed up and came all this way for nothing? Nuh-uh.”

This hadn’t been your intention in the slightest, but now that you’re here, and his head’s between your thighs… “I just brought your lunch!” 

Joel smirks. “Fuckin’ right you did.”

You have to cover your mouth to quiet your laughter. “But…seriously. Aren’t you hungry?”

“Starving, sweetheart,” he says. “Now spread your legs.”

You do. Of course you do. 

And Joel makes quick work of you, wasting not a second before his tongue slides through your wet heat with expert precision. He hooks his arms around your thighs and drags you to the end of the leather seat, pressing his face against you. Your clit pulses with need and he takes care of that ache for you, too. Sucking it into his mouth, lapping at you with the flat of his tongue, ratcheting your pleasure to an almost unbearable place.

It doesn’t take long before your back is arching off the leather, hands tugging desperately at his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. You’re whimpering his name and he’s letting out these deep, throaty groans that have your toes curling in your high-top sneakers.

In just a couple minutes he has you right there—right on the edge, so close to your orgasm you can taste it, and then he pulls away. You’re whining immediately, desperate whimpers falling for your lips. 

“Shh. S’alright, baby girl. I’m comin',’” Joel tells you. And then you watch through bleary, tear-filled eyes as he undoes his tool belt and sets it on the floor of his truck. 

The clink of his belt buckle reverberates through your ears, and you whimper again but before you can start begging he’s got his cock in his hand and he’s pressing the big, heavy tip into you. “Oh my God,” you cry, breath stuck in your lungs. 

It feels so good—he always does. He says, “C’mere, baby,” before gripping the front of your dress and pulling you up towards him. He hooks your legs around his hips and sinks into you slow, real slow. Gives you time to adjust to the size of him, time for your pussy to make room for it. He kisses you hard, and out of the corner of your eye, you can see the men on his team working thirty feet away. 

Your heart races in your chest and you think about warning him again that this might be a bad idea, but then he’s sinking his cock alllll the way into you, pushing against that sweet spot inside, and everything else fades into nothing. 

There’s nothing but Joel—your gentle, safe, loving husband, who always takes care of you and always will.

He pulls out slowly, moaning low, and then slams back into you. Again and again and again. He sets such a punishing pace that your eyes roll back and you have to sink your nails into his shoulders just to ground yourself, his gray cotton t-shirt soft and familiar beneath your fingertips. “Fuck, fuck, Joel.”

“Pretty pussy’s squeezin’ me so fuckin’ good, baby,” he says. “Know just what to give her. Know just what she needs.”

You can feel your slick coating the inside of your thighs, your orgasm creeping right back up your spine as if it’d never faded in the first place. He squeezes your thighs hard enough to bruise but it only brings you higher, gets you closer. Your clit pulses and you swear you can feel his cock throbbing inside you in tandem, a perfect man made just for you.

His hips slam into you, bringing you closer and closer and closer, until finally— “Joel, Joel, I—oh my god, shit—!”

“Ohh, sweet girl…you gonna cum for me? Hm? Feels that good? Needed it that bad, didn’t you,” he says, and it’s not a question because he just knows.

“Yes, yes, please—Joel, I’m gonna—!”

He takes a hand and grips the back of your neck, forcing you to look up at him. “I know, baby, s’alright. Give it to me. Yeah, that’s it. There you go.”

Your orgasm hits you hard, makeup smearing as your eyes water. Every nerve ending flares on end, euphoria washing over you and pulling your senses taut. “Cum with me, cum with me, oh god.”

He fucks you through it, and it only takes a couple more meaningful strokes before his hips are stuttering. Joel presses his forehead to yours and kisses you gently, spilling inside you with his cock pressed into you as deep as he can get. He cums with you and the words that leave his mouth as he reaches the summit give you goosebumps. “Love you, sweet girl. Love you so fuckin’ much.”

When he finally comes down, Joel’s panting breaths are in perfect sync with yours. He kisses your cheeks, your nose, your forehead. And when you start giggling he breaks out that soft, gentle smile and it turns your insides to mush.

You wince as he slowly pulls out of you and stuffs himself back into his jeans, pulling on the leather of his belt and fastening it back into place.

“Still have a couple minutes before you have to get back,” you say, cheeks warming as he helps you slide your panties back up your legs. “You really should eat something. Like, actual food. Sustenance.”

“Oh, I’m plenty satisfied,” he jokes. But when you unzip his cooler and sift through it, pulling out the turkey, tomato, and cheese sandwich you’d made him last night, he takes it from you with greedy hands. 

He eats quickly and you watch him in awe, unbelieving that he’s real, and much less that you’d somehow convinced him to love you. A perfect man, all your own, so beautiful and kind and selfless. You don’t think anyone’s loved anymore more than you love Joel.

Playfully, he taps the tip of your nose as he wolfs down the last bite of his sandwich. “What’re you thinkin’ about?”

“Just you,” is your answer.

“Me?”

“About how much I love you.”

His smile widens and he reaches his hand out, cradling your face, running his thumb along your cheekbone. “I don’t deserve you, sweetheart.”

You press your face into his hand, bottom lip jutting out. A part of you wants to beg him to come home early, to use a sick day, and hold you for hours. But instead, you kiss the palm of his hand and jump out of the truck, gravel crunching beneath your feet. “You should probably get back. Don’t want you staying any later than you have to.”

Joel lets out a heavy sigh but nods his head in agreement. He closes the door of his truck and opens the door to your car instead. “Get home safe, alright? I’ll try and get this done as soon as I can. You want me to pick something up after for dinner? Kinda cravin’ pizza.”

“Let me know when you’re leaving the site and I’ll call and put in an order for pickup. Get one for Tommy too so he can take it with him. Wanna make sure he eats. Sound good?”

He kisses you hard and nods. “Sounds real good. See you at home, baby girl.”

“I’ll be waiting on the porch,” you promise.

Like you always are. Like you always will be.

[bisexual-spiderling]

oh my god, you got me crying at 6am 😭 this was incredible!! i love the way you write!

Beneath the Armor —part two

[part one]

summary: Joel figures out a way to win you over after your heated argument. Things slowly change, for the better. You carefully work at chipping away Joel's walls, not allowing yourself to leave him behind. It was easy falling for him.

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI. ANGST with a happy ending, grief, mention of child loss, daddy issues, age difference, slow burn, seduction, use of alcohol, and references to alcohol abuse, brat taming, smut, daddy kink, rough oral, face sitting, p in v, degradation, hair pulling, dom/sub undertones, creampie, begging, overstimulation

wc: 12.1k

note: part two as promised!! cowritten with @joelmillerssexyyounggirlfriend who's now on both tumblr and AO3! please make sure to go follow her for more delicious, mouth watering joel fics just like this one <3

Your junker, piece of shit car worked well enough to drive you a couple of hours out of town for the evening. You weren’t even sure where you were going, but you needed to be somewhere that wasn’t the suffocating town you’d been trapped in for years.

The sun was setting by the time you’d finally pulled over, stopping when your body took you to your unexpected destination. It was the state park your mom would take you to when you were just a child, probably around Sarah’s age. From where your car was parked, you could see the sun's bright rays moving down past the mountainous hills, saying goodbye to you.

It would’ve been a lot easier for you if your life had been simpler. A loving mom and dad who actually enjoyed being around each other. Instead, they’d both abandoned you, leaving you behind to make hard decisions for yourself. 

A couple of moments later, a pack of cigarettes was fished out from your glove compartment, and a sole smoke found its home between your trembling lips. You lit it, the fire from the lighter brightening your face against the dark contrast of the setting sky around you. With a deep, shaky inhale, you felt the back of your head hit against the car seat headrest. 

You couldn’t keep going like this. Being stuck in this town, living a repetitive life was slowly killing you. Your friends had left town; hell, even your mom had escaped. When would it be your turn? Would you stay until you became a shell of yourself, like Joel?

The ash of the cigarette in your hand followed the speed of the sunset, slowly burning, burning, burning, until finally, it was gone. All that was left was the darkness of the night and the cigarette butt in your hand. 

The smell of cigarette smoke still lingered in the car when you wake from an unexpected slumber a handful of hours later. You figured that the combination of watching the nightfall and the intoxication of the nicotine lulled you to sleep. When you started your car, you saw it was a quarter past midnight. Jesus.

You sighed, grateful that some park ranger hadn’t walked up to your parked car and seen you passed out with a fully smoked cigarette between your fingers. Your hazy eyes watched the clock briefly, considering if you should get a hotel, drive back home, or just sleep the rest of the night in your car. 

With not being able to spare much money for a room and not wanting to risk being murdered in the middle of the state park, you chose the latter. Truthfully, you didn’t want to go back home. It was never truly a home for you, but more of a transient place—an in-between.

The windows being rolled down and punk music blasting through the radio kept you from falling asleep behind the wheel. By the time you made it home, you only wanted to crawl into your bed, despite the hunger gnawing at your insides. 

But, of course, Joel was sitting on your front porch. Your headlights washed over him, showing you just how tired he looked. It was almost three in the morning, for Christ's sake. You weren’t sure that you had another fight in you. 

You didn’t even acknowledge him when you got out of your car and slammed it behind you, moving your body around him in an attempt to unlock your front door. The intensity of his stare was almost physical, and you nearly made it inside before Joel’s hand prevented you from opening the door.

“Stop,” Joel said, letting his hand fall away from yours as if he was scared to touch you for too long.

“Why are you even here right now?” you spat at him, guard high. His tone was still cold, and his shoulders were somehow even more rigid than when you left. “I don’t want to argue anymore tonight, Joel. Please, just—”

“Where were you?”  His jaw feathered.

As muddied as your dynamic has become, you knew you were not required to tell him anything. He wasn’t responsible for you. And, frankly, his cruelty should serve as a wake-up call. As much as you ached for him and wanted his attention, you knew that if you folded here and did what he wanted, you’d end up stuck in this place forever. Never progressing, forever in limbo.

Insecurity and abandonment issues be damned, you knew you deserved better than this place.

You took a wavering breath, trying to clear the emotion from your voice as you spoke. “I needed to get away. Please move.”

He didn’t. Of course, he didn’t. “By yourself. In that piece of shit car,” he stated sharply. “In the middle of the fucking night. Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Yeah, Joel, I know how to fucking read.”

“Smart enough to read but not smart enough to realize how stupid and dangerous that is?” He scoffed. “How many times a week do the cops show up here for this reason or the other? How many missing posters are hung up in the park office, plastered with faces of girls that look an awful lot like you? An’ you just go wanderin’ around by yourself in the middle of the night when you know the kinda people that live around here.”

“What, people like you?” It was a low blow, and you knew it. And even though regret slithered through your gut as you watched disbelief flash in his eyes, you stood firm. “You…I was trying to help you, Joel. And I admit I might have crossed a line, but I didn’t deserve all those insults. And I don’t deserve them now, either. So get the fuck out of my way.”

You tried for the door again, but he stepped completely in front of it this time.

“Joel—!”

“Wait. Just…just wait.” He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. He started to speak and stopped several times. You knew he was trying to apologize, trying to find the words to smooth this over. 

But you weren’t helping him this time. It wasn’t your job to save him, just as he said. So you offered nothing in response because that’s what he wants from you, isn’t it?

And then the words came pouring out of him like a long-held sigh. “I lied before. An’ I shouldn’t have. I was angry. I don’t…I haven’t even opened the door since…I didn’t expect to see anyone in her room. Let alone you, who I…” 

He stopped again. Your heart raced. 

Your words were breathless. A whisper in the dark as you urged, “Who you what, Joel?”

“You…you mean somethin’ to me. An’ I shouldn’t have said all that earlier. I didn’t mean it. Not a fuckin’ word. But I…you…you terrify me. The world is a dangerous place for girls like you.”

“Girls like me?”

“Yeah, girls like you who see someone like me and don't cross to the other side of the street. Instead, you—” he paused, eyes downcast, suddenly interested in the crack in the wooden step beneath his feet. “You bring me dinner,” he continued with a disbelieving laugh. “An’ you ask me all these questions about my no-good life. Questions that you want to hear the answers for, like you’re really tryin’ to know me. An’ you look at me like…like there’s somethin’ worth lookin’ at.”

Your heart momentarily broke for him. It made sense that someone so angry was secretly just insecure. He was so scared of being loved, of losing someone he loved, that he’d instead soak in his own misery. 

“And if somethin’ were to happen to you, somethin’ preventable, I couldn’t live with it.” He scratched lightly at the scruff along his jaw. 

When you spoke this time, the words held less malice but remained resolute. “I know you see what’s happening here. It’s clear as day, isn’t it? I’m a young girl with no daddy to look out for her. And you’re someone’s daddy without a daughter.”

His eyes snapped to yours, filled with an unsaid warning that you didn’t heed. “It ain’t like that,” he insisted, but the lie bled right through his teeth.

“It’s not what it’s like; it’s what it is, Joel. And, you know, maybe you’re right. Maybe I am pathetic, wanting so badly for you to comfort me, to fill that hole my dad left behind. But at least I’m not denying any of it. At least I’m man enough to admit that I want it, that I want you, even if it’s in a fucked up way.”

Joel shook his head. “I can’t…I can’t be that for you. I’m not your daddy.”

“And I’m not Sarah.”

You watched as he flinched at the sound of her name, a visceral reaction that seemed to steal the breath from his lungs. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Don’t.”

Even knowing you shouldn’t, you closed the tiny space between you. So close you could feel his breath as it fanned over your lips. “You like to put on this front, like to think you can handle this on your own, that you don’t need anyone or anything. But I can see beneath all that, Joel Miller.”

That same venom from earlier made its grand return to his words. “Oh, and you know just what I need. S’that it? Think you’ve got me all figured out. Think you’ve got all the fucking answers.”

You nodded, determined. “You’re not as complex as you think. You’re just as scared to be alone as I am.”

Joel didn’t like that. You knew he didn’t want to be called out on his shit, but you didn’t have the energy to care anymore. It was too early in the morning to give a shit. 

His jaw was clenched so tight that you could see a muscle flex in his jaw, and if you weren’t so angry, you might’ve noticed the pang of attraction in your gut. 

“Fine.”

Then, he finally turned and walked away. His boots crunched against the gravel driveway as he stalked towards his home without a backward glance. He didn’t storm off or run away. He just left, his back straight and determined.

You hated that you watched him, unable to tear your eyes away until he entered his house. You were just grateful that you could finally lay your head on your pillow, instantly climbing into your bed when Joel left your peripheral vision. 

And even though he wasn’t there physically, he still haunted your dreams. Endless patterns of fighting and a brutal tug-of-war with Joel kept you from a soundless sleep. When you woke the next morning, it was in a hot sweat, with the hair on the back of your neck sticking to your clammy skin. 

The cold shower you prayed would wash away your woes did little to comfort you. By the time you were dressed in only shorts and a tank top, smoking a cigarette in your bedroom, you felt just as shitty as you did the night before.

The warm summer breeze moved through your bedroom from the open window, almost mocking you. That feeling of driving with Joel and having the wind pass between your fingers was returning with a vengeance. 

What right did Joel have to come into your life? To shake it up, to make you crave him and his affection. Why couldn’t you have chosen someone less fucked up, someone less confusing?

And almost on cue, you heard a heavy knock at your front door, and you knew it was him. By this point, you had absolutely had it. Why wouldn't he leave you alone if he didn’t want you? 

“What now?” you scowled when you yanked the door open, unsurprised to see Joel there, holding what appeared to be a book. Looking into his face showed you that all of his bark was gone; instead, his eyes were soft and almost apologetic. There was a faint crease between his eyebrows, his gaze heavy with an unspoken guilt. 

He glanced away for a second, looking back at his house as if he was looking for an escape plan if things didn’t go how he wanted. 

“Can I come in?” 

Joel’s voice was quiet, rough around the edges, almost like he had to force himself to speak. 

You took a moment to consider it. Did you want to keep this going? Could you handle any more arguments? Your eyes moved to look at the book in his hands, and through his long fingers, you could see the outline of a Polaroid photo tucked into a clear sleeve on the cover. 

“Please,” Joel all but begged, stepping a bit closer to you before quickly moving back, unsure if he had the right to shorten the space between the two of you. “I know it’s been a lot, but please, just let me try to explain. It’s hard for me… stuff like this. Feelings.”

The tone Joel was taking with you and the unspoken apology hanging in the air made you hesitate even more. His breath shuddered as he exhaled, clearly trying to discover a way to convince you that he meant what he was saying.

“I messed up.” Joel’s voice was calloused, raw, as if he wasn’t used to admitting something like that out loud. “I’m sorry. Can I please come in?”

It was almost embarrassing that a simple ‘I’m sorry’ was enough to break you, but words like that coming from Joel made forgiveness all the easier. Joel was an uphill battle, but finally, you felt like you had won.

“Okay. But if you shout, or yell, or make me feel like shit, then you can leave the way you came in.”

His nod was stiff but confident. “No yelling. No making you feel like shit. I just wanna talk.”

It felt weird having Joel in your space. Your home was a stark contrast to his: neat and organized, with many decorative touches throughout, including books, odd paintings you’d rescued from the thrift store, and an unhealthy amount of foliage. 

You’d found a hobby of taking in half-dead plants, making it a challenge to yourself to prevent them from succumbing entirely. Ironic. 

Watching Joel’s towering figure sit down on your couch almost made you smile. It felt right for him to be there, in a weird, bizarre way.

“Cute place.”

And even though he was slowly working on making you forgive him, you wouldn’t lie down that easily. You only hummed a thanks in response before sitting beside him, the couch sinking under your combined weight. 

“So,” you began, gesturing to the photo album tucked in his hands. “What do you want to talk about?”

By God, you could feel Joel’s hesitation, the fear that he felt himself in allowing you to see his vulnerable side. But you wouldn’t baby him like you had been doing. If this was something he wanted, he had to decide on his own.

“I do like spendin’ time with you,” he admitted, surprising you with his bluntness. “More than you’ll ever know. But I meant what I said last night. I can’t give you what you want. This can’t be more than what it already is. A friendship.”

Both of you knew that was bullshit. As much as he wanted to tell himself that he hadn’t considered something more with you, you knew that if you wanted to get anywhere with him, you’d have to agree to his terms. You did enjoy the time you spent with him when it wasn’t full of bickering and whatever the hell else. He took care of you, cared about you. If those were his terms, then so be it.

For now.

“Okay.”

He nodded, sighing a breath of relief at your agreement. “Okay, then.”

Joel’s hands moved to open the photo album, his knees turning to bump into your own. From the first page, you knew that this was going to be incredibly challenging to sit through with him.

Sarah was held in Joel’s strong arms when she was a baby. He looked so young and full of life and promise, and he had tears in his eyes. 

“Remember rushin’ to the hospital since her momma’s water broke early. I was on a job site with my brother, with one of the most important clients we’d had at the time. It didn’t matter, not when I knew that Sarah was there, waitin’ for me.” 

His finger traced along the page, stopping when he felt you moving closer to his side. 

“She’s beautiful, Joel,” you whispered. He’d never been so open with you. Talking to him felt like calming down a wild animal, but you wanted him to know that you were there for him, despite what he believed he deserved.

“Yeah,” he sighed, “the most beautiful little girl I’d ever seen.”

He continued to flip through the book, filling in some of the gaps between the photos with stories. It seemed almost therapeutic for him to go through the pictures and relive what it was like when Sarah was still alive.

One photo in particular stood out to you because up until then, you’d only really seen either Joel, Tommy, or Sarah.

A woman with long blond hair sat with a baby Sarah between her legs, a thin smile across her lips. 

“Who’s that?” 

The second Joel glanced over to see what picture you’d pointed out, you could tell you hit a sore spot.

“Sarah’s momma,” he answered simply before flipping to the next page. You didn’t want to press him anymore about it, understanding that he was already putting himself in a vulnerable position. Somehow, you could still feel a frustration brewing in him the longer time passed on, until he finally let it out. 

“The cancer was genetic. Her momma had it when she was a kid, too, but beat it. When Sarah got diagnosed, she said she couldn’t be around all of that again, and she upped and left us one night. To think, it was her genes, her fault for it all, but she couldn’t even get the nerve to stick it out with us.”

You were stunned. Unable to speak, unable to form an ‘I’m sorry’ right back to him. He’d been through so much, and it made sense why things were so hard for him, especially now. 

“Would’ve tossed out that picture a long time ago if Sarah wasn’t in it. I don’t have many photos left of her, so I don’t wanna risk throwing anything away, even if it does bring back shit memories,” he explained to you. 

Despite how difficult you knew this was for him, reliving all these painful memories, it warmed your heart to realize that he had opened up and shared this part of himself, all for you.

And while he might not have been able to admit the root of your strange attachment to one another, he’d given you what he could. He had been trying so hard to mend the rift between you without opening a new wound within himself.

You laid your head on his shoulder, and at first, he stiffened. But then he relaxed even deeper into the couch cushions and sighed deeply.

The two of you sat there just like that for the rest of the night. Close enough to touch, but a friendly boundary drawn between you. Joel showed you every picture in the photo album and told you the stories behind each one. And even after you hear each tale tied to each picture, he continued to speak about her.

There was a sad smile on his face while he did, but you didn’t comment on it. You just asked questions about her, all the things you’ve ever wondered, and laughed when he told you about the art phase she’d gone through and how she’d painted a mural on the wall of the spare room at Tommy’s house that still existed today.

He told you about his brother, too. About how they’d been thick as thieves their whole lives. He explained how he’d pretty much raised Tommy from the day he was born. He’d never once minded it because his brother had always been his best friend. Their mom had always been off working this odd job or the other, working tirelessly as a single parent to provide for two rowdy young boys.

When you had asked about their dad, Joel shrugged and said simply, “Never met him.”

You thought maybe having an absent father of his own was why Joel was so quick to protect, to provide. It would be second nature for him to take care of someone. First Tommy, and then Sarah, and now…well. Now, you.

He and Tommy started their business together right out of high school, and it flourished immediately.

It had been Tommy’s idea to go corporate. And while Joel had hated the idea of it at first, he was thankful when Sarah got sick. Because selling his part of Miller Bros Construction back to Tommy had given Sarah an extra couple of months of treatment.

He told you everything and was patient each time you asked for clarification. Joel’s voice was soothing, low and deep, vibrating through his chest. It was not until late that night that he decided to go back home, and you knew you’d promised to keep things friendly, but you found yourself lingering in the door frame, trying desperately to find a reason for him to stay just a little longer.

“Thank you for opening up to me,” you say. “I know it’s not easy, but it means a lot; I hope you know that.”

“It’s the least I could do. After everything I said to you…” He shook his head, jaw feathered.

You reached out and placed your hand against his bicep. “It’s okay, Joel. Really. All’s forgiven, okay? I promise.”

He nodded in understanding, but you could still see the guilt that lingered on his face. It’ll take more time for him to forgive himself, you knew. But you made a silent promise to be patient with him, to do what you could to help him through it.

You said goodnight, but before he was entirely off the front porch steps, you said, “Wait, Joel?”

“Yeah, baby?”

The word stopped your heart dead in your chest.

He said it so casually you thought it must be an accident, an unintentional slip of the tongue. But he made no effort to take it back, to correct himself. And you thought that if he were ever going to repeat it, the best course of action would be to keep yourself from teasing him about it. 

So, you just smiled so hard your cheeks hurt and asked, “Can you give me a ride to work tomorrow?”

“Course. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Resuming your routine is easy, but this time, it was better. Deeper. He started to bring you a travel mug of coffee each morning and insisted it was only fair, considering you brought him dinner every night. And you can’t complain, and certainly not when you realize that Joel Miller made the best coffee known to man.

He talked more and made an effort to get to know you. He asked about your favorite songs, and the following week, you noticed a few new CDs in his collection. He ordered pizza every Friday night and got mushrooms on half when you told him it’s your favorite topping.

You asked him to take you grocery shopping on one of your off days. It was the first time you went out together, and though you got a couple of curious eyes from the townspeople, Joel didn’t seem to mind it at all. He followed you around the store, pushing the shopping cart while you tossed things into it and typed prices into the calculator app on your phone.

In passing, you said, “We really should start eating better. Less burgers, a couple more vegetables.”

“I haven’t really cooked much since…” He didn’t have to finish the sentence for you to know what he was trying to say. And it saddened you so much to know he hasn’t cooked a hot meal for himself since the passing of his daughter, and so you made an offer.

“Alright, I’ll cook then. Dinner at your place. Do you have olive oil?”

He didn’t, so you added that to the cart, too. And you spent an hour that night in his kitchen, moving around as if it belonged to you, washing dishes while you waited for the chicken breast to sear in the pan.

Joel offered to help several different times, but you shooed him from the kitchen. You wanted to surprise him, to do something nice for him. He deserved it, to feel cared for the way he cared for everyone else.

When you finished, you set the plates on the small, round table in the kitchen. There were only two chairs, and it had been abandoned as far as you could tell, apart from the occasional pieces of mail that sometimes lived on it.

He hesitated for just a second when he noticed. Only then did you realize the last time he had sat at the kitchen table to eat a meal was likely with Sarah. So you said, “We can go to the couch if you want. Watch a movie or something. I just thought that-”

“It’s fine,” he insisted before he sat in one of the chairs. “It looks great.”

Even though you only made chicken and potatoes, he acted like it was the best meal he’d ever had. Between each bite, he showered you with compliments, and you glowed at the praise. He thanked you a hundred times, and the energy was easy and good.

So much so that you made dinner the following night, too. And the one after that, and the one after that…until it became just another part of your routine.

You always watched something together after, be it a new movie he picked up from the rental place downtown or a rerun comedy episode on TV. And it wasn’t uncommon that you’d fall asleep on his couch and wake up the following day with the scratchy wool blanket draped over you and a pillow from his bedroom beneath your head. 

You were fairly certain the only time Joel ever slept in his bed was on those nights that you fell asleep on his couch. You’d wanted to ask him why that was but discovered it one night on your own. 

Small grunts woke you from your peaceful slumber, one of your eyes cracking open to scan the room. You wiped a bit of drool away with the back of your hand before shifting to sit up, wondering what it was that woke you up. The TV was off, and the trailer park was dead silent; the only light came from the kitchen oven hood.

Then, you heard it, a slight, almost guttural whine coming from Joel’s bedroom. That’s when you decided to get up, pulling your blanket along to investigate what was wrong.

The bright LED from Joel’s clock lit his silhouette, and from what you could tell, he was sleeping soundly. You could feel the old linoleum creaking beneath your feet as you approached his side of the bed. Joel’s even breathing suddenly changed into that strikingly different whine, and when you moved closer, you could see the faint tears that were streaming down his face. 

You couldn’t leave Joel alone, crying in his sleep, but you couldn’t bring yourself to wake him. Instead, you did the next best thing, climbing into the bed beside him. Your movements were slow and calculated, and by the time you were positioned awkwardly next to him, it took all of your strength not to wrap your arms around his broad shoulders.

Joel’s body hardly moved, but you could feel the quiet sobs escaping him. How often did he sleep like this? Alone and hurting? Did he even realize that all of his pain was slowly eating away at him? 

It was becoming impossible to resist comforting him, so you did what you did best. You helped.

Your arm slipped through the space above his hip, spooning this massive man, hoping your presence could help calm him down. To your surprise, it did, and not before long, his cries subsided. 

Falling asleep with your body wrapped around Joel was a truly humbling experience. All of this time, you thought you suffered from insomnia, but all you needed in the end was Joel’s back pressed against your chest. No dreams, no nightmares… nothing. You hadn’t slept so well in years.

The next morning, you woke up to the smell of breakfast cooking, something that made you tremendously happy. You could slowly see Joel take care of himself more, cooking meals that held sustenance rather than opting for something he could throw into the microwave. He could cook too, despite how humble he acted about it, occasionally cooking you breakfast on the mornings you’d slept over.

“Morning,” you chirped to Joel as you stepped out of his bedroom, basically bouncing on your heels to greet him. 

“Yeah. Morning.” His returning greeting was far less blithe. “Made coffee,” he said, nodding to the still-steaming mug that sat on the table. 

You sat and pulled your legs up to your chest, letting the hot mug thaw your cold fingers. Joel flitted around the kitchen, moved this thing or that, and turned the bacon searing in the pan on the stove too many times. It didn’t take you long to conclude that he was nervous. “Joel?”

He sighed as if hearing his name in your mouth was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He turned to face you fully, his spine pressed against the edge of the countertop. Through the widest grin you’ve ever seen on his face, he said, “You can’t be doin’ things like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like crawling into my bed in the dead of night.” The words were firm, but he couldn’t seem to control that telling smile.

You couldn’t help but mirror it, because his words may say one thing, but you knew he was thinking another. “But you were having a nightmare. What else was I supposed to do?”

“Leave me be,” he said, his arms crossed over his chest. “Close the damn door.”

“So…you’re telling me you don't like waking up next to me? That you didn’t sleep better than you have in years?”

“Now, hang on—don’t go puttin’ words in my mouth—”

“So you did like it.” Your smile grew impossibly wider, and your cheeks ached. 

“I didn’t say that, either,” he insisted. A rosy hue crawled up his neck, reaching as far as the tips of his ears. “What I’m sayin’ is that it ain’t right. You’re so…so young. And good. Shouldn’t be in an old man’s bed. Definitely not one like me.”

You laughed. “God, Joel. You’re acting like we fucked or something.”

His embarrassment was palpable. A living, breathing thing you could sense immediately. He turned away from you, busying himself as he pulled out two plates.

You knew you shouldn’t, but it was just so easy to rile him up. Through your soft giggles, you said, “I’m just messing with you.”

He clicked his tongue and shook his head as he sat a plate in front of you and took his spot on the other side of the table. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “Real funny.”

It should have been the end of it. You should have respected the words he’d plucked up the courage to say. You should have kept your distance. 

But the next time you woke up on his couch in the middle of the night, it wasn’t him who had the nightmare. 

Your eyes were watery, and your fingers trembled as you crawled beneath his sheets and wrapped your arms around him. You pressed your face into the curve between his shoulder blades and inhaled the scent of him—pine, smoke, and Joel. It grounded you, knowing he was close, breathing him in.

He stirred in his sleep and then stiffened. You half expected him to push you away, to keep true to his words. But then you sniffled, and his muscles went slack. He took your hand in his and pulled it up to his face. He pressed a tender kiss to your knuckles, and with a sleep-muddled voice, he promised, “I got you. S’alright.”

The nightmare didn’t return. And the next morning, he didn’t say a word. He just served breakfast and put a little extra sugar in your coffee.

And, soon, it became just another part of your routine—one more thing to add to the ever-growing list. You never went to bed together, as if that small thing altered the truth of it. But, eventually, your time on the couch dwindled to less than fifteen minutes each night. It was as if you could feel his absence when he left your space, even in your unconscious state.

Often, Joel wasn’t even fully asleep when you slipped in beside him. His voice was groggy as he turned and wrapped you up in his big, strong arms and said, “Someone oughta teach you how to listen, girl.”

You just laid your head in the crook of his neck, which you suspected may have been made with you in mind. “Shh. I’m tired.”

One morning, you wake up slowly on a day when neither of you has any responsibilities. The sun shined through the worn lace curtains he’d likely had since the nineties. They cast intricate shadows across the pale blue fabric of his t-shirt.

Joel slept soundly, and his soft snores filled the room. You shifted closer to him and slid your hand beneath his shirt. It wasn’t until you laid your leg across his lap that you realized he was hard in his boxers, cock twitching beneath your thigh.

Your breath came fast, labored. Your desire for him hit you like a freight train, blinding you. You needed him so badly you thought you might die without it. And you knew what he’d say. You knew he’d find a reason to deny how you make him feel, insecurities eating up his yearning.

But you’d be a fool not to try, right? You have to try.

And so you peppered light kisses along his throat, tasting the salt on his skin. You felt so safe in his arms that you never wanted to leave. When you said his name, it came out as a whine, taking the form of a desperate plea. “Joel.”

You shifted your thigh slowly, pressing gently against his cock that steadily came to life as the seconds ticked by.

Your mouth found his jaw, kisses growing needier. “Joel,” you said again. And this time, he heard you, still half asleep as he tried to pry his eyes open.

His hand came up to stroke gently at your hair, so tender and affectionate that it made you ache. “Mornin’, baby.” 

That name again, sugary sweet in his mouth. You wanted to taste it, and so you did. You pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips, slow and experimental. You were waiting for him to push you away.

Except he only pulled you closer, breathing out a sigh of relief that you inhaled like oxygen. He tasted like smoke, spice, and Joel. You scratched lightly at his side with the hand beneath his shirt, and his mouth opened to let out a groan. 

You took the opportunity as it came, slipping your tongue against his, drinking him in. You shifted your hips against him, his thigh pressed against your center so perfectly.

It’s only then, as the slight friction made his cock twitch, that Joel pulled away. “Sorry about that,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for…sorry.”

“It’s okay, I can help you,” you told him.

Joel let his head fall back against the pillows. There was an amused smile on his face as he scoffed in disbelief. “Fuckin’ crazy,” he said, shaking his head. “Got no business…Christ. Gonna be the death of me, little girl.”

You pulled yourself up onto his lap, straddling him. His hands rested on your hips, squeezing softly. “Please, Joel,” you whimpered, kissing him again. “Wanna make you feel good.”

“Can’t play these kinda games with you,” he explained. But he shifted his hips up to meet yours when you grind down against him anyway. And you knew then that he was just as needy as you were. “You’re too good for me.”

“But I want you so bad,” you explained. You knew you shouldn’t, you knew it, but the words slipped out anyway. “Please, daddy.”

His grip on your waist turned tight enough to bruise, and you could feel his cock as it throbbed painfully between your legs. “Fuck. Fuck.” Joel closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and said, “Baby, you’ve gotta go.”

“What?”

“I need…shit. I need you to go. ‘Fore I do somethin’ I can’t take back. Please.”

He didn’t look at you. He kept his eyes firmly sealed shut as if looking up at you would change everything, and you knew it likely would.

And even though it hurt just a little, that pang of rejection, familiar poison in your belly, you did as he asked. You left his room, gathered your things, and returned to your nearly abandoned home, which felt far too empty without Joel in it.

An hour later, he knocked at your door with his truck keys in hand. “There’s a new movie coming out in the theater tonight. Figured we could go grab lunch and see it.”

He didn’t mention the morning, and neither did you. But it was all you could think about each time you looked at him, and you thought he saw right through you because he wore a secret smile all day. 

A week later, he set his mind on fixing your car. And you didn’t complain one bit because you got to sit in one of his old camping chairs, sipping on too-sweet lemonade while you watched him grease up his hands beneath the Texas sun.

As the summer went on, you began to notice small changes in him. He smiled more and laughed a little easier. Made more of an effort to do things, though they were always with you. He offered to help Kathy mow the lawn when Parker was sick, and even she noticed the change in him.

“Whatever you’re doing to that man,” she told you. “Better keep it up.” It’s said with a tone of adoration, and you knew you’d likely be the new gossip of the trailer park, but you don’t even mind it.

Truthfully, you liked the idea of everyone associating the two of you together. You liked the idea of being his.

After one absolutely terrible shift at Dazzlers, you found Joel’s truck in the parking lot and ripped the door open. Before he even has a chance to say hello, you exclaimed, “I fucking hate this job. Stupid freak customers always trying to grab ass that doesn’t belong to them and-”

“Did someone touch you?” His voice was still. Calm as death. He put the truck in park. 

You would have thought it would warm your heart if you hadn’t been so angry and irritable. He wanted to defend you, protect you, no hesitation. You sighed and shook your head. “They tried. But no. I need a fucking cigarette.”

As you pulled yourself up into the passenger seat, Joel pulled a Marlboro from the pack and lit it. He placed it between your lips and watched with amusement on his face as you let the nicotine wash over you. And then he said, “Made you something.”

Your brows furrowed. “Made what?”

He presented to you a small chunk of wood that had been carved into the shape of a familiar-looking flower. “Marigold,” Joel said. “Was talkin’ to Kathy about her garden. Said she always plants marigolds every summer cause they’re supposed to symbolize sunshine and healing or somethin’ like that. Reminded me of you.”

It was intricate, less a carving and more a piece of art. “Jesus, Joel. This is beautiful. You made this?”

He shrugged it off as if it was nothing. “Always liked woodwork since I was a kid.”

The talent he had struck you like an arrow to the heart, reminding you of the truth you’ve always known: Joel didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong in a dead-end life with a beaten-down trailer and nothing ahead of him. He thought you were too good for him but failed to see how good of a man he truly was.

You threw your arms around him, pressed a kiss to his mouth with grinning lips, and made a silent promise to yourself. 

You were going to get out of here, and you’re dragging him with you.

“I fucking love you, Joel Miller,” you said, and mean it. He didn’t even flinch. As if it wasn’t the very first time you’d said it and it wouldn’t be the last.

He didn’t say it back right away, but you hadn’t said it with any expectation. Yet, with your head on his chest late that night, he whispered into your hair, “I love you more, baby. Promise you that.”

You carried the marigold everywhere. It became your good luck charm, a protective talisman that made you feel safe no matter where you were.

And it’s the luck you needed late one night when you sat up in Joel’s bed, the laptop screen dimmed to near blankness, and you typed away at the keys as you applied to colleges all over Texas. You doubted any of them would take one look at your GPA and attendance and even consider you applicable, but it was worth a shot. It was worth trying.

On one particularly scorching July day, you sit on Joel’s couch in nothing but a red bikini top and a pair of cut-off denim shorts. He lounged beside you with a glass bottle of beer in hand, condensation making the label peel back beneath his fingers. The windows were open, and each rush of the wind felt like a gift from God.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly is playing on Joel’s old junker TV, and even though he’s seen the movie a million times, he’s as infatuated with it as ever. At the same time, you’re sitting alongside him, bored and almost dying from the heat. 

“Why is it so hot?” you grumbled, shifting in your seat. Joel hardly even bats an eye at your complaints, his large palm coming to pull your legs up and over his lap. 

“Texas summer, baby. You’ll be used to it when you’re old like me.”

Your lips pouted at his dismissiveness, knowing Joel couldn’t change the weather but still craving release. 

“Ughhh,” you groaned, stretching across Joel’s thighs. “I’m melting.”

Joel is still locked into the movie, his lips mouthing some of the lines before they’re even said. ‘Every gun makes its own tune.’ If he wasn’t so cute, you might’ve been upset with how easily the film was taking him away from you.

So, you formed a plan.

“I can’t take it anymore,” you complain, gauging to see how Joel responds. He only hums out what could be interpreted as his condolences, spurring you on further. 

It was risky with open windows and even riskier knowing Joel was terrified to go past kissing you. But you liked the challenge. You liked knowing that even though Joel's falling apart was out of your control, you could be there to help him trust again. You’d already proven to yourself that you could make him love again. That you could be loved. 

You were ready for the next step.

The strings tying your top together fell with one swift move of your fingers, and the sound of the material dropping finally made Joel’s head turn to you. The priceless look on his face almost caused you to laugh, eyes wide and shocked. Things felt mudded, like you were moving through water. 

“Oops.”

You’d never exposed yourself to him before, but there you were, chest bared for the world to see. His eyes drank you in before ripping away, an expression of combined embarrassment and nerves washing over him.

“Stop. Put it back on,” Joel commanded, reaching to snatch your bikini top, but you were faster than him. You slipped the top behind your back, sandwiched between the couch and your warm skin. 

Joel sighed, a strained, frustrated sort of growl underneath the exhalation. “Please, baby.”

If you were a kinder, sweeter soul, maybe you would’ve granted him mercy. But it had been months of craving Joel’s affection, attention, and touch. 

“Joel. Touch me. I promise it’ll be worth it,” you begged, extending your hands to grab his palms. You watched his large hands get closer and closer to the rising peaks of your breasts, a whine getting caught in your throat when his skin finally grazed you.

But as soon as it came, it was gone. He pulled his hands out of your grip, shaking his head furiously. “No. I just… fuck. I won’t let myself ruin you.”

You weren’t taking no for an answer. You moved yourself off of the couch, opting to go to the floor.

“Daddy,” you whispered, your bare knees pressed into the plush carpet that covered the floor. Your eyes blinked up at Joel, innocent yet begging, begging for his attention. Begging to be loved.

Joel’s jaw flexed, and you watched the way his fists clenched at his side. It was fucked up, you knew that, but you needed it just as much as you knew Joel needed it. 

“Don’t. I already told you that we’re not playin’ these games. It ain’t right,” Joel hissed through gritted teeth, watching you crawl across the rug and settle between his thighs. 

You moved slowly but deliberately, holding your hands behind your back while only using your face to tempt Joel. Without breaking eye contact, you rubbed your face against the meat of his thigh, sighing at the feeling of the denim. 

Joel’s hands were clenching the tops of the couch, white-knuckled and flexing. You weren’t sure if he wanted to fuck you or throttle you, but you were so close to getting what you wanted that you didn’t even care. 

“Let me make you feel good. You deserve to feel good, daddy,” you whimpered, pressing a wet kiss against the rising bulge in his pants. The growl that left Joel was feral, making your blood run cold. You knew that he wouldn’t be able to control himself once he broke. He’s gonna ruin you.

“You needa’ go to therapy, you know that?” Joel huffed, but his words lacked any malice. His hips slightly lifted to follow the warmth of your lips, diminishing his attempted resistance.

You lapped at the tent in his denim pants, sucking and kissing until a wet spot formed. “Why go to therapy when I could be here, sucking your cock?”

Joel’s head tipped back on the couch, the shaking of his head making you smile. “You’ve got the dirtiest little mouth. Never had no daddy to teach you manners.”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Teach me, please. I’ll be your good girl, I’ll do whatever you want.”

The press of Joel’s clothed cock against your mouth seemed to be enough for Joel to relinquish some control. His head tipped back down to look at you, a long pause making you swallow nervously. He watched you, dark-eyed and mysterious, and just as you opened your mouth to speak, he reached down and slapped you.

It was a simple thing, light and stinging slightly. It sent a jolt straight between your legs, and Joel noticed the way you squirmed in between his legs. A look of both disbelief and excitement flashed across his face before he jerked you by your hair, wrapping it around his big palm.

“Gonna stuff your mouth full’a me. Teach you how to behave. That’s what you need, yeah?” Joel questioned, reaching down to grab your hands and forcing you to undo his jeans. The hand that still had your hair wrapped around it pushed your face down once you reached his boxers, feeling your moan of approval reverberate against his cock.

“Christ,” Joel grunted, impatiently reaching down to free his cock. “Can’t believe a girl your age wants me to fuck your pretty mouth. You need help, baby.”

You whimpered and nodded, perfectly content in agreeing with anything Joel said if it meant you’d get to taste his sees in the back of your throat.

“Open wide,” Joel commanded, slapping his cock against your bottom lip. You obeyed wordlessly, whimpering at the feeling of Joel’s dick slipping into your throat. Absentmindedly, your hand reached between your thighs, quickly finding your clit before eagerly rubbing circles into it. 

Joel’s hand left your hair and instead moved to embrace your cheek, both of his palms cradling your face. He guided you, meeting your mouth with the brutal snap of his hips, the bulbous tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat. Though it would’ve been a barbaric pace for anyone else, you enjoyed the feral feeling of being mouth fucked by Joel, a man double your age.

“You can take all of it, can’t you?” Joel growled, less a question and more of a statement. His hips drilled up into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat while your fingers pressed rapid circles into the slippery mess between your legs. 

Each snap of Joel’s hips left your nose buried into the coarse hair that covered the base of his cock. He held you there; the sudden silence and lack of guttural noises coming from your throat revealed just how close you were. Wet, sloppy, squelching sounds coming from between your legs.

Your middle finger had slipped inside your weeping opening, while your pointer finger rubbed relentlessly against your clit. The dark look on his face when he noticed what you were doing to yourself was almost enough to send you over the edge. 

Tragically, you didn’t have an opportunity to reach your growing climax. Joel moved around your head, your lips still wrapped around his cock, to grab your arm and rip it away. 

“Think you can play with yourself right in front of me? If you’re comin’, it’s gonna be on my face, baby.”

The whimper that escaped you would’ve been embarrassing to you if you weren’t so fucking turned on. Being ripped away from Joel’s cock made it that much worse. Your body was aching, practically pulsing, for some form of relief. Joel didn’t make you wait long.

He moved around on the couch so he was stretched out on his back across the cushions, his dick standing tall and hard for you. 

“Come on. You know where I want you.”

And, momentarily, your eyes flit over to his length, questioning if he’d let you get away with slipping him inside, just for a moment. The look on his face told you otherwise.

“Don’t even think about it. We can mess around a little bit if that’ll get this out of your system, but not that. No… intercourse,” Joel sneered, the word almost robotic in his mouth. “Now get up here.”

Instead of pushing it, you decided to break him down the further it goes. Leave him wanting, unable to resist. He’d be begging by the time you were done. 

Your chest was rising and falling with anticipation, watching your thighs sink around Joel’s broad shoulders. His large arms wrapped around your waist, bringing you forward and not wasting any time.  The sounds of his wet tongue lapping at you made you whine under your breath.

He created slow, deliberate circles around your clit, moving your hips to follow the way he tasted you. 

Christ, you knew he was going to make the wait worth it. Joel was so experienced, somehow knowing exactly where you needed the pressure of his tongue against you. 

You wanted him to feel good, too, to crave the feeling of you that he’d no longer be able to hold back. When you flipped around on his shoulders so you’d be able to suck his cock, Joel couldn’t hide the groan that left him. 

He felt heavy in your palm as you jerked him off, following the pace of his tongue. Your mouth was watering, and you were unable to slow yourself down, letting the tip of his cock slip past your lips.

Joel groaned, rocking up into your mouth. It all felt so feral, the sounds of your combined slurpings mixing with the chirps of birds outside the living room window. Joel’s curtains were pulled, hiding the raw sight of your bodies rutting, searching for pleasure. The curtains did not, however, hide the sounds escaping from both you and Joel. 

As hard as you tried, it was impossible to stop the noises leaving your throat. The second that one of Joel’s hands left your hips and slipped inside of you, you were practically about to explode. 

You were so wet that two of his fingers slipped easily in and out, his fingers curling in a motion that had you whining around his dick.

All it took was one last thrust of his hips into your mouth for you to lose it, whimpering through a white-hot fire that burned throughout your body. He worked his fingers in and out, helping you during the last moments of your orgasm. Just as quickly as you came, he pulled you off of him, his breathing fanning against your bare pussy.

“Don’t wanna come yet,” Joel groaned into the skin of your thigh, slipping his fingers out of you. “Wanna enjoy this for as long as I can.”

Both of you caught your breaths for a second, but you knew you couldn’t let Joel cool off for too long; you needed him to surrender to what he’d been aching for. 

He hardly resisted letting you crawl down his body and straddle his hips, the wet mess between your legs soaking Joel’s cock. A look in his eye let you know that he still had some fight left in him, but you wouldn’t let him win.

“Come on, daddy,” you whispered, rubbing your pussy against Joel’s throbbing cock. “Just the tip. It doesn’t have to be anything more. I wanna feel you.”

You could feel him twitching against you, a guttural growl rising from his throat. “We shouldn’t, baby. Don’t deserve someone as sweet as you. Too damn perfect.”

Your eyes watered as you looked down on him, wishing he could see himself the way you see him. He was much too hard on himself.

The taste of yourself stained your lips when you kissed him, your tongue slipping into his mouth. You shifted your hips, catching the head of his dick on your clit. With a little more pressure and the twist of your thighs, he’d slip in.

“I love you, Joel. You can have me. I’m already yours,” you kissed his lips. It finally seemed like enough to break him. Your admittance triggered Joel, motivating him to push his hips up, smashing into your own. You sank onto him, gasping in surprise.

The tips of your nails dug deep into the skin of his tanned shoulders, probably with enough force to make him bleed, but Joel couldn’t care less. His jaw flexed, tension ripping through his face as he pushed his heels against the couch's cushion. His pace was brutal, relentless, but you accepted the savagery, lapping every last drop Joel gave you. 

“I love you,” you moaned again, your back arching and leaving everything on full display for Joel. His eyes ate you up, moving back and forth, mentally photographing your every inch like he was afraid you’d magically disappear from his arms. 

The leather couch groaned when Joel suddenly moved, sitting up and wrapping his arms around your hips into an embrace. Your mouths collided in a frenzy, bodies grinding and hands grasping desperately. You’d never felt so understood before, moaning in the way Joel touched you. His fingers slipped between your bodies and pressed precisely where you needed it the most. 

A fire burned deep inside you, a furious warning that you were approaching your peak. You didn’t want it to end. You’d finally been rewarded after working hard to break down Joel’s walls. 

“Stop,” you gasped against Joel’s mouth, “‘bout to come. Don’t want this to end.”

Your words did nothing to stop Joel from slowing down; as a matter of fact, you could’ve sworn he sped up. The skin of your thigh was beginning to stick to the leather because of how much you were sweating due to pure exertion. 

“It don’t gotta ever end, baby. I’m all yours, if you want me.”

A feeling grew deep in your gut, one that you would be scared of if you weren’t so in love with Joel. He had you, and you knew you would die before giving up on him. You’d drag him out of town with you if you had to.

A few more circles of his fingers and you were falling apart under his touch. Your body shuddered as a hot coil raced through you, making you fall limp in Joel’s lap. He groaned at the way your pussy was shuddering around him, squeezing him just right.

“I’m snipped. Didn’t wanna have any more kids, after. Let me fill you up, pretty baby. I’d feel so good.” 

It didn’t matter if he was or wasn’t sterile.

Your response either way was to rut against him. Though you were twitching from overstimulation, you wanted him to know you wanted it. A slick rolled down your thighs, and you could feel a groan from Joel reverberate through him. 

The sound of a dog barking outside thankfully drowned out your desperate moans. 

He held you tight, both of your bodies covered in a coat of sweat. Even though you were still hot, you couldn’t pull yourself away from his furnace of a chest. You could feel his dick softening in you after a couple more thrusts. 

“I want you, Joel. If you’ll have me.”

Things moved real easy after that. Joel wasn’t holding anything back anymore. He’d talk to you about anything you’d ask, and slowly moved in some of your personal items so you could sleep over more often. Pajamas in his drawer, got a spare toothbrush, and did anything he could to convince you to spend every night spread underneath him. 

Then you got it in the mail. You’d slipped away from Joel so you could do some laundry, despite how much he’d tried to convince you just to use up his water and detergent. Truthfully, you wanted to restock your necessities so you could keep spending each night with Joel. Plus, you need to water your plants.

When you stepped into your doorway, you glanced down at the spread of letters at your feet. Jeez, it really had been a couple of days since you’d been there last.

You crouched down to retrieve the mail, nothing piquing your interest until you landed on the UOD logo. 

University of Dallas. 

The paper shook in your hands when you ripped it open. There was no way.

Blah, blah, blah… accepted.

Accepted.

So many things flashed through your mind. All of the possibilities. The opportunities. 

You'd held it together long enough to do your laundry and water your plants. By the time you’d gotten what you needed and returned back to Joel, he was starting dinner. 

He hummed a Zeppelin song under his breath as he moved back and forth in the kitchen. Joel had made it almost a competition to become a good cook for you. He’d always cooked homemade meals for Sarah, but eating nothing but takeout for three years could make you lose your touch.

“What’s got you smilin’ like that? Stealing all those pretty little smiles from me,” Joel tsked, kissing you on the lips when you met him in the kitchen. You stood on your tippy toes to reach him, your mind buzzing from the taste of his lips and the scratch of his beard.

“I have something to tell you.”

Joel hummed, pulling back away from you. His eyes looked curious, moving to watch you uncover the envelope from behind your back. You held out the letter, allowing him the opportunity to read it himself. 

He scanned the page, his pupils moving back and forth to take in the information. The expression on his face changed slowly, turning what was once glee that you were back home into something entirely unreadable.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, instantly noticing the change in his demeanor. He sighed, handing the paper back over to you.

“Knew you’d always be the one to get out of this place. It's no surprise that some fancy college would want you.”

The bitterness in his words made you recoil in annoyance. Why couldn’t he just spit out whatever he meant instead of playing this intricate facadé?

“I thought you’d be happy for me,” you whispered angrily, turning to leave the situation, but Joel’s palm on your wrist stopped you. 

“Baby, of course I’m happy for you,” Joel explained, his free hand reaching to cradle your face. “I’ve only ever wanted the best for you, and I never doubted that you’d go out and do great things. It’s just… I don’t wanna lose you.”

“Joel, what are you talking about?” You laughed, watching a look of disbelief cloud his face. “I thought it was obvious that I wouldn’t leave this place without you. You’re coming with me.”

He hesitated, pausing as if he wasn’t sure what exactly he wanted to say. 

“Talk to Tommy. Tell him that you want to get back in the business. Go back to Dallas, to be with him. To be with me.” 

Joel released your wrist before rubbing a large palm down his beard, clearly not quite on board with your suggestion.

“Tommy don’t want nothin’ to do with me-“

“Be serious,” you said, cutting him off. “We both know that’s bullshit. You’ve told me all the stories about the both of you growing up, thick as thieves. He wouldn’t just give up on you. You just have to show him that you’re ready to change.”

The room was momentarily silent, thoughts and questions swirling through the space. Joel moved away to check on the food in the oven, and you waited, allowing him a moment to decide what he wanted to do.

He stood against the kitchen counter and finally spoke. 

“I don’t know.”

Joel looked scared, petrified to let himself be vulnerable with yet another person. He was constantly afraid of letting others down that he wouldn’t even allow himself to be momentarily uncomfortable. 

Your hands found his, wanting to comfort him by wrapping your palms around his own. 

“It’s okay not to know. It would be a big change, but I wouldn’t want to go through with it without you. If you don’t want me to go, then I won’t. I’ll wait until you’re ready.”

His features softened at your words. “You’re too good for me,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. He was such a good man — a good father, a good friend, a good person, and you hated that he couldn’t see it. You wished you could take his shoulders and shake some sense into him, but knew your words would fall on deaf ears. “If you want to go, we go. And if you want to stay, we stay. But we do it together.” You pointed a finger at his nose. “You got that, Miller?”

Joel laughed softly. He placed his hands on your hips, pulled you close, and kissed your forehead. “Just…give me a couple days. Some time to think it over. Can you do that for me?”

You replied, “I’d do anything for you,” and meant it. 

Though it took more willpower than you’d originally thought, you bite your tongue for the following week. You didn’t want to pressure him into anything, hoping he’d decide organically. But the more time went on, the more restless you became.

Joel did a good job of distracting you, worshipping your body as if he was afraid it’d disappear in his grasp. One evening, your mind was running haywire after dealing with bullshit at work on top of dealing with your college application documents. 

You were lying in bed with him, attempting to read a book while Joel flipped through the television across from the bed. After reading the same paragraph for the fourth time without retaining any information, you groaned in frustration, tossing the book onto the floor. 

He recognized your stress, and knowing that he was a small contribution to the tension you were feeling, he sought to alleviate it. You found his head buried between your legs, his tongue prodding and guiding you to your release. Joel didn’t mind the way your thighs squeezed against his skull, and in fact, he encouraged the pressure of your legs.

Each time you reacted in excitement, Joel would find that sweet spot again and again, fingers scissoring, curling, making you shudder and arch away from his bed. 

He was a relentless lover, not allowing you to escape the wrath of his mouth. Joel’s palms pulled you back down as he held you in place, his iron grasp limiting your movement. He took advantage of your lack of control, allowing himself to devour you without any limitations. 

The shaking of your thighs and the increased whimpering from your mouth told him everything he needed to know; you were reaching your climax fast, and he wasn’t going to allow you to escape from his onslaught. 

“Wait,” you breathlessly pleaded, threading your fingers through his grey-streaked hair in hopes of slowing him down. Despite his age, Joel had the energy of a teenager, and a simple yank of your hands wouldn’t be enough to stop him. 

A few more laps of his tongue and a couple curls of his fingers were enough to have you falling apart in his grip. Your breath was stuck in your throat when you came, a white hot heat racing through your body like a bolt of lightning. 

A simple orgasm was never enough for Joel; you had learned that early on. He needed you to melt, to become a literal puddle of tears and sweat underneath him. Then, he would finally stop.

He continued to feast on you, his beard covered with your slick and his eyes watching you like a predator. 

“Please,” you begged, “Fuck, Joel, please.”

He ignored you, adding a third finger inside of you before pulling away momentarily. The sight of your slick coating his face with the hungry look in his eyes made your chest tighten with desire. 

“I know you can give me one more, baby. You were throwin’ yourself at me before, beggin’ for it. Want you to show me what you got.”

He didn’t allow a moment of reprieve, instantly diving back in to taste you like a man starved. You were attempting to push him away, but he wasn’t having any of it. Eventually, all of your resistance faded due to exhaustion, and all you could do was lie there, limp and motionless. 

Your mouth was half open, and your eyes were glued up at Joel’s popcorn ceiling when you finally climaxed again. A rush of wetness washed Joel’s face and hands, but he didn’t seem to mind; in fact, it urged him all the more. When he finally was satisfied, he pulled away from you, your sensitive body trembling against his ruined sheets. 

His dark, piercing eyes were locked on you when you finally came down from your momentary ecstasy. His face was dripping from your exertions, but he didn’t mind. It was almost petrifying to see how eager he was, and you knew that the night was just beginning.

“Think she’s finally ready for me,” Joel hummed, slapping his large palm against your overstimulated, puffy pussy. 

He was insatiable. It took one last orgasm from you and a couple of thrusts in your clenching, wet heat to get Joel to finally unravel. 

You’d never get tired of feeling Joel’s sweaty chest pressed against yours as he kissed you, whispering how lucky he was to have you wrapped up in his sheets. 

One night was different, though, and Joel knew he couldn’t just distract you with sex. You needed comfort - to know that he wanted to be all in with you, despite the pressure of the commitment. It was a lot to ask from Joel, but you couldn’t move on without him. You needed him.

You were tossing and turning in bed beside him, unable to find sleep, your mind spinning with all the possibilities that came with leaving town. You could be something, he could be something. All it would take is a little push, a change of scenery. If he decided to stay here, you knew you’d be content with him no matter what.

In a house he built or in this trailer, you knew Joel would always keep you happy. 

But would you come to resent him later on, the what-ifs weighing on your shoulders for years? Would the missed opportunities eat at you like a worm in your belly?

Joel turned onto his back with a heavy sigh. “Get it out, baby. Say what’s on your mind.”

“We…you deserve to keep living, Joel.” You propped yourself up on an elbow. And though he couldn’t see you, the room nothing but darkness, your brows pinched together in frustration anyway. “I could go to back to school, get a degree, find a good paying job where people don’t try to grab my ass for fun. And you could build houses with your brother again, or do woodwork or whatever you wanted. I…I’m going to say something, but I don’t want you to get mad. Promise you won’t get mad.”

He hesitated for a single second. And then said, “Alright. I promise.”

“What happened to Sarah wasn’t your fault. And you did everything you could, sacrificing your life in hopes of extending hers. And I wish…” Your voice cracked, and emotion bubbled up in your throat. “I wish so badly that things had ended up different for her. But they didn’t and I’m so sorry for it. And I…I didn’t know her well, but, Joel, I know this isn’t what she’d want for you. And you know it, too, don’t you?”

He responded with silence. You could hear only his breathing, slow and steady.

“You’re still here. You’re here, with me, and you deserve to live the rest of your life doing the things you love. You’re better than this place.” Tears welled in your eyes.

Joel put his hand in yours, and it took little persuasion for him to pull you against his chest. “Don’t cry for me, sweet girl,” he said softly. “We’ll talk more in the morning. Okay?”

And for the night, his promise was enough.

Joel made breakfast the following day. Pancakes and eggs and coffee just the way you liked it.

You ate on the couch with the weather channel on the TV in the background. The suffocating heat was finally coming to an end; summer concluded. You didn’t want to ruin the morning, but the anticipation kept you from enjoying your meal. “So…it’s the morning. Did you want to talk more about it, or…have you decided?”

Joel nodded and washed a bite down with a sip of coffee. “Yeah,” he said. “I decided.”

“And…?”

He spread out, making himself comfortable. “Well, I actually got a hold of Tommy the other day.”

“You what?” Your heart was beating so fast you thought it might burst. “You called him? You didn’t tell me!” Breakfast forgotten, you tucked your legs beneath you and hid your anticipated smile behind your hands. “What did he say?”

Joel laughed. “Actin’ real hopeful for someone that said they’d be happy either way,” he teased. 

“I will be,” you reassured him. You inhaled deeply. “No matter what, we’ll be okay as long as we’re together. But…God, Joel! What did he say?”

For the first time all summer, he gave you a smile that reached his warm eyes. One that felt good and joyous and real. 

One that felt hopeful. 

“Should probably start packin’, baby.”

taglist; @realdirectionx @xxx-silhouette-xxx @cuteanimalmama @peelieblue

[bisexual-spiderling]

Cupid's Chokehold — masterlist!

series summary: Tommy Miller has never been good at moderation. He drinks too much and smokes too much and has made every bad decision with full lucidity. When he sees his likeness in Joel's new foul-mouthed stepdaughter, Tommy can't seem to kick the habit of your affection. He knows it's twisted and filthy and depraved, but in true addict fashion, he keeps going back for more.

pairing: step uncle!Tommy Miller x f!Reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI. step-cest, age gap (reader is 20/21, Tommy is mid 30s), alcohol and marijuana consumption, allusions to addiction, yearning, size difference, praise kink, angst, tooth rotting fluff, no outbreak AU, Tommy POV (specific warnings at the beginning of each chapter)

[main masterlist] [AO3]

part one! - feel so close

part two! - pearl necklace

part three! - sunshine & synchronicities

part four! - tba

part five! - tba

surprise!! the support on this one has been insane, you've all been saying such kind things and reader isn't the only one with a praise kink so yk I had to come through. five parts for sure, but I've never written an outline in my life so genuinely who knows?? not me!!! love u all sm <3

for visuals, @feelherlove has made some absolutely beautiful tiktoks inspired by uncle tommy so make sure you go check them out!!

let me know here if you'd like to be added to the taglist!!

[divider by @bernardsbendystraws]

[bisexual-spiderling]

see you next shift series masterlist

your coffee shop coworker bucky barnes is your fuck buddy—and he's possessive—but when he issues a challenge to his best friend and your fellow coworker, steve rogers, you get trapped in the middle of something new. however, it remains to be seen if the three of you can find a way to make it work.

when i wrote the first part of this for my 30 day writing trope challenge i had no idea it'd turn into this 😅 i figured it was time it got its own masterlist so here we are!

◦ part 1: see you next shift [smut] bucky barnes x fem!reader - a quickie with your friend-with-benefits/coworker bucky barnes gets interrupted by a customer

◦ part 2: see you both next shift [smut] bucky barnes x fem!reader - when a customer flirts with you, your friend with benefits/coworker bucky barnes needs to remind you who you belong to. he also issues a challenge to his best friend, steve rogers

◦ part 3: see you never [smut, angst] bucky barnes x fem!reader x steve rogers - bucky barnes and steve rogers endeavor to settle a competition, with you in the middle, but things don't end on a good note

◦ part 4: see you at home [smut, angst, fluff] bucky barnes x fem!reader x steve rogers - after three weeks of bucky barnes avoiding you, steve rogers has had enough. it's time to talk.

[bisexual-spiderling]

something brutal and beautiful

pairing: father's old friend!alpha!bucky barnes x omega!female reader

summary: when your car breaks down on the way to your parents' cabin, Bucky Barnes comes to your rescue. you end up staying in the unfamiliar alpha's cabin longer than you expected, with his far-too-enticing scent driving your omega wild. then, the atmosphere in the cabin shifts suddenly and the tension that's been building finally snaps.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), omegaverse AU elements (heat/rut, knotting, presenting, purring, mating, scenting), unspecified age gap, dad's best friend trope, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, accidental voyeurism, masturbation (m), biting/marking, tit/nipple play, finger sucking, come play, panty sniffing, dirty talk, praise kink, daddy kink, pet names (alpha & omega, baby), begging, teasing, possessive behavior, happy ending

word count: 9k

a/n: here's my week 3 entry for @buckybarnesevents's Hot Bucky Summer event! y'all voted for older alpha Bucky Barnes, and i'm oh so happy to deliver him 🤭 this fic ended up being so much longer than i originally intended, but i just loooved drawing out Bucky and reader's torture. (also can y'all believe this is only the second omegaverse fic i've written?? should i write more???) anyway, i hope y'all enjoy!! ♡♡

prompt: “Not now!” | [Heat/Rut | Rushed Sex | Exhibitionism]

It had been a long and brutal week. 

The only thing that could have made it longer and more brutal was if you’d gone into heat. But thankfully, your omega’s schedule had always been extremely punctual, and you weren’t due for another couple of weeks. Still, you’d been struggling.

You’d spent the week in a cabin tucked deep into the forest of the Adirondacks, staying in the home of your father’s friend, Bucky Barnes. The entire time, you’d been on edge and frustrated beyond belief. Not because the older alpha had done or said anything to make you uncomfortable. 

It was his scent.

Bucky smelled like fresh air and earthy moss, with an undertone of something warm, like leather. You’d never scented anything so delectable, and it had been driving you wild all week. 

That very first inhale had sent sparks of delight popping and fizzling through your bloodstream, settling pleasantly between your thighs in a thrumming heat. And it hadn’t stopped being an overwhelming distraction ever since.

To make matters worse, your father’s friend was devastatingly handsome. 

Even if he hadn’t smelled as good as he did, your body would’ve responded to his crystal blue eyes and the rugged dark scruff, with just a hint of gray, on his sharp jaw. His hair was a little long, meaning he had to push it back with his strong fingers, making the muscles in his shoulders and arms flex beneath his black t-shirt.

It had taken every ounce of your self-control not to make a fool of yourself in front of Bucky when he’d picked you up on the side of the road, where you were stranded about a hundred miles northwest of Albany. 

Your omega instincts had screamed at you to climb Bucky like a tree, but instead, you’d shyly waved hello and tried to pretend you weren’t affected by the older alpha who smelled far too delicious.

However, things only worsened when you got in his truck.

It was clear that Bucky’s scent had been embedded in every soft surface of his old pickup, and getting into the cab had felt like submerging yourself in fresh air, rich moss and warm leather. Your body was helpless to the alpha’s lingering smell, buzzing to life, an ache blooming between your thighs.

Even as you’d felt yourself getting turned on, you’d also felt inexplicably safe. The moment settled into the worn passenger seat, you felt the anxiety that had been plaguing you since Poughkeepsie drain from your shoulders, before disappearing entirely. 

The longer you breathed in Bucky’s scent, the more the warmth in your body morphed into an intense arousal, like nothing you’d ever experienced before. It was so strong, you’d had to press your thighs together and squirm in his passenger seat as inconspicuously as possible, trying to stave off the building ache in your core.

Once you’d buckled your seatbelt with trembling fingers, Bucky had asked if you were alright, waiting for your answer before he pulled back onto the road. You’d mumbled that you were fine even as heat filled your cheeks. 

You’d focused on staring down at your fingers tangled in your lap, reminding yourself why you couldn’t reach across the truck for him. He was your father’s friend, he was just helping you, he was practically a stranger—and you had no idea if he was reacting to your scent the way you were to his.

But as he drove you to his cabin, Bucky asked about the circumstances that led to you being stranded on the side of the road. You hadn’t wanted to be rude, but you’d kept your answers short. You didn’t trust yourself when you were surrounded so thickly by his scent, you might accidentally ask him to mount you in the backseat. 

Thankfully, Bucky didn’t seem bothered by your quick, murmured answers. His tone remained patient and low as he asked you question after question until he got the full, embarassing story out of you. 

You’d been on your way to your parents’ cabin, which was set on the same lake in upstate New York as Bucky’s, when your car had started making a terrible crunching sound. You’d already made it out of the city, though, and you hadn’t wanted to turn back, so you’d kept driving. 

That, of course, had been a mistake. 

Somewhere deep in the forest of the Adirondacks, your car had given up, puttering out immediately after you’d pulled onto the cracked asphalt of the narrow shoulder. With nothing around but the thick forest encroaching on the road, you hadn’t recognized where you were, and you’d been forced to call your parents and confess everything to them. 

It wasn’t just that you’d gotten yourself stranded somewhere between Albany and the lake, you also had to tell them your reasons for deciding, on a whim, to visit the cabin in the first place. 

You’d been laid off from your job in the city, you were fighting with your roommate over whether to stay in your apartment in Brooklyn, the city in the summer was too hot and suffocating. Everything was just too much, and you’d needed a break.

As they tried to comfort you about everything going wrong in your life, you couldn’t help but feel like your life had gone completely off course. You figured you might as well be stranded on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere New York, since that was exactly how you felt in life—stuck, without having any idea where to go. 

You tuned back into the conversation when your parents relayed the bad news: they weren’t at their cabin like you’d thought they’d be. They weren’t even in New York. They were staying with some friends out west, and they hadn’t been to the cabin all summer, so they hadn’t opened it up like they normally did at the start of the season. 

That had been when you’d really started crying. You began bawling your eyes out with only the creatures of the forest and the whispering wind dancing through the leaves to hear you. It was almost cathartic, if you could ignore the dire straits you’d found yourself in.

The sun was beginning to set, and fear started to creep in that you might end up having to walk to a strange town in the dark. You couldn’t even remember the last time you’d passed any sign of civilization. All you could think about was how there were too many horror movies that began with an omega in exactly your situation.

At that point, with both your parents trying desperately to get you to calm down, your father had gruffly suggested he call his old friend Bucky Barnes. You’d hardly listened while your parents conferred about that idea, then your mother continued trying to soothe you while your father called his friend. 

You’d wracked your brain for any memory of the older alpha, recognizing his name, but came up with nothing. You couldn’t even recall whether he’d ever attended one of the parties your parents had thrown at their cabin while you’d been growing up and in college. 

You’d asked your mother if you’d ever met him before and she’d said something vague about Bucky not being particularly sociable. He and your father were fishing buddies, she’d explained, but that was all she’d said before you heard your father’s voice in the background, telling you to wait right where you were. Bucky was on the way.

When you’d finished telling your story to Bucky, you were grateful he didn’t scold you for getting yourself stranded, or lecture you about the dangers of being an unmated omega lost somewhere in the Adirondacks. He’d only confirmed that the two of you had never met before, and offered you a reassuring smile.

Between Bucky’s low, rumbling voice, that gentle smile on his handsome face, and the scent of him surrounding you like a blanket, you’d felt calm and safe in a way you hadn’t in a long time. 

You were so comfortable, in fact, that you ended up falling asleep while he continued driving, your mind and body exhausted from the stress of the day and the last few weeks.

It wasn’t until you’d arrived at his cabin that you woke, the sun having slipped behind the trees as dusk fell. 

Bucky carried your bags inside while you stumbled after him, taking deep breaths of the fresh forest air before ducking inside the cabin, where his scent was ingrained in every inch of the wooden structure. It was everywhere, and you realized you’d missed it in the short time you’d been outside.

The delightful buzzing pleasure of that smell settled inside your head once again, sparks and tingles spreading through your body. With Bucky distracted by taking your bags into the guest room, you’d inhaled deeply, letting his smell relax you. And if you’d gotten more than a little turned on, too…Well, that you ignored as you took stock of the cabin. 

The house was set into the gentle slope that led down to the lake, with big windows to let in plenty of light. It allowed those inside to feel like they were immersed in the beautiful green foliage of the trees pushing up against the sides of the cabin. 

It was bigger inside than you’d expected for a lone alpha like Bucky. The cabin had a big, open living room and kitchen space that gave way to a hallway leading to a guest room, an office, a bathroom and a master bedroom. All of them were big and roomy, even as the cabin felt cozy and homey.

Once you were settled in the guest room, with a gorgeous view of the yard leading down to the dock and the lake, Bucky made you dinner and gave you even more bad news: your parents’ cabin wasn’t habitable yet. He’d explained it would only take a few days to get the power and water running, then you could go over and air it out. 

But the next morning, while Bucky was on the phone with the power company, he’d learned there was a downed line that only served your parents’ cabin. The company had put off repairing it because it hadn’t seemed like a priority, so it would take much longer than normal to restore power. He’d said you could stay with him until your parents’ cabin was ready.

You’d smiled tremulously and told Bucky it was fine. You’d thanked him for letting you stay with him, and asked if there was anything you could do around his cabin to help him out. You’d told him it was the least you could do while the two of you were trapped together.

But Bucky had shaken his head, a serious look on his face. He’d told you not to worry about helping out an old alpha like him. He’d said you should make yourself at home, choking on his words a little and needing to cough to clear his throat. Then he’d smiled, but you thought it looked a little strained.

After that, you and Bucky had done your best to keep your distance from each other. 

You’d avoided him because every time he was near, all you wanted to do was bury your face in his neck, breathe in his scent and rub yourself against him like a desperate omega in heat. You went to bed every night feeling frustrated and woke up every morning feeling achy and needy, so you stayed away from the older alpha. 

And Bucky had avoided you because… 

Well, you weren’t sure why Bucky was avoiding you. If you had to guess, it was probably because he could tell what a mess you were and didn’t want to get involved. He was a mature, responsible alpha who’d chosen a solitary life in the woods, and you were an unmated omega who’d accidentally gotten yourself stranded in those woods. 

You could understand why he wouldn’t want to be around you, even if it stung something in your heart and your omega hindbrain, both of which wanted to be close to him every moment of the day for some reason you couldn’t puzzle out.

After a week of staying in Bucky’s cabin, you’d found that the only way to avoid feeling like you were driving yourself up the walls was to stick to a schedule. You had breakfast while Bucky was getting ready for the day, then you waited for him to leave for work, and did everything you could to make sure you were never in the same room as him.

But then everything changed.

The Friday after you’d found yourself trapped in a cabin with the older alpha, you woke up as normal—feeling the near-constant desire flickering insistently between your thighs while you did your best to ignore it. It had been hard not to pleasure yourself in Bucky’s guest room, but you’d wanted to respect his home.

That morning, for some reason, it was harder than it had been to resist slipping your fingers between your thighs and rubbing yourself to release. You hadn’t gotten used to Bucky’s scent and it seemed to urge you on, but you kept your desire in check.

You chalked it up to the long, brutal week staying in Bucky’s cabin and forced yourself to get out of bed. It was early in the morning and you had Bucky’s routine memorized well enough that you knew you could slip out and make breakfast while he was getting ready to leave.

Normally, you would’ve been able to hear him in the shower and puttering around his room while he got dressed, but that morning, the cabin was curiously quiet. You didn’t think much of it as you made yourself some eggs and toast, and by the time you were done eating, you’d decided he must’ve left extra early that morning. 

You were enjoying having the kitchen to yourself, sipping your coffee and reading a romance novel about a forbidden love between an older alpha and a younger omega, when you felt the energy in the cabin shift. Your body tensed, as if your omega instincts knew something your mind still hadn’t figured out.

Then Bucky’s scent hit you anew; its effects were immediate—and staggering. 

A gasp tore from your lips, but you barely even heard it over the desire surging through your body. Bucky’s scent was suddenly somehow more potent, more delicious, making your mouth water with the urge to suck his cock.

Beneath the thin sleep shirt you wore, your nipples puckered almost painfully, your tits feeling heavy with the need to be groped, to be squeezed, to be sucked. And even that feeling paled in comparison to the thumping pulse between your thighs, your clit aching for attention as slick dripped from your slit, soaking your panties in seconds.

You whimpered pitifully, setting your coffee mug down with shaking hands, some of the brown liquid sloshing over the rim and spilling onto Bucky’s butcher block countertop. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care about the mess—not when you were overcome with a need that you instinctively knew only the older alpha could sate.

For a brief, panicked second, you worried you were going into heat. But your body felt different than it normally did when your heat was coming on. There weren’t any painful cramps in your lower belly as your body yearned for a knot, and, most tellingly, you didn’t feel like flames were licking beneath your skin.

You decided what you were feeling was something else, but you didn’t know what. 

Your fingers gripped the edge of the kitchen island where you’d sat to eat your breakfast, nails digging so deep into the wooden grain that it was verging on painful. Your mind felt sluggish as you tried to figure out what was happening to you, but you kept getting distracted thinking about Bucky’s broad shoulders, and his scruffy jaw and his beautiful blue eyes. 

Without you realizing it, your hips had begun to rock on the barstool you were perched on, your thighs spread wide so you could rub your pussy into the seat. With a desperate whine, you forced yourself to stop, your head hanging between your arms as breaths sawed in and out of your chest.

There was nothing else you could do—you had to find Bucky and hope he knew what was happening to you, and why his scent was so strong. 

Your omega cheered at the thought of getting closer to Bucky, and you let those instincts guide you as you stumbled through the cabin. 

Belatedly, you realized you were heading toward his bedroom, and it wasn’t until your hand was raising to knock on his door that you figured out you were wrong earlier—Bucky hadn’t already left, he’d still been in his room. Doing what, you had no idea.

Biting back a needy keening sound, you rapped your knuckles urgently on the door, trying to ignore the way your slick was leaking down your thighs. Your panties and sleep shorts were soaked with your juices, and the cotton was sticking to your warm skin so unpleasantly, you had the urge to yank them off, but you managed to fight against it.

“Not now!”

Bucky’s roared words sent a delicious shiver down your spine, making your nipples ache so badly for attention that your hand lifted and you began kneading one of your tits while your dazed mind struggled to process what the older alpha had said. 

When you did, your head fell forward, hitting the door with a light thunk. A helpless sound slipped from your lips and your thighs pressed together as you squirmed in the hallway outside Bucky’s bedroom, your body making it impossible for you to heed the warning in the alpha’s tone. 

“Please, alpha,” you sobbed, pressing yourself against the door and scratching at the wood helplessly with your nails. You hardly knew what you were begging for—whether you just wanted into Bucky’s room or if you were already pleading with him to fuck you. But you knew you needed something only he could give you.

There was a vicious grunt on the other side of the door, and your omega hindbrain read it as an invitation before you could even fully take in the sound. Acting on instinct, your hand fumbled for the doorknob and you pushed into Bucky’s room. 

The sight that met you made you gasp sharply, your feet stumbling to a stop in the threshold of his room.

Bucky sat on the edge of his bed facing the door, his naked body bathed in the morning sunlight streaming in from the windows overlooking the lake. There wasn’t a stitch of clothing on the big alpha, and your eyes raked over him hungrily, unabashedly taking in the way his muscles bulged, veins snaking down his taut forearms. 

There was a sheen of sweat on Bucky’s golden skin, and his big, broad shoulders were hunched. But even with his body curled the way it was, you could still see his thick, fat cock standing proud between his tree-trunk thighs. 

The scent of him hit you again, almost making your eyes roll back in your head, but you refused to tear your gaze from the sight of Bucky’s cock. It was so perfect, it made you light-headed. And then you noticed Bucky was moving.

The older alpha had one massive hand fisted around his hard length, his grip punishing as he stroked his cock. The tip was an angry, flushed red as it leaked an endless stream of precum, which Bucky used to stroke himself, the soft, slick sounds resonating in the room.

It was only when a growl tore from Bucky’s throat that you glanced up at his face. 

His handsome face was contorted in a mask of feral lust, his teeth bared and jaw ticking like he was grinding his teeth together. But his eyes—his blue eyes were wild and tortured, staring at you like you were his salvation and his ruination all at once.

“You shouldn’t be here, omega,” Bucky growled, his words so rough you could barely understand them. But once you did, your body trembled with rebellion.

Clinging to the edge of the doorframe, it took every ounce of your self-control not to drop to your knees and present yourself to the alpha. All you could think about was his cock filling your cunt, the base swelling with his knot as he fucked you until the two of you were nothing more than rutting animals.

Suddenly, you knew what was happening. 

“Are you—are you going into rut?” you asked, the breathiness of your voice making you sound more excited than incredulous. In all your years as an omega, you’d never actually seen an alpha go into rut. It was rare, something that usually only happened between true matches…

“Can’t be,” Bucky rumbled, his voice dragging you out of your thoughts. “I’m too old for that.” He was still stroking his cock, grunts of pleasure slipping from his mouth like he couldn’t help himself. His shoulders heaved as he took a deep breath, as if trying to gather his wits, but it seemed to have the opposite effect.

Bucky’s shoulders went rigid, and something about watching his big body tense made your own inner muscles clench. 

You cunt was throbbing between your thighs in time with your racing heart, and your thighs were so coated in slick, you distantly wondered if you’d start leaving a puddle in Bucky’s doorway. 

But then the older alpha’s eyes flew open, pinning you where you stood with the intensity of his gaze.

“Omega,” Bucky groaned, the sheer hunger in his voice washing over you like a wave of warm water. His fist started stroking faster, and he made a choked, frustrated sound in his throat, like it wasn’t enough. Like nothing would be enough—except you.

Your feet carried you forward as if they had a mind of their own, your body drifting beyond the threshold of the room and closer to the grunting, growling alpha. 

He looked magnificent, even hunched the way he was. The bright sunlight brought out the silver in his dark beard, and you wanted to bury your face right under his jaw, inhaling his scent while your rode his cock.

“You should go,” Bucky rumbled, trying to force some steel into his voice, but you could hear the desperation hidden behind the alpha’s bravado. 

If he’d really wanted you to leave, he could’ve barked the order. But he hadn’t, leaving you able to disobey. So you drifted even closer, enticed by the scent of him and the sight of his big alpha cock.

You came to a stop in front of Bucky, standing just out of his reach. There, you wavered. 

You didn’t want to take advantage of Bucky when he wasn’t in his right mind. Sure, there was a haze of lust that had settled thickly over your mind as well, and you hardly felt like you had full control of your body, but you were more lucid.

“Let me help you, Bucky,” you murmured pleadingly, ducking down a little and catching his eye. You kept your expression open and honest, showing the alpha your desire to help. “You’ve been so kind to me, I just want to help you in return.”

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say because Bucky reared back like you’d slapped him. His hand came to a rest at the base of his cock, fisting himself tightly where he his knot would inflate. Your cunt gave an answering squeeze at the sight, but you forced yourself to ignore the aching, desperate need in your body.

“No,” he roared, his face twisting into a furious expression. “They trusted me to take care of you, ‘m not going to take advantage of you—I’m not some savage alpha who ruts unwilling omegas.” 

Bucky was spitting mad, the fury only managing to make him look even more gloriously handsome, and it took you a moment to understood what he’d said.

“What if I want you to rut me?” you asked, the words tumbling from your lips before you could think better of them. But when they had the desired effect of softening the edges of Bucky’s anger, even if it was only replaced with confusion, you pressed on. “I’m ready and willing, Bucky, I want to see you through your rut—please.”

Following your instincts, you lifted the hem of your oversized sleep shirt, showing Bucky how your slick had drenched your shorts and was coating your thighs. You trailed your fingers through the wetness on your soft skin, then held your hand out to the alpha, letting him see the way your slick glistened in the bright morning sunlight.

“We shouldn’t—I shouldn’t,” Bucky ground out through his clenched jaw, but there was a clearer tone of a desperation in his voice, like he was trying to convince himself more than you. 

His eyes were flicking between your slick-coated fingers and your eyes, his fist working his cock again. You let your hand drift closer to Bucky’s face, letting him scent the arousal in your juices, and his eyes rolled back in his head. 

With a furious grunt, he continued speaking.

“I shouldn’t rut your sweet pussy until my knot’s buried deep in your cunt and you’re soaking my balls with your scent—fuck,” he growled, roughly working his cock between his thick thighs. “Your scent, baby, it’s been driving me wild. I can’t—I shouldn’t…”

Taking a tentative step closer, you dragged your fingers through the slick between your thighs again and held them out to Bucky, waving them in front of his mouth, below his nose, making him smell you. 

“I want this, Bucky,” you promised. But even as you said the words, you worried it wouldn’t be enough, so you let the full truth spill from your lips. “I’ve wanted your knot since the second I got in your truck. Please, alpha, please rut me.”

Bucky lunged from the bed, moving so fast you barely had time to gasp before his big hands were catching you around the backs of your thighs and hauling you into his lap as he sat back down. One of his hands settled on your lower back, holding you in place, while the other circled your wrist and brought your fingers to his mouth.

The older alpha let out an obscene groan when he tasted your slick, the sound going straight to your clit and making a whine build in your throat. 

Bucky licked your skin clean, his hot tongue snaking between your fingers and making you think about where else you’d like to feel it—on your neck, on your nipples, on the slit between your thighs…

“Alpha,” you whimpered, squirming on Bucky’s lap as you sought friction but found none. His cock was trapped between your belly and the softly padded muscle of his stomach, so far away from where you needed him that you whined sharply.

With a pop, Bucky pulled your fingers from his mouth, and for a brief, fleeting moment the two of you simply stared into each other’s eyes. 

Bucky’s pupils were blown so wide they were blotting out nearly all of the blue in his eyes, and you could see the feral hunger of his alpha’s rut beginning to take over. Somehow, it only made him hotter, to see the older man so on the verge of losing control. 

It called to the omega deep in your hindbrain, the part of you that wanted to be taken—to be rutted and knotted on an alpha’s cock until you were nothing more than base animal instinct. You could feel a wildness brewing in your chest, your breaths coming in sharp pants as you and Bucky hovered on the edge of something brutal and beautiful.

You didn’t know who kissed who first, all you knew was that the tension between you and Bucky snapped, and then his lips were crashing down on yours, and you were moaning as the taste of him exploded on your tongue. 

The fresh air and earthy moss and warm leather made you feel like you were taking a deep breath of a forest breeze. You could taste your own slick, too, which only drove you more wild.

Bucky’s kiss was messy and filthy, all snapping teeth and untethered desire. There was no finesse to the way Bucky’s mouth claimed yours, it was pure alpha dominance. He was rough and uncompromising as his tongue plunged past your lips to devour your mouth, a harsh growl rumbling in his chest as his bearded jaw worked against yours.

All the while, you met Bucky’s ferocity with your own fierceness, sucking on his tongue and wringing a groan from the big alpha that had him kissing you even harder, bending you backwards until you hung suspended above his spread thighs. 

The only thing that stopped you from toppling off his lap entirely were his hands pressed firmly against your back, holding you crushed to the softly padded muscle of his chest. 

Your nails dug into Bucky’s broad shoulders, reveling in the way his skin was hot to the touch, matching the heat blooming and throbbing between your thighs. Your hips squirmed on Bucky’s lap until you felt the thick, hard length of his cock press into your core. 

Even through your sleep shorts and panties, Bucky felt exquisitely perfect. His cock was hard and throbbing, his own precum mixing with the juices coating your skin. 

Your scents were mingling and turning into something new—something that was so intoxicating it went straight to your head, making you achier and needier even as it gave you a sense of soul-deep satisfaction. You were too distracted, though, to think about what that meant.

A keening whine worked its way up your throat, and Bucky swallowed it down with an answering growl, like he felt it too—felt how perfect you were together. It made you cling to him harder, your hands sliding up his shoulders and burying your fingers in his soft brown hair.

The kiss broke just as suddenly as it started, with Bucky wrenching his mouth away from yours to tear at your sleep shirt. You helped him pull it over your head and then his mouth was on you again, his big hands roaming all over your bare skin. 

Every graze of his roughened palms over the curves of your body had you moaning mindlessly into his mouth until he could barely kiss you anymore. 

His mouth hovered close to yours and you both panted against each other’s lips, his groans blending with your breathy whimpers while he learned the feel of your body.

Bucky’s hands grabbed at your hips, pulling you deeper into his lap until your cunt was pressed flush to his cock through your clothes, leaving you to rock against his hardness while his hands wandered up your back, fingers tracing the vertebrae of your spine. 

He brushed his thumbs teasingly against the sides of your tits, and when you keened pitifully, he relented and groped your soft mounds. A feral grin stole across his handsome face when he plucked at your nipples, pinching them between his fingers so harshly, he made you let out another desperate whine. 

He kept playing with your tits until you were a writhing mess of need on his lap. Only when you were on the verge of tears did Bucky take pity on you.

“Get those shorts and panties off and present for your alpha,” Bucky growled, turning and tossing you down on top of the mussed blankets of his bed. 

He got to his feet, towering over you and watching you while he pumped his cock in one hand. He stared down at you with so much hunger, it made your pussy clench, aching for his knot.

But you didn’t let the magnificent sight of the older alpha standing naked in all his brutal glory distract you for long, not when he’d issued an order that you were all too eager to follow. 

With scrabbling fingers, you pushed your panties and shorts down over your hips, tearing them off your legs. Before you could toss them somewhere in the room, Bucky held out his free hand and you gave him the drenched mess of tangled fabric. 

The older alpha brought the bundle to his face, pressing the soaked cotton right against his mouth and nose then taking a deep breath. 

A rumbling growl echoed in his chest, the sound going straight between your thighs as you stared at the hottest thing you’d ever seen—Bucky inhaling the scent of your slick straight from your panties.

“I’ve been dreaming about your scent all week, baby,” he rumbled gruffly, his eyes at half mast as he continued stroking his cock, even more precum leaking from the tip. It was so hot, you were frozen where you were, unable to look away. 

Bucky’s gaze was hazy and unfocused as he stared down at you, looking like he was completely undone, and it was your smell that had him looking that way. The knowledge of how much power your scent had over the alpha made your omega preen, a smirk fluttering around the corners of your mouth.

“Been thinking about burying my face in your sweet cunt and drowning in your scent,” he went on, like he was confessing his sins. “Been thinking about having you soak my beard with your slick and then fucking you so good you come on my knot—want to be so wrapped in your scent that I never get it out of my head.”

Your body clenched hard at Bucky’s words, a moan spilling from your lips as you felt more slick leak from your hole. You didn’t know how Bucky was holding himself together while going into rut when you were on the verge of losing it and demanding he knot you. But it reminded you of his order.

In a rush, you scrambled onto your hands and knees to get into position. You lowered your shoulders to the bed, burying your face in the blankets and breathing in his scent just as deeply as he’d done with your panties. Moss and leather swirled in your head, making you moan into the sheets. 

Then you were arching your spine and pushing your ass high in the air. You presented your aching pussy to the older alpha, whining to get his attention. “Alpha, please!”

Bucky’s gaze sharpened and snapped to you, his eyes going molten hot when he saw how you were positioned on his bed, head down on the blankets, ass in the air, cunt on display for him. A lazy smile curled his lips and he dropped your panties and shorts to the floor, moving to you.

“Good omega,” Bucky purred, climbing onto the bed behind you, his big hands stroking over your ass and hips and thighs. “You look so pretty presenting for your alpha—you gonna be a good girl and help me through my rut, huh?”

A happy hum thrummed in your throat and you nodded, watching Bucky over your shoulder. He was transfixed by your body, his eyes following his hands as they roved over your curves. He grabbed big handfuls of your ass, kneading you so roughly, you could hear the quiet, wet sounds of your pussy lips pulling apart. 

As he groped your ass, Bucky pressed his cock firmly against your pussy, so you could feel the hot, hard length of him against your soft, dripping folds. He rocked hard into you, holding your ass in place so you had nowhere to go while he was grinding his cock against your cunt, coating his shaft in your slick.

His eyes were growing more hazy and unfocused by the second, but before Bucky could go into full-blown rut, he wrenched his gaze away from the sight of his cock pressed against your pussy, and caught your eye over your shoulder.

“You sure about this, omega?” Bucky asked, his voice strong and steady even as you heard that undercurrent of desperation in his tone. 

His eyes searched yours, and you could see the strain in his face. It was taking everything in him to stop himself from following his instincts so he could check on you. 

“I can manage on my own if you want to stop,” he promised.

You couldn’t explain your body’s reaction to Bucky’s words, but the fact that he was still, even on the verge of going into rut, putting your needs above his own had heat licking beneath your skin. It was a pleasant, glorious warmth that wrapped around your heart and soul, making you even more sure about your decision.

“Please, Bucky, I want this so bad, you don’t even know,” you murmured pleadingly, arching your back and presenting yourself even more. You pushed against his hold to press back against his cock, reminding him of your eagerness. “I want you to fuck me, alpha, please.”

“Alright, alright, baby,” Bucky rasped, ducking down and capturing your lips in a quick brutal kiss before he was sitting up again. One of his hands grabbed your hip while the other fisted his cock and rubbed the head through your dripping folds. “Hold on then, ‘mega. Once ‘m inside you, I’ll go into full-on rut.”

Bucky’s eyes were dark, even in the bright light of the sunshine streaming into his bedroom, and you could sense him hesitating. He seemed stuck on the edge of pushing into you and finally—finally—satisfying the need burning through both your bodies. 

You realized he needed another little push, something more than reassurance.

Reaching back, you wrapped your fingers around Bucky’s wrist, clinging onto the strong arm holding your hip. You gave him a squeeze and caught his eye when he looked at you in question. 

You let a smirk curve your lips, his only warning for what was about to come out of your mouth.

“C’mon, old man,” you said, your voice cheeky and playful as you grinned up at Bucky. “Rut your omega good and hard, alpha—I can take it.” You gave him an insolent wink, and he finally snapped.

Bucky’s eyes burned into yours and a feral grin slashed across his face. “My omega,” he growled, right before thrusting into your pussy, burying his cock deep in your tight heat with one, brutal stroke.

A scream burst from your lips as pleasure detonated within you. 

Bucky’s cock was so thick and hard inside you, filling you up so perfectly and making you stretch to accommodate his heavy length. The veins dragged exquisitely against your sensitive inner walls, the tip hitting a spot deep in your pussy.

It all set off sparks of delicious pleasure that went spiraling through your body. You gasped for air, barely knowing what was up or down, only your fingers around Bucky’s wrist and his cock buried in your cunt keeping you tethered to earth.

Above you, Bucky purred in satisfaction, pleased with the way your pussy wrapped around him tightly. And then you felt his rut take hold. 

The alpha barely gave you a moment to adjust before he was pounding into you, his hips pulling back until only the head of his cock remained inside. Then he plowed forward, filling you up all over again and again and again.

You were helpless to the alpha, your body going weak and pliant in his hold, giving in to the ferocious power in Bucky’s thrusts. 

All you could do was moan and mewl, your fingers still clinging to his wrist while he fucked you so hard and fast, your body and mind were lost in a dizzying, endless dance of pleasure.

“My omega—my beautiful, perfect omega,” Bucky growled, his words spilling from his mouth almost mindlessly. “So hot and wet for your alpha, baby, you’re squeezing my cock so tight. Ya want your alpha to rut you and knot your perfect cunt, don’t you, ‘mega?”

Bucky curled his body over yours, engulfing you in his heat and scent. His hand shifted from your hip, fingers tangling with yours and pressing it into the soft blankets next to your head. 

Twisting your body, you grabbed Bucky’s beard and pulled him down for a kiss that was all nipping teeth and soothing tongues. It was brutal and beautiful in equal measure, just like the joining of your bodies.

“You want to be mine, don’t you, baby?” Bucky rumbled against your mouth, a self-satisfied smirk curling the corners of his lips. 

“Yes, yes, god yes, alpha,” you cried, taking his pounding thrusts with your face half buried in his blankets. 

With every stroke of his cock inside you, you could feel the beginning of his knot catching at the edge of your hole, making you whine and squirm dumbly beneath him. You needed him so badly, you babbled unthinkingly.

“Want you so bad, alpha, want you to split me open on your fat, alpha knot and claim me as yours—please, daddy!”

That last word, the one you’d only thought about in your most secret fantasies, slipped out so easily in the face of the overwhelming pleasure Bucky was giving you. 

And even through the haze of your ecstasy, you felt his cock twitch inside you and hips stutter in their rhythm. Then he was moving faster and harder. 

“Oh fuck,” Bucky growled, his mouth right next to your ear, his coarse beard tickling your neck. “Say that again, baby—call your alpha that filthy name again.” 

“Daddy,” you cried, shoving your hips back to meet Bucky’s thrusts, stars bursting behind your eyes as the tip of him pounded into a spot deep inside you. 

The growl that rumbled in his chest was pleased, and it urged you on, emboldened you to continue calling him that dirty word.

“Knot me, daddy,” you begged, your voice thin and pitiful, which only made Bucky fuck you harder with his cock. “Rut your omega’s pussy and fill me with your come—please, alpha, please, I need it!”

“Fuck, baby, you’re such a perfect omega for your alpha,” he rumbled, pressing messy kisses to your cheek and jaw before trailing down to your neck. “You’re gonna get daddy’s knot, ‘m gonna fill you up so good, baby.” 

His filthy words were a promise that he sealed by scraping his teeth teasingly over your throat.

You tipped your head to the side, not even a little bit concerned that he could bite you, break skin, and cement a bond between the two of you even though you’d only met a week ago. 

You weren’t worried, you trusted Bucky. You trusted him not to bite you without your consent, even if your body was asking for it. 

He chuckled into the curve of your neck, sucking on your skin hard enough that even if he didn’t bite you, you knew he’d leave a mark behind. The idea of him claiming you in that way had you grinning happily, an omega purr rumbling in your chest. 

“You’re so fucking perfect, baby,” Bucky murmured into your skin, his voice rough with pleasure and something else, an emotion that tugged on your heart and had your fingers squeezing his where they were still tangled together. “My omega, my sweet, beautiful, perfect omega.”

Your body clenched around Bucky’s cock and tears of swelling emotion sprang to your eyes. You dragged him to you for a deep kiss, your entangled fingers curling in his beard. 

His mouth was softer, even as his hips picked up their pace, the older alpha rutting into you faster and harder.

Bucky lost himself entirely to his instincts, babbling gruff, barely intelligible words about how perfect you were and how good you were to him. 

He mumbled a litany of filthy promises, telling you he was going to fill you with his knot and his seed and keep you impaled on his cock while he flooded your cunt until you were overflowing with his come.

Even through the haze of his rut, you could still feel your alpha in the tenderness of his touch and the care Bucky had for you. 

Though he was rough and wild, he never hurt you, pushing you to the brink of a pleasure that was so brutal and beautiful, you weren’t sure you’d survive it. But you trusted Bucky to guide you through it safely.

When he was close, Bucky’s fingers slipped beneath your body and pushed between your thighs until he found your clit. He rubbed your sensitive bud in tight, merciless circles, making you shudder and clench around his cock, pushing you closer to the edge of your own release.

“Come, omega, come on your alpha’s cock,” Bucky growled in your ear, his hips grinding his cock deep in your pussy as he rutted your cunt. “Be a good girl for daddy, and come, baby.” 

It was too much. Bucky felt too good, his thick cock filling you too perfectly and pressing against that spot deep inside you. 

You were helpless to his rubbing fingers and filthy words, flying over the edge of your release and screaming your pleasure into the blankets of your alpha’s bed. 

Bucky followed right after you, grunting and growling through his release. He bit down on the curve of your shoulder, careful not to break skin and cement a mating bond even as he came. 

The feeling of his blunt teeth sinking into your skin sent another wave of white-hot ecstasy through your body, and Bucky groaned when your pussy clenched around him even tighter.

Bucky’s cock twitched inside you, flooding you with his come as his knot began to swell. It inflated quickly, and you gasped at the feeling of his knot plugging your pussy, locking you together while you rode out your releases. 

Gradually, the waves of euphoria began to recede. But still, you felt heat licking beneath your skin, starting from where your body was connected to Bucky and flowing through the rest of your limbs.

At first, you thought it was the beginning of renewed pleasure, your omega instincts responding to Bucky’s rut by readying for another round. But then you felt a gush of slick between your thighs and your cunt clenched down greedily on Bucky’s cock, like your pussy was trying to suck him and his knot even deeper. 

The alpha’s body was still curled around yours and he grunted at the feeling of you squeezing his cock. Shifting and dragging his nose up the side of your throat, he buried his face in your neck and took a deep breath, his body going still at whatever he noticed in your scent.

“Are you due for your heat, baby?” Bucky asked carefully, his voice clearer than it had been while he was in the throes of his rut. 

He sounded so calm, his voice so low and delicious it took you a moment to understand what he’d asked.

“I—I shouldn’t be,” you stammered, confusion fighting against the warmth filtering through your body. Already, you had the urge to arch your back and beg Bucky to fuck you again, just like you would if you were in heat. “I’m not due for a few weeks.”

Before you could even properly protest the idea that you were going into heat, Bucky’s knot deflated enough for him to slip from your pussy. A gush of fluid spilled from your hole, but the two of you were too shocked to pay any attention to that because your bodies had proved you wrong.

Alpha biology was so well attuned to an omega’s that if they were in heat, the alpha’s knot would deflate faster than normal, and their refractory period would speed up, making sure they were able to attend to their omega’s heightened sex drive. 

Bucky’s cock was already hard again, the shaft brushing against your pussy between your thighs. And your skin was burning up, so the warmth of Bucky’s body became almost cool to your touch. 

Everything was pointing to you going into heat, but you still couldn’t quite wrap your mind around it.

Gently, Bucky turned you over onto your back and settled between your thighs, his big hands encouraging your legs to hook around his hips. His thick cock nestled against your soft, swollen pussy while he dug his arms under your back, holding you cradled against his chest, his face hovering above yours.

“Hey, are you ok?” he asked in a soft, gentle tone. He ducked his head to catch your eye, but you were staring unseeingly through him, trying to make it all make sense.

“Does this mean we’re…” you began to ask, your voice trailing off as the words stuck in your throat. 

They were trapped by the hope bottling up in your chest. You wanted to sure about what was happening before you let your emotions loose, let the elation fly free and whisk you away to the life you’d never dared to dream about.

But where Bucky had been hesitant before, he was steady and sure in the face of your uncertainty. A smile flirted at the edges of his mouth and he captured your lips in a quick kiss before he finished your question for you.

“True matches?” 

At those words, your eyes suddenly focused and searched for him. Your body settled instinctively when your gaze met Bucky’s, and his smile turned affectionate as he stared down at you, stroking your cheek fondly with his thumb. 

“Yeah, baby, it means we’re each other’s true match,” he said, seemingly happy to help you understand what was happening. “Only an alpha’s true match can trigger a rut, and only an omega’s true match can spark their heat.”

Bucky gave you a moment to soak in his words, waiting patiently while his thumb traced your lips. His big hand was cupping your face so reverently, it nearly brought tears to your eyes, and you stared up into the alpha’s gaze. 

Seeing the open affection on his handsome face finally got through to you.

Bucky Barnes was yours. He was your true match, the one alpha in all the world who was meant to be yours. And you were his. 

It was why his scent smelled so good to you, why you’d felt so drawn to him, and why you’d been so frustrated by him avoiding you all week. It was why you’d rebelled when he’d pushed you away when you wanted to help him through his rut.

That realization made you snort a laugh, which had surprise dancing across his features, a question in the furrow of his brow. 

“And you thought you could fight this,” you said, your voice wavering with laughter before you dissolved in a fit of giggles. 

A rumbling chuckle came from Bucky as he waited for you to get ahold of yourself. You were still laughing helplessly when his mouth found yours in a slow, sweet kiss. 

The laughter finally died in your throat and your fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair, kissing him back for all you were worth. His beard scraped against your cheeks and you delighted in the feeling, your pussy throbbing between your thighs.

“Mm, you really are mine, aren’t you, baby?” Bucky murmured against your lips after slowing the kiss and pulling away slightly. His blue eyes shimmered with affection and hunger as he stared down at you. 

“Yeah, Bucky, I’m yours,” you answered in a voice so full of happiness it was practically a purr. “And you’re mine, alpha.”

“Damn fucking right,” Bucky growled. He dove back down for another, deeper kiss, plunging his tongue into your mouth and tangling with yours. 

It wasn’t long before the heat simmering beneath your skin became too insistent to ignore, and you whined into Bucky’s mouth. Your hips rocked beneath the older alpha’s bigger body, grinding your cunt against his hard, twitching cock and coating him with a new layer of your slick.

“Please, alpha, I need you to knot me,” you whimpered pitifully, fingers digging into the strong muscles of his back. “Fuck me, Bucky—rut your omega and fill me up, daddy, please!” 

“Don’t worry, baby,” Bucky said, shushing you gently as his hand slipped between your bodies. 

He guided his cock back into your pussy, sliding deep into your tight heat while you moaned into each other’s mouths. 

“Your alpha’s gonna take good care of you, ‘mega,” he promised. “Just be a good girl for daddy and take my cock.”

Then Bucky was fucking you, hard and deep, rutting into your cunt with all the ferocious power of an alpha. It was glorious, pleasure spiraling through your body as you met his every thrust. 

After that, you succumbed to your heat, your omega giving in to your alpha and letting him take care of you.

For the next few days, you and Bucky barely left his room while he attended to your every need, whether that was filling you up with his knot or getting you to eat and drink some water. It was a haze of warmth and pleasure, and by the time your heat broke, you were wrung out and exhausted.

Bucky tucked you into his chest, holding you tight against his body as he purred and soothed his hand up and down your spine, urging you to sleep. You fell asleep quickly, excited to wake up rested and begin your life with your alpha, your true match, your love.

The journey of finding your way to Bucky Barnes may have begun with a long and brutal week of frustration and unsatisfied need, but you were excited to build something beautiful with him—something that would last for the rest of your lives.

[bisexual-spiderling]

sergeant's magic mouth

🫦 based on this ask but I definitely diverted from the main plot

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: You thought you were just his fling. He thought you were his girl. Then you overheard Steve teasing Bucky about his legendary skills in the bedroom—particularly his mouth. Bucky gets flustered. You get curious. A week later, he proved he’s still got it.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, oral sex (f receiving), pussy eating, misunderstanding trope, soft dom!Bucky, desperate!reader, overstimulation, slow burn tension, emotional release

Word Count: 3.5k

The compound was quieter than usual, the aftermath of a long mission settling in like a low, collective exhale. Somewhere in the common kitchen, someone clinked a glass. Distant laughter floated through the hall—probably Sam or Clint. But in the softly lit entertainment room, it was just you and Bucky. Again.

You’d flopped onto the couch hours ago after sparring, half-watching a movie you’d already forgotten the name of. Bucky had joined a little later, tucking himself into the corner of the cushions, red henley hugging the bulk of his arms, the silver glint of his metal arm catching the TV’s light like a low hum in your peripheral.

You hadn’t meant to end up in his lap. Again.

But like always, his palm was already on your waist when you slid over—grounding, warm despite the chill of the metal. His thighs were spread wide beneath you, relaxed and solid, and your legs naturally draped on either side like they belonged there. You leaned into him. He didn’t stop you. He never did.

It had been like this for weeks now. Maybe months.

Long after the dust from the whole Civil War mess had started to settle, you and Bucky had slipped into something wordless. Something sacred. You didn’t know what to call it—it didn’t feel right calling it just friends. Not when you could still feel the way he’d kissed you that first night after the team’s barbecue. The way he’d held you still while your hips rocked against his, slow and aching. Not when your heart stuttered every time he looked at you with that tired, hungry softness that made your skin burn.

The first kiss had been a dare. A stupid, tipsy game where someone dared Bucky to kiss you and no one—no one—had expected him to actually do it.

But he did.

He cupped your face with his warm hand, looked you in the eye, and kissed you like he’d been holding that breath in since 1943. And from then on… something shifted.

Now, he’d let you straddle him during quiet movie nights. His jaw would clench when your hips moved just right. You’d feel him through his jeans, thick and hard under you, and he’d groan—deep and strangled like he was holding something back. He’d mouth at your neck, hands gripping your waist, but it never went further than that. Never inside. Never under the clothes.

And you told yourself it was fine. You told yourself maybe this was just how it was going to be—this undefined, lusty thing. You told yourself it was better than nothing. Because it was Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes. The man women used to whisper about back in the 40s—the charmer with the bedroom eyes and silver tongue. You’d heard the rumors. Everyone had.

And you? You were just… you.

He could have anyone. And maybe you were just the convenient body he used to push those urges away—a warm lap to grind into, a mouth to kiss when the nights got too long. You didn’t know how to ask for more. You were terrified that if you tried, he’d pull away.

Meanwhile, Bucky? Bucky thought you were his. Fully.

He thought you’d been his since the second time you kissed him—the night you’d curled into his lap after patrol and whispered “I missed you” like it meant more than just the day. And it had killed him not to touch you deeper, not to give you everything he had. But he remembered what you said at that same team barbecue, right after everyone settled down with their beers and ribs. Someone had joked about hook-ups and you, ever soft-spoken, had laughed shyly and said:

“I’m a little old school. I don’t really go all the way unless it’s someone serious… like, serious-serious.”

And Bucky? Bucky was from the actual old school. Back in the 40s, that meant one thing—you waited until you were married. And if you were the kind of woman who saved yourself for that, then goddammit, he wasn’t going to be the reason you’d break that promise.

So he held back. Every time your body writhed against his. Every time he could smell your arousal through your leggings. Every time he had to clench his jaw and bury his face in your neck just to keep from coming in his pants.

He never touched himself after. Not once.

Didn’t jerk off to the thought of you, even though he ached to.

Because he wanted all of it—all of you—the right way.

He thought the wait would be worth it.

He just didn’t know you were waiting for him to want you at all.

—

The late afternoon sun cast warm streaks of gold across the compound, tinting the walls and windows with lazy amber light. You’d just wrapped up training and were headed toward the balcony, drawn by the familiar sound of laughter—two deep voices rolling over each other in low, nostalgic waves.

Steve and Bucky.

You slowed your steps as you approached, the soft creak of your boots masked by the breeze curling in through the open doors. They hadn’t noticed you yet, and you paused just beyond the archway, hidden by the sliding glass panel, your eyes flicking over to them instinctively.

They were seated side by side on the wide balcony bench, drinks in hand—Bucky with his legs spread in that casual, careless way, grey shirt pulled tight across his chest, silver arm draped over the backrest. Steve had a glass of something dark balanced in his grip, laughing into it.

“Alright, Buck. Be honest with me,” Steve said, nudging Bucky’s boot with his own. “How’s everything with you and her?”

Bucky shifted a little, his jaw tensing as he looked down at the drink in his hand.

You froze, breath catching. Her? You?

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was soft, but sure.

“We’re doing just fine.”

Steve scoffed. “Just fine? Buck, come on. That’s not enough.”

Bucky chuckled under his breath, but there was a flicker of tension in the movement—like he was trying to ease discomfort off his shoulders. He rubbed his thumb along the curve of his glass and glanced sideways at Steve.

“I don’t think I should be talking about her when she’s not here,” he muttered. “That wouldn’t feel right.”

You blinked. Your chest tightened. He was talking about you like—

Steve laughed again, all good-natured and clueless. “God, you haven’t changed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bucky asked, arching an eyebrow, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

“You remember the 40s?” Steve leaned back, the bench creaking under his weight. “Every girl at the bar was looking past me, and straight at you. I couldn’t get a date to save my damn life. You? You walked in and the whole room turned to jelly.”

Bucky snorted, tipping his head back with a sigh. “Yeah, well. That was before the serum. Before your fan club started.”

Steve smirked. “Oh, how the tables have turned, huh?”

Bucky gave him a look—part fond, part annoyed—but didn’t deny it.

Then Steve added, with a smirk far too knowing:

“You know, I still remember the rumors. I wasn’t supposed to hear most of ‘em—but you know how dames talk when they’ve had one too many.” He grinned into his glass. “Word was, anyone who got lucky enough to sleep with Sergeant Barnes left with their legs shaking.”

Bucky groaned immediately. “Jesus, Stevie—”

“No, no, wait—my favorite was the one who said you had a magic mouth,” Steve continued, delighting in the way Bucky tried to sink into himself. “Swore you knew exactly what to do down there. Said it was like being—what was it—worshipped?”

Your heart skipped. What?

You stepped out, your voice too curious for your brain to catch up.

“Wait… Bucky was that good with girls?”

Both men looked up fast. Bucky flinched like he’d just been smacked with a brick.

“Shit,” he muttered, straightening up immediately, his metal fingers tightening around his glass. “How long’ve you been standing there?”

“Long enough,” you said, fighting a grin as you stepped toward them, trying to sound innocent even though your pulse was sprinting. “I didn’t know you had a magic mouth, Bucky.”

Steve glanced between you and Bucky, the corner of his mouth twitching with the kind of subtle amusement only a best friend could pull off.

“Well,” he said, rising from the bench with smooth ease, “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

He set his glass down on the ledge, adjusted the sleeves of his shirt with practiced calm, and gave Bucky a pointed look that only made the other man shrink deeper into his seat.

Then, with a polite nod to you, he added,

“Try not to give him too hard a time, huh?”

And with that, Steve turned and walked back inside—composed, quiet, and absolutely smirking.

The silence he left behind was scorching.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, his skin already turning crimson beneath the ends of his hair. His silver fingers tapped against the railing like he couldn’t decide whether to escape over it or just melt into a puddle where he stood.

“That, uh… that wasn’t exactly how I wanted that to come up,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.

You leaned next to him, arms crossed, brow arched just slightly. “You never told me you had a reputation.”

He groaned. “God. It was blown way out of proportion, I swear.”

“Oh?” you tilted your head, pretending to think. “So you didn’t make girls’ legs shake?”

Bucky winced. Practically folded into himself.

“I mean—maybe a few,” he muttered. “But not like that. It wasn’t… Jesus, they made it sound like I slept with the whole borough. I didn’t. I wasn’t like that.”

You tried not to smile. “The whole borough, huh?”

His head jerked toward you, eyes wide. “Wait—are you… are you mad?”

“What? No,” you said quickly, brows lifting.

“You sure?” he asked again, more desperate now. “Because I never—look, I wasn’t just screwing around back then, okay? I didn’t sleep with that many people. And I haven’t been with anyone since and I’m not—I mean, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Your breath caught for a second. But you didn’t say anything.

Because your brain was not registering any of that.

Not the panic in his voice. Not the low, sincere way he said to you like it meant something.

All you could think about was what Steve said.

Legs shaking. Worship. Magic mouth.

You were still stuck on that phrase like a scratch on a record.

You let a beat pass. Just long enough to watch the flush creeping up his neck, the nervous dart of his eyes, the way he seemed to be running through every decision he’d ever made since 1943.

“I just didn’t know you were into that,” you said lightly, brushing invisible lint from your sleeve like you hadn’t just learned something that would haunt you tonight in your sheets.

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, clearly spiraling. “I—I didn’t mean for that to sound like I was bragging or anything. I don’t know where Steve heard that stuff. I mean, yeah, I used to, but not—It wasn’t like I slept around. I didn’t. I swear I never—”

“Bucky,” you cut in gently, offering a little smile. “It’s really okay.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nodded once, calm and even. “No hard feelings.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, apologize again, dig his way out of a guilt hole he didn’t even need to be in. But you didn’t give him the chance.

You stepped back toward the door, glancing at him over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you at dinner.”

And then you slipped inside, perfectly composed.

—

Your expression didn’t crack until you turned the corner, heat blooming across your face like a slow, wicked fire.

He used to love it.

He might still be good at it.

He thinks you’re mad about his past… and you’re just thinking about his mouth between your legs.

You pressed your hand against the wall, heart thundering.

Now all you needed was the right moment.

The right excuse.

Something casual. Natural.

Just a little something to get James Buchanan Barnes on his knees.

—

You kept your distance for six days.

Six entire, aching days.

Dinner that night? You smiled. Ate. Laughed with Sam. Passed the mashed potatoes like nothing had changed. Bucky sat across from you, silent and painfully upright, like he was ready for a cross-examination that never came.

The next day? You greeted him with a nod in the hallway. Kept your tone even, your posture casual. Bucky watched you like a man waiting for the world to fall out from under him.

And the day after that? You brushed past him near the weapons locker, arm grazing his on accident—only to duck into the training room before he could open his mouth.

He kept trying. Eyes lingering, mouth parting every time he got you alone for even a second. But you never gave him the space.

Because what were you supposed to say?

Hey, Bucky. You want to eat my cunt sometime? Because I’ve been thinking about it for many nights and I’m dangerously close to humping the corner of my pillow just to cope?

Yeah, no.

So you waited. And stewed. And tried not to fantasize.

But your body had other plans.

By day six, your hormones had you spiraling. You caught yourself grinding your thighs together during debriefing. Sweating during sparring. Biting your lip when Bucky scratched his jaw and muttered something under his breath, not even directed at you.

Day seven, you cracked.

Over lunch, with the team distracted, you leaned close to him—so casual—and said,

“Come to my unit after dinner.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You nodded, eyes steady. “Just for a bit.”

And that was all it took.

—

He showed up at your door just past nine. Dressed down in a fitted black tee and dark sweats. Hair tucked behind his ears. Smiling.

Not smirking. Not flirty. Just… happy.

You didn’t know it yet, but he thought this was a date. A real one. The first of many.

You let him in and made small talk. Let him sit on the couch like always. Let him pull you into his lap the way he always did when it was just the two of you and there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

Then you kissed him.

Slow. Familiar. But deeper.

His hands came to your thighs, dragging up under the hem of your oversized shirt as your knees bracketed his hips. He groaned softly into your mouth when you rolled against him—pressing down, grinding slow and needy right into the heat of his lap.

Then he froze.

You could feel it. The shift. The exact moment he realized there was nothing between you and his pants. No shorts. No panties. Just your bare, wet cunt dragging over the thick line of his cock through cotton.

Bucky broke the kiss, his hands halting on your thighs.

His voice came out hoarse.

“Doll… are you—are you not wearing anything?”

You blushed, chest rising slowly. “No.”

His eyes widened, hand clenching against your skin. “Since when?”

“Since before you got here.”

“Jesus,” he whispered, like it physically hurt him.

You pressed your forehead against his. Voice trembling now, but not from nerves.

“I’ve been thinking about it. Ever since Steve said that thing on the balcony.”

His brows lifted. “About… my mouth?”

You nodded. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You shifted your hips again. Let him feel the wet drag of your folds against his cock. He sucked in a sharp breath, hands locking tighter on your waist.

“Baby,” he rasped, “are you sure this is what you want? Not just—y’know, ‘cause you’re upset or… jealous or—”

That was the moment it snapped. The misunderstanding, the buried truth, the weeks and months of aching.

Your brow furrowed.

“Jealous? Bucky, I don’t have any right to be jealous. We’re not… together.”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we’re just…” You swallowed. “I thought we were just fooling around. Friends with benefits or something.”

His face went still.

“Wait,” he said. “You thought that’s what we were?”

You nodded slowly.

“I thought we were dating,” he said quietly. “I thought we were just taking it slow. You said at the barbecue that you’re traditional. I figured that meant you were saving sex until… marriage or something.”

You stared at him, lips parting. “I—no. I just didn’t want to sleep with someone who didn’t take me seriously.”

Bucky’s mouth hung open for a second. Then he let out a short, breathless laugh—somewhere between disbelief and relief.

“We’re idiots,” you said, and started laughing too.

He buried his face in your neck and laughed along with you, arms wrapping tighter around your waist.

“You’ve been my boyfriend this whole time without me even knowing?” you teased.

He pulled back, brushing his nose against yours. “Guess that makes it official now.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because now you’ve got even more reason to go down on me.”

His lips parted. You kissed him before he could speak.

—

What followed wasn’t fast.

It wasn’t wild.

It was reverent.

Bucky laid you back on the couch like you were made of silk and starlight, one hand supporting your back while the other guided your thighs open. He settled between them like it was where he was always meant to be—kneeling, breath shaky, eyes dark.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, thumbing along the inside of your knee. His voice was low. Full of awe.

You reached for him—but he kissed your thigh instead. Then again. And again. Slow, warm, deliberate. His stubble scraped lightly along your skin, the contrast enough to make you squirm, already sensitive from the slow grind you’d shared minutes before.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured. “Just wanna take my time with you. You deserve that.”

Then he ducked lower.

And when he pressed his tongue to your cunt—broad and unhurried—it felt like the world melted into heat and wet and sound. You gasped, hips twitching, fingers curling into the couch cushions.

Bucky moaned into you. Actually moaned.

“God, you taste like fucking honey,” he rasped, licking another slow, deliberate stripe between your folds. “So sweet, baby. Dripping for me.”

He dragged his tongue through your slick again, groaning like the taste alone could undo him. And then he slurped—an unashamed, filthy sound that made your eyes roll back.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, voice thick and desperate. “Can’t believe I waited this long.”

His tongue circled your clit—steady, patient, focused. Then he sucked. A low, wet pull that sent shockwaves down your spine. You cried out, thighs shaking already, but Bucky didn’t stop. He wrapped his lips around that swollen bud and sucked again, swirling his tongue in small, practiced motions like he’d studied every curve, every pattern of how your body trembled for him.

“I knew you’d be perfect,” he breathed. “So fucking soft. So warm. Look at this pussy, baby. Look how wet she is for me.”

You whined, head thrown back, chest heaving—and he didn’t let up.

He licked you like it was his only purpose. Like he’d spent years thinking about this. Dreaming of this. His tongue flicked quick, then slow, then down—dipping into your entrance, fucking in and out with soft, rhythmic strokes that made your back arch off the couch.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Let me hear those pretty sounds. You don’t even know what you’re doing to me, baby. Feels like I’m high off this fucking pussy.”

You could hear how wet it was. The obscene, slick sounds of his tongue lapping, his lips sucking, the gentle stubble burn brushing your inner thighs with every move. He kept you wide, kept you steady, like he didn’t want to miss a second—like this was something sacred to him.

And when your thighs started to tremble, when your hips bucked once—twice—he held you still with a firm grip of his metal hand on your stomach.

“Let go, sweetheart,” he whispered, licking up your slit with one slow, heavenly stroke. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you did.

You shattered.

Came hard. Loud. Thighs clenching around his head while he groaned and kept sucking, kept licking through it, pushing you higher until your whole body was shaking.

He didn’t stop. Not until he pulled a second orgasm from you with nothing but his mouth and your name falling from his lips like praise.

When he finally eased up—mouth slick, lips swollen, beard shining with your release—he kissed your thighs again. Tender. Adoring. Like he still wasn’t done worshipping you.

Then he climbed up your body, settling over you slowly, his hands gentle where they cradled your hips.

His forehead pressed to yours. He was smiling—dazed and soft and breathless.

You blinked at him, heart still pounding.

“So that’s what all the rumors were about.”

Bucky chuckled, voice low and hoarse.

“They didn’t even know half of it.”

[bisexual-spiderling]

what home feels like 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (5 + 1 trope)

warnings: loads, like mountains of fluff, soft!bucky, some angst, bucky in an apron, team shenanigans

summary: the 5 times bucky thinks of proposing to you and the 1 time he does

word count: 6.1k (i couldn't help myself 🥹)

author's note: hi loves! i am in the middle of my vacation and i had this written during my layover, and i just couldn't wait to let you guys read it, so here it is! i hope you'll love it as much as i do! love ya and stay safe out there! 💌

The first time Bucky thought of proposing to you, you were asleep on his chest, and the world was still.

The sun filtered softly through gauzy curtains, turning the room to gold, that liminal hush between dawn and morning, when the world had yet to stir. 

The compound was silent. Peaceful. A rare luxury. And in the center of it all was you, curled in the tangle of Bucky’s arms, your face pressed to his chest, your breath warm and even against the fabric of his shirt.

One of your hands was fisted there, right over his heart, like you’d been afraid he might drift away in the night and needed something to anchor you. As if your body, even in sleep, refused to let him go. 

He didn’t mind. He never minded. In fact, if he had it his way, he’d never move from this moment at all. He could stay like this forever. And maybe, for once, he actually believed he deserved to.

Alpine lay nestled between your legs, a puddle of white fur with her chin resting lazily on your calf. She let out a soft mewl, stretching languidly, paws reaching toward the warm patch of sunlight spilling across the bed before curling tighter into the cradle you made for her.

Bucky watched her for a beat, the corners of his mouth twitching, and then looked back down at you, the way your lashes flickered in dreams, the way your lips parted with each slow breath, your features soft and at peace in the golden quiet.

There was a kind of stillness in the air that made everything feel sacred. Like nothing bad could touch the room you shared. Like the outside world, the violence, the ghosts, the endless fight didn’t exist here. 

Just you. Just him. Just this.

And his heart ached a little with the weight of it, of how far he’d come, of how long it had taken to get here. To something this gentle. This good.

Because this life had once seemed impossible.

Germany, 2016.

The first time Bucky saw you, he had been standing at the far end of the airport carpark in Berlin, still learning how to breathe in spaces that weren’t cages.

Still unsure of who he was supposed to be outside the Soldier. Still half-listening, half-drifting.

Steve had brought you in, voice warm, saying you’d be helping with strategy and tech coordination for the joint ops.

There had been a familiarity in how he spoke to you, like you were someone he already trusted. That alone had caught Bucky’s attention. 

And then… then you walked in beside him.

Wearing jeans and a simple button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves, your hair pulled back in some easy style like you hadn’t even put much thought into it.

You had a notebook in one hand, and your eyes were wide, bright. Like you hadn’t yet learned to keep your guard up in this line of work. Like the job hadn’t bled the softness out of you.

And Bucky… Bucky had stared.

Not out of rudeness—not really. But because you’d laughed. Full-bodied and unfiltered.

Scott had said something dumb—some half-witted quip about old men and bluetooth—and you had tipped your head back, laughing like it was the best thing you’d heard all week.

The sound of it went straight through him.

It didn’t just catch his attention. It wrecked him, a little. That laugh landed somewhere behind his ribs, somewhere he hadn’t even realised was still raw. And for the first time in a long time, something in him stirred. Something slow and silent and stupidly hopeful.

Then you turned to him. Your gaze met his.

You smiled.

Held out your hand.

“Hi, I’m (Y/N),” you’d said, your voice warm, effortless and kind. The kind of voice that made people feel safe. The kind of voice that felt like a hand resting lightly on a wound.

“You must be Bucky.”

He hadn’t said a word at first. Couldn’t. His brain had short-circuited under the weight of your gaze and the gentle curl of your mouth. His pulse roared in his ears like it did in combat zones—sharp, hot, all-consuming.

But then, somehow, he managed a smile. A real one. Small. Tentative. But genuine. And when he took your hand in his, shaking it carefully, cautiously, something in his chest locked into place.

He remembered how soft your skin had felt against his calloused fingers. How you hadn’t flinched at the sight of the metal. How your touch had lingered just long enough.

You didn’t seem put off by his silence. You’d just nodded, eyes full of something unspoken, and walked off with Wanda, the two of you giggling about something he couldn’t hear. Just like that, you were gone. But the space you left behind stayed.

That’s when Sam had sidled up beside him, elbowing him just hard enough to knock him out of his daze.

“You know if you keep staring, it’s gonna get reak creepy,” he said, smirking.

Bucky had scowled at him. Sam had just grinned wider, all smug and knowing, before turning back.

But even then—Bucky knew.

Knew he was already in trouble.

Because something had shifted. A compass needle inside him, snapping north.

And from that moment on, he’d been tilting toward you.

Now, as he looked down at you all these years later—your lashes fluttering in dreams, your nose scrunching as Alpine adjusted herself—the same flutter stirred in his chest. The same ache, the same quiet kind of awe.

The kind of wonder a man feels when he realises he’s been given the one thing he never dared to ask for.

You shifted in your sleep, barely a breath of movement, but your hand remained curled tight in his shirt, right over his heart.

A reflex, even now. And Bucky let his vibranium fingers trace along your spine, the weight of them light, slow, gentle. Careful not to wake you. He wanted to hold onto this moment just a little longer.

That’s when he thought about the ring.

The one you’d pretended not to look at in the window of that little shop in town last week, red velvet box, delicate curve of diamonds catching the light.

You’d been with Yelena and Bob, arms full of coffee cups and teasing each other about something John had said.

But as you passed the display, you slowed.

He’d noticed it. The way your gaze had lingered. The way your fingers shifted slightly on the cup, like you were reaching for something you wouldn’t admit to wanting. The way your smile curved at the corners, quiet and wistful, like a secret you didn’t plan on sharing.

He saw it and tucked it away.

And now, with you asleep in his arms, your heartbeat matching his, the sun painting gold into your skin, Alpine’s fur warming your legs and that familiar weight of your hand pressed into his chest—he made the decision he’d been dancing around for weeks.

He was going to buy it.

Because this—this lazy Sunday morning with your body draped over his, your love stitched into the silence—this was it.

This was forever.

The second time Bucky thought of proposing, the kitchen had smelled like toast and sunlight.

It was late morning when he found you in the kitchen, barefoot on cool tile, hips swaying to the distant echo of Taylor Swift playing from a speaker;

The track was barely audible—warbled through the walls, a little staticky at the edges, but you didn’t seem to care.

You moved with it anyway, letting the music carry you from one counter to the next like it had been written for this exact moment—lazy, sun-warmed, still wrapped in the quiet of sleep.

You were wearing his shirt—that old red henley he loved and you’d stolen without apology—sleeves pushed up to your elbows, the hem brushing mid-thigh and clinging in places where the steam from the kettle had warmed the air. 

Your hair was still mussed from sleep, strands curling at your temples, and one sock was scrunched halfway down your ankle like you’d forgotten to pull it all the way on.

You held a wooden spoon in one hand like a microphone, lips parted, eyes closed, your voice rising with the chorus as you spun in a loose, lazy circle in front of the stove.

You were completely at ease. Utterly unbothered. Just lost in the song and the morning and the rhythm of your own joy.

Sunlight streamed in through the half-open blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor and lighting you up like something out of a dream.

You looked like every warm Sunday morning he’d ever wanted, the kind of morning he didn’t believe he’d ever actually get.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching the way your feet padded across the tile, how your hips swayed, how you bobbed your head to the beat like no one was watching—because you didn’t think anyone was.

And maybe he should’ve said something—greeted you, teased you, but the words stayed lodged in his throat, caught somewhere behind the knot that had formed in his chest. Because there was something about you like this that undid him.

Completely.

You were radiant in a way he didn’t think you realised. The kind of radiant that came from joy—unfiltered, unguarded. The kind that wasn’t curated or calculated or polished for the world.

The kind of beauty that only existed in the in-between spaces—in the stretch of a yawn, in a wooden spoon masquerading as a microphone, in the way your laugh cracked when you hit the high notes wrong.

And god, he thought, watching the sway of your hips, the grin playing at your lips, this is home.

You.

You were home.

He thought about the way you’d slowly, gently introduced him to pop culture like it was your personal mission to drag him into the 21st century. 

The curated playlists you made, some with real titles and others labeled “Bucky’s Soft Bitch Era” just to get a rise out of him. The back-to-back movie nights where you made him swear, hand over heart, that he wouldn’t fall asleep during The Notebook.

He remembered the first time he said TokTok by accident and you’d nearly fallen off the couch laughing, giggling so hard you landed half in his lap. 

He’d rolled his eyes and muttered something about the whole app being made by “brain rot,” a term you taught him. but you’d refused to correct him, smirking every time he repeated it wrong.

You’d made it all so effortless. The joy.

He hadn’t known it was happening—not at first. Not until it was already too late to stop. Until you were part of everything. His mornings, his evenings, the space between missions, the quiet between nightmares. The laughter between breaths.

You hadn’t forced him to change.

You’d just given him something worth changing for.

He smiled to himself, one hand curling loosely around the coffee mug, now half-cold in his grip.

You were singing now, his shirt shifted with every movement, slipping just slightly off one shoulder. The sight of it—your bare skin against his worn cotton, the easy claim of it—made his stomach twist.

And maybe it was stupid.

Maybe it was too soon.

But the thought still rooted deep in his chest and bloomed like something inevitable.

I want to come home to this for the rest of my life.

He could see it, so vividly it ached. This kitchen, your voice, that damn wooden spoon. The rest of your lives written in sunlight and bad karaoke, laughter and bare feet on tile. He wanted to memorise this, frame it. Carve it into stone so it would never change, never fade.

Because at that moment, it wasn’t just love.

It belonged.

But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

Because the moment felt too perfect, too suspended in its own little pocket of magic, like one wrong word might startle it, might shatter the stillness and send it fleeing out the window with the breeze.

So he let it be.

Let it unfold in golden quiet, you twirling in his shirt, bathed in sunlight, the world narrowed down to the music and the soft clatter of silverware in the drying rack, the steam rising from your forgotten tea on the counter.

And Bucky stood there, still and quiet and entirely undone, holding a lukewarm cup of coffee and the sharp, aching certainty that one day, maybe soon, maybe not, he was going to ask you.

The third time Bucky thought about proposing to you, you were laughing in the golden light, beer in hand, surrounded by people who loved you almost as much as he did.

The sky had started to turn.

That soft stretch between afternoon and evening where the sun melted into everything it touched, bathing the world in a low, amber haze. The backyard was warm with the glow of it—fairy lights strung lazily along the rails of the compound’s rooftop. 

Smoke curled up from the grill, rich and familiar, while laughter rippled across the patio like music. Somewhere in the corner, Bob’s speaker hummed with old rock music and the occasional burst of static.

It didn’t matter. Nobody seemed to mind.

You were laughing again.

That soft, breathless kind of laughter that tugged at the corners of Bucky’s mouth every damn time he heard it. Like some part of him lit up in response—quiet and instinctive, like your joy flipped a switch inside him that nothing else could.

He stood just outside the patio doors, a paper plate in hand—barely touched—but his eyes were on you. 

Only you.

You were perched on the arm of John’s chair, elbow resting on his shoulder like it was second nature, beer bottle tilted carelessly in your hand. John was mid-sentence, half-defending himself from whatever teasing you were throwing at him, and you were clearly winning. 

Your smile was crooked, mischievous. Familiar. The same one you always wore when you knew you were about to land a joke that would ruin someone’s ego for the rest of the week.

“You’re just mad because I’m funnier than you,” you said, clinking your bottle against his in mock sympathy, your tone soaked in smug satisfaction.

John groaned dramatically. “Please. I’m hilarious.”

Yelena snorted from the grill without even looking up. “You are a tragedy.”

Bob raised his hand like he was in a courtroom. “She’s not wrong.”

“You people have no taste,” John muttered, but there was no real bite behind it.

“You overcooked the burgers,” Bob added casually.

“Exactly,” Yelena chimed in, jabbing a fork in his direction with finality. “He’s lost all credibility.”

Over by the cooler, Alexei was deep in what could only be described as a passionate retelling of something that definitely hadn’t happened—this time about his red guardian days and a hand-to-paw brawl with some Siberian bear. 

He waved his arms dramatically, chest puffed out, his voice rising with each sentence like a man delivering a one-man play. 

Ava had tuned him out completely, scrolling through her phone with surgical focus and only humming in vague acknowledgment whenever he shouted the word “bear” a little too loud.

It was chaotic, the kind of mess Bucky never would’ve imagined himself a part of—let alone something he could belong to.

But he wasn’t listening to any of it.

His eyes were on you.

The way you leaned into the warmth of the moment, head tilted back in laughter, eyes crinkling at the edges like sun lines. The way you had this unspoken ease with the people around you—even the ones who hadn’t always been easy to love. 

You fit into the team not like glue, but gravity—like you kept everyone tethered without even meaning to.

He shifted, let his free hand drift toward the pocket of his jeans. His fingers brushed the small velvet box tucked there.

He remembered the aftermath of what happened in New York, it had been brutal.

For everyone. But especially for John.

No one really knew what to say to him. No one quite knew how to reach him, not after it came out that Olivia had left. That the wife and baby he said was waiting back home had already left months before.

He was splintered.

You hadn’t flinched. You hadn’t hesitated.

You’d found John on the compound steps the night he returned, still bloodied and shaking, the seams of his restraint barely holding—and sat beside him.

No grand entrance. No fuss. Just a quiet presence. You didn’t offer him pity or force conversation. You didn’t tell him it would be okay, you didn’t lie.

You had reached over and took his hand.

Held it, steady and solid—while the others kept their distance. It was simply, completely unremarkable on the surface.

But it worked. Somehow. Quietly. Without demand.

And Bucky had watched it unfold, breath lodged somewhere behind his ribs. Because that was the thing about you. You never tried to fix anyone, but somehow, you still managed to help them heal.

You were everyone’s lighthouse in the dark, even the ones who pretended they didn’t need one.

Especially them.

It was only a week later when the compound had gone still when Bucky had found himself at the dining table, elbows braced, shoulders tight, knuckles white around the edge of a ceramic mug he wasn’t drinking from. 

He sat there for a long time, unmoving, eyes fixed on nothing, haunted by something he couldn’t name. The image of what he saw in the void still crawled under his skin—loud in the quiet, vivid behind his eyes.

He hadn’t noticed you until you spoke.

You padded in barefoot, still warm from sleep, wrapped in his shirt that hung off one shoulder. Your hair was tangled, voice soft and low like you hadn’t used it yet that day.

You didn’t ask what was wrong. You didn’t need to.

You just pulled out the chair beside him, sat down, and reached for his hand. No preamble. No questions. Just your fingers curling gently around his.

“I’m here, James,” you whispered, voice so quiet he barely caught it. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

And that—that was all it took.

He hadn’t said anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight as the tears came fast and quiet and unexpected.

Your grip never loosened.

And then Bucky blinked, too, like waking from a dream.

The memory dissolved around the edges, softening into the golden blur of now. 

You were still laughing with John, chin resting on your hand, your bottle now empty and forgotten.

The sky behind you had turned a dusky pink, streaked with orange and fading blue. The fairy lights blinked overhead like slow, lazy fireflies.

Bucky swallowed hard, throat thick, heart heavy with something he didn’t quite know how to hold. Something fragile and infinite.

The ring burned in his pocket.

Yelena sidled up beside him, two plates balanced in one hand, her eyes trailing the line of his gaze before she leaned in just enough to bump her shoulder against his.

“She’s good for you,” she said simply, like it was fact, like it had always been obvious.

He blinked, pulled his eyes from you long enough to glance at her. She was right.

“I know,” he said softly, mostly to himself, his fingers brushing the velvet box again, like the shape of it grounded him.

Soon.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he just stood there in the glow of fairy lights and fading sunlight, and let himself love you in silence.

The fourth time Bucky thought of proposing to you was during that one particular movie night.

The rec room buzzed, the lights were dimmed, shadows stretched across the walls in flickering shapes, and someone had dragged in extra bean bags and pillows from the training room—turning the entire floor into a makeshift nest of mismatched blankets and old couch cushions. 

The screen glowed in the dark, casting soft blues and golds onto lazy limbs and half-finished bowls of popcorn.

You were curled beside Bucky on the couch, shoulder pressed into his side, legs tangled loosely beneath a shared blanket.

One of your socks had slipped off sometime during the first act. He didn’t even know when. He just knew your toes were cold when they nudged against his shin—and he hadn’t moved away.

He didn’t think he ever could.

The room smelled like buttered popcorn and worn fabric, like sleep and safety and leftover takeout from the kitchen. 

Ava was stretched out across two bean bags with Alpine curled on her stomach. Bob had his head tipped back, already snoring softly, while Yelena and Alexei were still arguing in hushed voices about who cried harder during The Lion King.

It was quiet in a way that only felt possible when you were all together. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty—just easy.

You shifted slightly, your fingers brushing over Bucky’s hand beneath the blanket. And then, without thinking, you began to trace the ridges of his knuckles. Absentminded. Familiar. Like muscle memory. 

Like you’d done it a hundred times before—because you had.

It was your comfort habit. Your way of grounding yourself when the day had been too long or your eyes were growing heavy. 

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look up.

Your breathing slowed and your head dropped against his chest.

Bucky watched you as your eyelids fluttered, your face softening in sleep, lips parting slightly with each slow breath. Your lashes twitched like you were dreaming already—and god, you looked peaceful. Completely undone by comfort and warmth.

You drooled a little. Right there on his chest.

And he chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head like it didn’t knock the breath out of him. Like it didn’t make his heart twist with something so fierce and tender he couldn’t look away.

Because this—this stupid little moment, your drool soaking into his shirt and your body heavy against his side—this was it.

This was love.

This was the kind of night that carved itself into your bones without even asking.

The movie ended in the background—soft fade-to-black and swelling music—but Bucky didn’t move. People started shifting. Groaning. Standing. 

Bob staggered to his feet, mumbling something about a sugar crash. Alexei wandered off in search of leftovers.

Even Yelena, who usually never missed a chance to call Bucky a “domestic menace,” didn’t say anything this time. She just shot him a look, eyes soft for once, and tugged Bob toward the hallway by the sleeve.

Eventually, the room emptied.

But he stayed right where he was.

Blanket pooled over both your legs. Your body curled into his. One of your hands still loosely wrapped around his.

And Bucky leaned his head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I want every night like this,” he murmured, barely above a whisper.

It wasn’t even a thought—just something that slipped out, something too true to hold in.

He looked down at you again, the words still blooming on his tongue, soft and certain.

He nearly asked.

Right then.

Nearly reached into his pocket for the ring that had never left his side since he’d bought it. Nearly tilted your chin up, brushed your hair out of your face, and told you he never wanted to do this life without you.

But then—

You snored.

Not loud. Not obnoxious.

Just enough to break the spell.

And Bucky laughed under his breath, the kind of laugh that cracked his chest open a little. He dipped his head, pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, and breathed in the soft scent of your shampoo, your skin, the safety of you asleep against him.

“Soon, baby,” he whispered, lips against your temple. “I’ll ask you soon.”

And in that quiet, golden stillness, as the credits rolled and your breathing evened out again, Bucky knew he could wait.

Just a little longer.

The fifth time Bucky thought of proposing to you, it was in a hospital ward.

Sokovia had been burning.

The sky was thick with smoke and dust, buildings gutted by fire and shrapnel, streets vibrating beneath their feet as another explosion rocked the earth in the distance.

The air was chaos—civilians screaming, radios crackling, the stench of blood sharp against the tang of ash and diesel.

And through it all, Bucky could still hear your voice in his ear—calm, clear, steady, a tether in the madness as you moved beside him.

“There’s two trapped in the north alley,” you’d said, breathless from the sprint, dirt streaked across your cheek. “I’ve got them Buck, go cover the evac point.”

He should’ve listened.

God, he should’ve listened.

But you were always the brave one. The reckless one when it counted. The one who would throw yourself into the fire if it meant pulling someone else out. And before he could stop you, before he could argue, it was already happening.

The shot came out of nowhere—a single, clean crack that split the world in half.

Then motion.

You.

Slamming into him with a force that knocked the air from his lungs — all instinct and desperation. The bullet was meant for him, but it found you instead.

The sound it made when it hit you would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Not a scream. Not even a gasp.

Just a sickening, solid thud, and the look in your eyes, just for a second, before your legs buckled and you collapsed into him like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Bucky caught you before your knees hit the ground.

He hit his knees with you, arms tightening, hands already pressing hard against your chest, where blood was blooming fast. Too fast.

The warmth of it soaked his fingers, thick and terrifying, spilling between them like time slipping away.

His breath stuttered. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking—both of them slick and red—no line anymore between man and machine, just one desperate body trying to hold another together.

“Nonononono—baby, stay with me,” he begged, voice cracking. “Look at me. Come on, just look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered.

Barely.

You were gasping, breath catching on every inhale, body struggling against gravity and pain—but still, somehow, you found his hand. Still curled your blood-slicked fingers into his like it mattered. Like he mattered.

And then—the whisper.

Barely a breath.

“It’s okay, James.”

You tried to smile. You tried. Even as your chest heaved, even as your face paled. You were still trying to make him feel better. Even then.

And then your eyes slipped closed.

Your hand went slack in his.

“No—” His voice broke. “No, baby, please. Please—stay with me. Stay.”

He screamed for help, hell he shouted it until his throat tore open.

It wasn’t words anymore. It was a sound. Something raw and helpless, a sound he hadn’t made in years—maybe ever. The comms burst to life in his ear, voices overlapping—Alexei calling coordinates, Ava yelling his name, John barking into his comm and Yelena screaming at Bob to send a medic to your position.

But Bucky heard none of it.

Just the ringing. Just the static in his head. Just the crushing silence of your body going still in his arms.

Blood on his hands, blood on his knees, blood on your lips.

And you weren’t moving.

The hallway outside the operating room was too clean. Too bright and way too quiet.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, and Bucky sat slouched against the wall, the chill of the tile seeping through his suit as he clutched a cup of coffee gone long cold. It had stopped steaming ages ago, untouched, forgotten. He didn’t even remember someone giving it to him.

His front was still damp. His knees stained, his fingers raw from scrubbing your blood off in the sink—not all of it had come out.

Yelena sat nearby, arms folded, her head bowed in a silence she never wore. Bob paced. John stood against the far wall with his arms crossed tight over his chest, unmoving. Nobody had spoken in what felt like hours.

Then the door opened.

And Bucky was on his feet before the surgeon even stepped fully into the hallway.

“She made it.”

Three words.

Three impossible, world-shifting words.

Bucky didn’t remember moving, he didn’t remember dropping the cup or pushing past the doctor or the sound of someone calling after him.

He only remembered one thing:

Your name. In his mouth, in his heart. Like prayer.

You had looked so small in the bed.

The hospital sheets were too white against your skin, the steady beep of the monitors barely loud enough to be real.

Your chest rose and fell beneath the thin blanket, each breath shallow but steady. Your face was pale, lashes resting against your cheeks, an IV threaded into the back of your hand.

But you were breathing. Alive.

Bucky stood at your bedside, his hands hovering before he let himself reach—let his fingers wrap gently around yours, careful not to jostle the wires and tubes. He brought your hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to your knuckles like you were made of glass.

Only then did he let himself breathe.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, voice cracked and hoarse. “God, I thought—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t shape the rest of the words around the tremble in his throat. His eyes stung, vision blurring.

He sat down slowly, legs folding under him, and leaned in until his forehead rested against yours.

And there, in the soft hum of hospital machines and the scent of antiseptic and blood and you, he whispered:

“I can’t lose you.”

And in that moment, Bucky knew with more certainty than he’d ever known anything that he didn’t want a life unless it was with you in it. That love wasn’t a question anymore. 

It was you. It had always been you.

The day Bucky proposed to you, it didn’t go as he had hoped.

The plan had been simple.

Well… sort of.

Bucky had spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen with Alpine circling his feet and panic setting in somewhere between how hard can it be? and why is this bread still doughy on the inside?

He had bribed Bob and Yelena with a full month of coffee runs to get you out of the compound—bought himself a few uninterrupted hours. Just enough time to pull together something romantic. 

A quiet night with a dinner he made just for the both of you. Something that felt normal—something that felt like home.

You deserved that.

You deserved wine, and music, and a man who tried.

And god, was he trying.

He’d even worn the apron you got him last Christmas—Kiss the Cook (or Else)—tied it on with absolutely no protest, even though he had grumbled when he found it.

The fabric was too pink, the font was too aggressive. You had giggled when you gave it to him and well, he had never actually worn it.

Until today.

It was stupid. It was stupidly perfect.

And then everything went sideways.

The sauce burned—thick and bitter and clingy, turning the pan black and smoky before he could scrape it off."The bread didn’t rise right—not the first, second, or even the third time. Each loaf slumped in the center like it had given up halfway through baking.

Bucky had followed the recipe twice. Nothing worked. The wine bottle tipped when he reached too fast for a spoon. It spilled across the counter, down the cabinet, pooled under the fruit bowl. Then he dropped a fork into the pan of sauce, tried to fish it out and burned his hand. Swore loudly enough that Alpine hissed and darted under the kitchen table like he had somehow betrayed her on a spiritual level.

The smoke alarm nearly went off.

He hit it with a dish towel and muttered threats at it.

It was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster.

And that was before he heard the front door creak open.

His whole body froze.

He turned slowly, eyes wide, just as your footsteps reached the edge of the hall—too light to be Bob, too quiet to be Yelena. He knew your walk by now. The soft padding of your soles. The way you always slowed down when your hands were full. The way the silence always shifted when you entered a room.

And his stomach sank.

You were home. Too early.

The clock on the oven blinked at him uselessly, and he barely had time to wipe his hands on the apron when you walked into the kitchen.

You stopped short.

Still holding your coat, still glowing faintly from the wind outside and the laughter that hadn’t quite left your face.

And then you saw it.

The smoke, the scorched pan, the puddle of wine dripping a slow trail toward the floor. The half-risen bread like a sad little crater on the counter.

And in the middle of it all—Bucky. In the pink apron. Covered in flour and tomato splatter, clutching a wooden spoon like it might just attack him.

You blinked.

“Was this all for me?”

Bucky looked like a deer caught in a trap.

Or maybe more like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar—big and awkward and helpless, covered in guilt and powdered sugar.

“I—” He swallowed. “I realised I haven’t taken you out on a real date.”

He shifted, the wooden spoon still in his hand like he didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“I just… I wanted to make tonight special.”

Your lips twitched.

The kitchen smelled like defeat and oregano. The oven was beeping at nothing. Smoke hung faintly in the air like an accusation. And still, your heart cracked wide open.

You stepped toward him—slowly, gently—and rose onto your toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s okay, Buck,” you murmured, lips brushing the curve of his jaw. “I’ve got leftover cereal.”

Your tone was teasing, warm, affectionate in the way only you could be. Forgiving. Soft. Home.

You turned, half-laughing, reaching for the cupboard above the microwave, the one that always held your comfort stash. Granola and that one sugar cereal you swore was for cheat days and ate every Sunday anyway.

You reached for the handle.

And Bucky’s heart stuttered.

He watched your hand move in slow motion, watched as your fingers curl around the cupboard door, the hinge creaking faintly.

His stomach dropped.

“Baby, wait—no—”

But it was too late.

You opened the door. Your fingers paused.

And there it was.

Tucked behind a half-finished bag of granola and an emergency box of toaster waffles sat a small red velvet box. Not fancy or flashy, but unmistakable. The kind that didn’t belong next to cereal.

The kind that meant something. The kind that meant everything.

You didn’t move.

Just stared.

And across the room, Bucky stood frozen, apron crooked, hair still damp from the steam, sauce on his cheek, and absolutely no words left in his mouth.

“I was gonna ask later,” he muttered, voice low, thick with something heavy. “There was a whole thing. Music. Dessert. A ring not hidden behind cereal.”

He sighed, shoulders sagging.

“I ruined it.”

You didn’t say anything at first.

You just looked at him—really looked at him. At the mess behind him. At the pink apron barely clinging to its dignity. At the way he stood there like he still expected the floor to swallow him whole.

And your eyes welled up.

Your smile tugged softly at the corners of your mouth, cracking you wide open like a sunrise.

“Yes,” you said.

Bucky blinked. “But… you didn’t even open it.”

You closed the cupboard gently and turned to face him. A breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh as you stepped forward.

“I don’t have to.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

Bucky crossed the kitchen in three slow steps, reached for your face with both hands like you were made of something precious—fragile and entirely his.

He kissed you like he was carving the moment into memory. Like nothing else existed but the space between your lips and his heart.

Then, wordlessly, he lifted you onto the counter, settling between your legs, hands braced on your thighs like they were the only anchor he needed.

“God, I love you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking. “You have no idea.”

You laughed, watery and real, arms wrapping around his neck as you pulled him closer.

“I do,” you whispered. “Me too.”

The kitchen was still a disaster.

The bread was half-baked. The wine was staining the grout. The sauce had scorched itself into the pan so deeply it might never come out.

But none of it mattered.

Because this—this—was perfect.

And it always would be.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it!! if you did, please leave a comment or a reblog! thank you my love 💖

[bisexual-spiderling]

Rain Soaked Hearts

Summary: You and Bucky live together in a small apartment in Brooklyn. Bucky is trying to find his footing post-blip. And you’ve grown close. Too close.

(set during tfatws, second person POV, dancing in the rain, emotional intimacy, emotional confession, hurt/comfort, fluff and angst, eventual smut, insecurities, established relationship, soft! Bucky, beefy bucky, morning after, domestic fluff, sam wilson makes an appearance, fem reader)

Warnings: 18+, explicit smut towards the end, mild language, PTSD mentions (again, Hydra), dom/sub undertones, Bucky is a munch, sexual intimacy, overstimulation, cunnilingus, unprotected sex (again, please use protection), MINORS DNI.

Word count: 3.7k+

(crossposted on ao3!)

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

The first thing you hear that morning is the rain. It drums against the windowpane beside your bed, a soothing rhythm that lulls you back to sleep—almost. But you stretch instead, blinking through the quiet gray light, only to find the space beside you in the bed already empty. 

Bucky’s gone again. 

He’s been doing that lately—waking up early and leaving the room quietly. You know he means well. He’s giving you space. Maybe too much of it. But you also know him well enough by now to understand it isn’t about you. 

He’s still trying to figure out how to live in a world that moves so fast. 

You pad out into the kitchen wearing nothing but one of Bucky’s soft old t-shirts and thick socks. The small apartment smells faintly of coffee and rain. You find him in the living room, standing by the window, bare-chested in grey sweatpants, arms crossed as he watches the storm roll through Brooklyn. 

“You’re up early,” you murmur as you wrap your arms around his waist from behind. 

“I could say the same to you,” he says without turning his head. But you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“I smelled coffee and got curious.” You press a kiss to his spine, right between his shoulder blades, the way you know makes him still. “Also, you weren’t in bed.”

He shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Nightmares?”

“Not exactly.”

You step around to face him, reaching up to brush a strand of damp hair off his forehead. His eyes—those pale, stormy blues—flicker down to meet yours. There’s something quiet in his gaze today. Not haunted exactly, but… far away. 

“You okay?”

He nods once, eyes dipping again to the street below. “Just thinking. The rain makes it hard to shut my brain off.” 

“I like the rain.” You follow his gaze. Outside, people are scurrying beneath umbrellas, laughing, running for shelter. Puddles reflect the dull glow of traffic lights. Bucky says nothing. His vibranium hand flexes where it rests at his side, fingers twitching as if itching to move.

You lean against the window, nudging his shoulder with yours. “C’mon, let’s go outside.”

He gives you a look, half amused, half baffled. “Outside?”

“In the rain.” 

He blinks at you incredulously. “You wanna stand in the rain?”

“No.” You grin up at him. “I wanna dance in it.” 

That earns you a snort. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But you love that about me.”

He rolls his eyes but the corners of his mouth twitch, betraying him. “You know I don’t dance.”

“Sure you do. You’ve danced before. You told me you did, back in the 40’s.” 

“That was different. That was… wartime. Parties. Glenn Miller. Before the world went to hell.”

“You still remember how.”

He huffs but doesn’t say no. So you take that as your invitation. You tug his hand—his real one—and pull him toward the front door, grabbing your rain jacket off the hook as you go. He follows reluctantly, barefoot like you, and by the time you both step out into the misty gray of the morning, the rain has picked up to a steady drizzle. You drop the hood and let it soak your hair. 

Bucky watches you with that skeptical frown as you step off the stoop and into the street, spinning once on your heel in the middle of the empty road. Your laughter floats back to him, soft and wild. “You coming or what?” you call over your shoulder. 

He stays there on the sidewalk for a moment, rain beading on his skin, the barest hint of wonder in his eyes. Then he steps down into the street. “I’m gonna regret this,” he mutters. 

But he doesn’t. Not even a little. 

You catch his hand again, your fingers sliding between his easily, familiarly. The rain runs down his metal arm, glinting silver where it catches the dull morning light. He’s warm in spite of the chill. His gaze stays fixed on you. You guide him gently into a sway, your bare feet slapping against the wet pavement. You hum a song—something soft and slow, something you both recognize but neither name. 

And Bucky—he lets go. 

He moves with you, unsure at first, but muscle memory takes over. It’s awkward and sweet. His hand cups your waist. The metal one holds yours. You rest your head against his chest and feel the steady thud of his heart. 

You don’t speak. You just exist—two souls in sync, turning slowly beneath a gray sky. 

And for the first time in days, Bucky lets the world go quiet. 

. . . .

Later, you dry off together inside, wrapped in towels and warmth and something that feels sacred. He watches you from the couch, hair still damp, arms sprawled behind his head. You walk over to him slowly, settling beside him, legs tucked beneath you. 

“You okay now?” you ask softly. 

He turns to you. “I think so.”

“What were you thinking about this morning?” There’s a long pause. He swallows. “You.”

That catches you off guard. “Me?”

“I was thinking about… how you came into my life like a storm. And I didn’t even know how badly I needed one.” 

You smile, brushing a wet strand of hair from his face. “You’re not bad at poetry, y’know that?”

He chuckles, eyes crinkling. “Shut up.” 

You lean in, lips ghosting over his jaw. “So tell me more about this storm.”

Bucky shifts, his voice a little rougher now. “I didn’t think I’d ever have this. After everything. After… what I did. What I was.” 

“Bucky,” you say firmly, hand against his chest, right over his heart. “You’re not him anymore.”

“But he’s still part of me.” His hand rises to cover yours. “And you… you never look at me like I’m broken.”

“You’re not.”

“You believe that?”

You nod. “I believe in you, Bucky. Always have.” 

His voice is low when he speaks next. “You make me want to be good. For you. You make me believe I can be.” 

Your throat tightens. “You are.”

“I love you,” he says then, barely above a whisper. Your breath catches. He’s never said it out loud before. You blink at him, eyes wide. 

“Say it again.”

“I love you.” He cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “I love you so much it hurts.”

You fall into him, into his kiss, into the safety of his arms, letting the storm outside echo the one blooming in your chest.

. . . .

The storm doesn’t let up all day. 

By nightfall, the streets below your apartment are glistened with pool reflections—street lamps smeared into amber puddles, the city softened by fog. The windows glow faint and golden from the lamp light behind you, casting your shadows long across the wooden floor. 

You’re in the bedroom now. The quiet between you isn’t silence. It’s reverence. 

Bucky leans against the doorframe, watching you as you pull off your shirt and drop it to the floor. He hasn’t moved yet, but he’s been looking at you like you’ve parted the clouds and pulled the moon down just for him. “You gonna stare all night?” you tease, voice warm, but your skin is already prickling with anticipation. 

“Maybe,” he says softly. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your breath catches. He says it like he means it. Like it’s holy. Like it’s a truth he’s only just now giving himself the permission to say. 

“I mean it,” he adds when you just stand there. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You take a step forward and unhook your bra slowly, letting it fall from your shoulders. Bucky’s jaw flexes. His hands curl into fists at his sides. 

“Show me,” you say. He’s on you in a heartbeat.

He crosses the room in three long strides and cups your face like he’s afraid you might vanish—like he needs both hands to ground himself. His lips find yours in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly grows deeper, hungrier, as if the words he said earlier opened a dam he can’t close now.

You moan into his mouth as his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush to him. You can feel all of him—hard and heavy against your stomach, restrained only by thin grey sweatpants. He walks you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed. Then he stops and looks at you, really looks, like you’re a miracle he still doesn’t think he deserves. 

“Lie down for me,” he says, voice low and hoarse. 

You obey without question, lying back against the pillows as he slowly pulls off his sweatpants and joins you. He hovers above you for a moment, propped on his elbows, drinking in every inch of your body like he’s memorizing you cell by cell. His metal hand skims along your collarbone, tracing down the slope of your chest. 

“Can I taste you?” he asks. 

Your heart beats wildly in your chest. “Yes.”

He starts by slowly kissing down your body, nipping gently at the undersides of your tits. He gropes your chest with one hand while the other caresses your waist. His mouth finds your pebbled nipple, sucking softly and leaving marks on your skin. You close your eyes, quiet moans leaving your mouth, back arching as you run your fingers over his back. His gaze bore onto you.

His kisses continue downwards. Down your stomach, getting closer and closer to the place you want him the most. He leans down between your legs, kissing the inside of your thigh. You whimper, already sensitive, but he whispers, “Patience, baby. I got you.”

Then, finally, he puts his mouth on you. You cry out, hands flying into his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands. His tongue is relentless, fucking into you while his finger circles your clit. Precise. Skilled. Starving. He licks up every drop of slick he’s drawn from you, moaning softly against your folds and nuzzling further into your cunt like the taste of you is a gift. His eyes watch your reactions intently—every twitch of your brow, every gasp that leaves your lips, the way your legs shake around his head.

Your hips lift off the mattress and your other hand grips the sheets, nails digging in. “James— Oh fuck, oh my god—“ Your thighs clamp around his head, body trembling. The sensation courses through your veins; you feel as if you’re floating in the border between heaven and earth. Bucky groans like a man unraveling, hips grinding against the mattress, fueled by the sound of your cries. He reaches for your hand that’s gripping the sheets, threading his fingers into yours, grounding you. His tongue continues to lick long stripes on your cunt, alternating between obscene slurping and sucking your clit. 

“Bucky, I’m close, please— Don’t stop—Gonna come,” you say, breathless, moans rising in pitch. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into you, voice wrecked with need. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel it. I need it.” And you do—hips bucking and grinding against his mouth, the sound of rain still drumming on the windows as your moans fill the room. When you come down, he’s already climbing up your body, shedding his sweatpants and boxers on the way. 

You catch a glimpse of him between your legs—thick, flushed, dripping with precum—and your mouth waters. He’s big. He always has been. And it always makes you ache in the best way.

“You sure you want this?” he asks, voice raw, resting his forehead against yours. 

“I need you,” you whisper, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Please.” 

That’s all it takes.

He lines himself up, the head of his cock nudging against your slick entrance. And then he pushes in—slow, steady, letting you feel every inch. You moan, clinging to him, arms gripping his bicep as he fills you. He’s shaking again, muscles tight, jaw clenched.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re so tight. So warm.”

You cling to his back, feeling his muscles and scars beneath your palms. “Move, baby. Please.”

He starts slow. Deep, measured thrusts. His face is buried in your neck, breath hot against your clammy skin, leaving trails of kisses near your ear. Every time he pulls back and drives in again, it punches a soft cry from your chest. “God, I love you,” he rasps, voice cracking. “You feel like home. You’re my home.” 

You meet his rhythm, lifting your hips to take him deeper. The room fills with the sound of skin on skin, the scent of sex, the pounding of rain against the glass. He speeds up, fucking you harder, your name falling from his lips like a prayer, hands grabbing every part of your body like he can’t get enough of you. And he can’t.

You come again—harder this time—screaming into his shoulder, legs tightening around him.

But he doesn’t stop. 

“James,” you whimper, overstimulated, wrecked, writhing beneath him. “One more,” he begs, kissing the salt that runs down your cheeks, kissing your temple. “Just one more, sweetheart, I know you can.” 

He flips you gently, lifting you onto your knees, pulling your hips back until your ass is flush against his hips. He enters you from behind, body leaning over yours, one hand on your shoulder, the other sliding between your legs again. You cry out at the angle—it’s much deeper like this, harder. And he’s relentless.

“Look at you,” he groans, watching the way you take him. Watching the way your body jolts with each thrust. “So fuckin’ perfect.” 

You feel another orgasm rising—your third—and this one slams into you with a scream. Your legs shake, your body immediately collapsing forward, and he follows, holding you from behind as you gush and pulse around him. And then he finally lets go. 

He fucks you through it, gasping your name, a plea, as he comes, hips jerking, cock throbbing inside you as he spills deep. You collapse together, limbs tangled, bodies soaked with sweat. The rain outside finally slows. 

For a long while, there’s only the sound of breath. 

Then his voice, soft in your ear: “I’ve never felt like this before.”

You turn in his arms, forehead pressed to his chest. “Loved?”

“Safe,” he says. “And yeah… loved, too.”

. . . .

You wake to the smell of coffee and the soft scrape of a skillet on the stove. 

Your body aches—in the best way possible—and when you stretch, you feel sore in all the places Bucky worshipped last night. He’s at the stove, wearing nothing but those damn grey sweatpants again, hair still damp from a shower. He turns when he hears you, smiling softly.

“Hey, doll.” 

“Hi,” you croak, wrapped in the bedsheet. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“Good,” he grins slyly and sets a plate down. “Eat. Then I’ll make you lose feeling in them again.” You snort and settle into the chair as he leans down to kiss your head. 

“I love you,” you mumble. He pauses—just for a second—then presses his forehead to yours. 

“I love you, too,” he whispers. “And I’m never letting you go.” 

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Epilogue: The Best Thing That’s Ever Happened to Me

It’s been 3 days since the night in the rain, but you swear Bucky hasn’t stopped touching you since. 

It was the little things: a hand on your lower back when you walk into a room, fingers ghosting over your waist as he brushes by, kisses to your shoulder while you’re brushing your teeth. The kind of contact that would’ve made him freeze just a few weeks ago now feels as natural as breathing. It still catches you off guard sometimes—the softness in him. But God, you never want it to end. 

It’s Sunday morning. Brooklyn’s quieter today, the skies clearer. The rain’s stopped. The light spills golden through the apartment windows, and you’re sprawled across the couch wearing one of Bucky’s long-sleeve henleys, the sleeves bunched past your hands, your legs bare and tangled across his lap.

He’s reading something. Not a book—his journal. The one Dr. Raynor made him keep. You don’t read it (unless invited), but you do catch your name scribbled near the edge of a page. 

You nudge him with your foot. “You writing about me?” 

He smirks without looking up. “What makes you think that?”

“You’re smiling like a man who just got laid all week.”

“Am I?” he asks, turning a page. “Weird.”

You laugh and throw a pillow at him. He catches it with the vibranium hand, easy. “Don’t be smug. You’re getting soft.”

“Not soft,” he says? tugging you closer by the thigh. “Just… happy.”

And it hits you—how rare that word is for him. Happy. He never used to say it, maybe never believed he deserved it. But here he is: content. You settle into him a little deeper, heart tugging at the way he looks soft. Unhurried. Like he knows you’re not going anywhere. Like he finally believes it.

Just as you’re about to suggest abandoning the journal entirely, a knock comes at the door.

Bucky goes still. 

You twist to glance at him. “You expecting anyone?”

He shakes his head slowly, frowning. “No…”

Another knock. Then: “Buck? You alive in there?”

You groan immediately. “Oh God.”

Bucky mutters, “Sam.” 

You sit up quickly, tugging the henley down over your thighs while Bucky grabs a throw blanket and half-drapes it over himself with a dramatic sigh. You try to look somewhat decent, but you know the place smells like sex and something sinful from two nights ago that hasn’t left the walls. 

Bucky opens the door, hair slightly mussed, still shirtless. Sam takes one look at him, then glances past him into the apartment—to you, flushed and awkward on the couch—and raises both eyebrows. 

“Oh.” Sam blinks. “Ohhhhhh.” 

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Just kind of… leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, daring him. Sam whistles. “So this is where you’ve been hiding.” 

“We weren’t hiding,” you call out from the couch, cheeks burning. 

“You weren’t?” Sam raises a brow, amused. “Honey, I’ve been calling this man for three days. He didn’t even answer to tell me he was alive. That’s hiding.” 

“I was… busy,” Bucky grumbles.

“With what? Choreography?” Sam grins wide as he pushes inside. “You got a glow, Barnes. I didn’t even know you could glow.” Bucky runs a hand down his face like he regrets all his choices.

“Didn’t expect company,” you offer as Sam plops down in the chair across from you.  

“I can see that,” Sam waves at the tangled blanket, the henley you’re clearly wearing with nothing underneath, the general “we-just-emerged-from-a-multi-day-sex-cave” look. “But I gotta say… proud of you, man. I thought you’d die alone in a cold apartment with a rotary phone and twelve cats.”

Bucky flips him off. You’re laughing by now, and Sam looks at you—really looks at you—for a beat. His smile softens. 

“You’re good for him,” he says. “He’s lighter. I didn’t think I’d ever see that again.” 

You glance over at Bucky, who’s pretending to scowl, but you see it—the flicker of something shy behind his eyes. He’s used to being seen as the asset. As the winter soldier. As a broken man. He’s not used to being seen like this. Like he’s loved. Just as Bucky. 

The man who gets grumpy when there’s no almond milk. The one who kisses your temple before bed like a ritual. Who still sleeps like a soldier, one foot on the ground, but who softens when your hand finds his in the dark. 

The man who let you drag him into the rain and didn’t let go once. 

“I don’t think he knows how to be light,” you say softly, still watching him. “Not yet.”

Sam shrugs, crossing his arms as he leans back in his seat. “Doesn’t have to. That’s not what it’s really about.”

You glance at him. 

“It’s not about fixing him,” Sam says. “It’s about giving him something to come back to. Every damn day.” 

There’s something knowing in the way he says it. Like he’s speaking from experience. Like he understands what it’s like to be the anchor for someone who’s spent too long drifting. 

You nod, throat tightening. Across the room, Bucky finally looks up at you. Like he’s been listening the whole time, even if he pretended not to. You smile at him. And slowly—carefully—he smiles back. 

Not the half-smirk you’re used to. Not the teasing glint or the sharp sarcasm that masks everything else. But a real smile. Small. Quiet. Honest.

And when you cross the room to him, when your hands find his and he squeezes them gently, you feel it in your chest like thunder on the horizon. 

“I’m not good at this,” he murmurs, so low only you can hear. “At being seen. At being… Happy.”

You brush your thumb along his knuckles. “You don’t have to be good at it.”

“I just don’t want to screw it all up.”

“You won’t,” you say firmly. 

He looks down at your joined hands, like the weight of your belief in him is more terrifying than any Hydra mission he ever had to run. But he doesn’t let go. “I’m trying,” he says.

“I know,” you whisper. “And I love you for it.”

He breathes out like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. Behind you, Sam clears his throat loudly, getting up from the chair. “Alright, I’m gonna go before I witness anymore soft-ass declarations of love. This is bordering on criminal.”

You laugh. Bucky flips him off again without even looking. Sam waves over his shoulder. “Y’all are disgusting. I better be best man at the wedding.”

The door shuts behind him, and silence settles again. Just soft breaths and the warmth of Bucky’s palm against yours. He turns to you, eyes a little glassy. 

“I think I do feel lighter,” he admits. 

You lean in, head to his shoulder. “That’s ‘cause you finally stopped holding your breath.”

End.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

A/N: Another one. This is the second time I had to attempt posting it because for some reason, sometimes it starts tweaking and I can’t add or remove anything. The petname “doll” was literally used only once LMAO. I wonder if I should make a sequel set in Thunderbolts* where we meet the rest of the team hmmm…

Beefy Bucky. Send Tweet.

[bisexual-spiderling]

DINNER WITH FRIENDS𓂃 𓈒 ❀

thunderbolts*!bucky x fem!pregnant!reader

synopsis – when bucky returns home he's not alone and a quiet evening turns into a full house. seven months pregnant and unprepared, you're caught off guard but family is family.

a/n – this is just a little scenario that crossed my mind when i got out of the cinema after watching thunderbolt* for the fourth time. pleasee send me bucky requests i want to write for him but i have like 0 ideas

fluff

it was later than usual and bucky stil hadn't come home.

rebecca was in her room, playing quietly as she waited for her dad. you were in the kitchen. dinner was already done so with nothing else to do, you found yourself rearranging things on the counter, trying to distract your mind from the worry. you rubbed your seven-month pregnant belly as if it were a magic lamp and you were wishing for him to return. and then you heard the front door creak open.

—bucky? —you moved quickly out of the kitchen but you stopped on your track when you saw he wasn't alone.

—yeah, it's me.

—oh my god, —you breathed before he could finish talking, your hand flying to your chest. you weren't expecting five people with him. their faces familiar yet you'd never met them in person.

bucky stood in the middle of the group, his lips pressed together in a guilt line. he knew full well you weren't expecting this and that he should've warned you beforehand, but he hadn't known they'd all need a place to drop by on the same night after the same mission.

he'd hesitated, worried about adding more stress when you were already seven months pregnant. but then he thought of home and you and rebecca and how it might be the one thing that could soften the edges of everything they'd been through that day. and god help bucky, you'd told him a million times you'd love to meet them.

so here they were. on your doorstep. in your hallway.

—hi, —you said to them. you blinked, caught between surprise and disbelief.

bob waved his hand. yelena, ava and john pressed their lips together.

—oh, hi john —you knew john. he and bucky had caused each other a lot of headaches in the past, but you were glad that at least now they tolerated each other. john showed you a little smile.

alexei made his way through the group and approached you with open arms. you raised your eyebrows and just let the big man cover you in a hug. he smelled like vodka and leather but surprisingly, he was really careful with your belly as he hugged you.

—mrs. barnes, the wife of the soldier, oh, it's so nice finally meeting you, —he said with a rough russian accent. —behind every great man is a great woman, they say. a greater woman, may i add.

as he held you, you caught all the other faces around the room, all rolling their eyes. you giggled when he finally released you, alexei was just as dramatic as bucky described him. —thank you, alexei.

—you know my name, she knows my name! —he turned to tell the others. they gave him plain nods and lazy smiles.

—of course, everyone knows your names now. plus, bucky talks about you five all the time.

bucky closed his eyes and ava grinned and nudged him with her elbow.

—yelena, right?

you approached the blonde girl standing next to bucky. she had the same stormy look in her eyes as him, she could definitely be his little sister. she looked at bucky a little unsure when you called her name, almost as if for reassurance. she hadn't wanted to come at first, she didn't want to cross that line, didn't want to step into something as private and sacred as his home.

yelena nodded to your question. you softened your expression and offered a warm smile. bucky caught her hesitation and he gently pressed his hand to her back, giving her an encouraging push. you opened your arms and puller her into a hug before she could think too hard about it. she tensed for a moment but then her arms came high around you, as if she was afraid of even brushing your belly.

you hugged ava, careful not to press against her delicate suit. you'd heard enough from bucky to know how sensitive the tech could be and how guarded ava was underneath it.

bob was so ready when you hugged him and welcomed him to your house. he'd seen bucky's photos of you, the lock screen on his phone. he knew how after every operation, buck's first texts were always to you, checking in, making sure you were safe and letting you know that he made it out alive. if bob had the power of one million exploding suns, he was certain it still wouldn't match how fiercely bucky loved you. and that gave him hope.

you smiled before you hugged john. he wasn't sure if you'd want him in your house, after all, he'd been a pain in bucky's ass but hey, in his defense, bucky had been just as much of a pain in his. still, you welcomed him.

and the best for last. as the rest inspected your living room, looking at the photos and tripping over rebecca's toys, bucky stood with the most exhausted expression on his face. he stepped closer and let his head fall against your shoulder. one of your hands went to the back of his head, fingers slipping into his hair.

—long day?

bucky just hummed.

—how was yours?

—good. the baby barely kicked after last night, —in that moment you felt bucky's hands come to rest on both sides of your belly, his thumbs rubbed slow circles, up and down, protective, telling the baby he was finally home, taking care of his mom. —and rebecca drew alpine. with eight legs and no ears. she's very proud.

he breathed a laugh, —sounds about right.

bucky's friends were busy, the five of them around a photo frame on the wall. the only photo you had of bucky from 1940s, stiff and young in his uniform soldier, eyes still full of something bright that hydra hadn't yet extinguished.

he lifted his head from your shoulder and you cupped his cheek, your thumbs brushing over his rough beard. you pressed your lips softly against his, as if you were trying to transfer all the calm and love he'd missed during the day. as you pulled back, you noticed his shoulders dropped, releasing the tension, but the worried expression remained.

you reached up again, brushing your thumb over the line of his cheek as bucky's arms wrapped around your body, resting on the small of your back and pulling you closer to him, carefully, until he could feel your belly pressed against him, a connection between the three of you.

—talk to me, —you whispered.

he sighed, —didn't want to bring the day home, but they needed a place... and i couldn't leave them on the street. i didn't want to add more into it, not in your state.

you smiled. so it was that.

—you did the right thing, buck. they're family. if they needed somewhere to go, then they're welcome here. they'll always be.

bucky pressed his lips together. his two families. the one he fought beside and the one he came home to.

he'd never called them that before, not even in his head. they cared about each other in the quiet, protected one another during missions and watched each other's back in battle. they stood between each other and the line of fire and carried each other when the mission left someone too hurt to stand.

it doesn't matter if bucky never said the word, they were his family.

he slowly nodded at your words, —it was supposed to be just bob... didn't expect all of them to show up at once.

—well, neither did the couch, —you teased, getting a soft laugh from him.

ava caught both your eyes as she turned from the wall where she'd been quietly observing young bucky's photo.

—you were so clean-shaven, it's almost like seeing you naked.

you burst out laughing just as bucky groaned beside you, head dropping on your shoulder again like the comment physically wounded him.

—look at that jawline, it could cut glass, —bob said, squinting his eyes at the photo, hands on his hips.

—sharp enough to be a war crime, —you kissed the top of bucky's head. he lifted it slightly, oh so you were joining them now?

—were there toothpaste ads back then? because you sure look like one. fight fascism and fight plaque.

—that's the image of a man! of the soldier! a hero! —alexei boomed, gesturing toward the photo like it belonged in a museum.

—yeah, a man that gave speeches on liberty bonds or punch hitler.

—i did punch hitler, —bucky said flatly, barely looking up.

—how many times are you gonna bring that up?

—as many as it takes, john.

—you should put that on a t-shirt, —john continued, —i punched hitler and all i got was this brooding personality.

you noticed yelena's attention was on the rest of the photos. the teasing in the room faded to a hum behind her.

her eyes moved from frame to frame, pausing on each one. a photo from your summer in wakanda, bucky with his hair tied back, sunlight turning the metal of his arm into gold as rebecca sat on his shoulders, his hands steady at her ankles. next to that was a shot of the hospital room, bucky still in scrubs, circles under his eyes, holding his daughter for the first time. all memories you'd been building through the years. not all of them were easy, not all of them looked like picture frames. it was what yelena had been looking for all her life.

—bucky, —yelena called him, getting everyone's attention. the teasing died down completely when everyone looked to the stairs.

rebecca stood halfway down, clutching her uncle sam captain america's plushie, her socked feet fidgeted against the step like she wasn't sure if she wanted to go back up or keep coming down. her thumb hovered near her mouth the way it only did when she was unsure of something.

—damn, she definitely is your daughter, —yelena said to bucky.

the little girl was a small version of bucky. blue deep eyes, brown hair that curled at the ends in soft waves, the way she looked at everyone without saying a word, just like bucky always did. she had that look on her face just like his, the one where even though she wasn't talking, it showed that her mind was moving fast, watching everything and everyone.

mostly, she looked overwhelmed. strangers filled her living room, standing loud, tall, unfamiliar in the space she knew as home. until she saw bucky. her bucky. she didn't hesitate. she ran down the stairs, her little feet pounding against the steps. without hesitation, she threw herself into her dad's arms, wrapping her small arms tightly around his neck. bucky lifted her effortlessly, smiling big as he held her close.

—oh, you definitely ate all of your veggies today, bug, you got stronger, almost knocked me off my feet.

rebecca's giggles filled the room. the others stood nearby, watching the scene, unsure how to react to seeing bucky all soft. even alexei, who rarely blinked at anything, went unusually still. you rubbed your daughter's back as she tucked her face in bucky's neck, her little fingers twisted into the fabric of his shirt, when she realized all eyes were on her.

—she's a little shy at first, but when she gains a little confidence, you'll be begging her to stop talking, —you explained to the group, half apologetic, half proud. they all nodded and smiled, understanding. —'becca, these are dad's friends. they're here just for tonight. you okay if they stay a little while?

she gave the smallest nod, still hiding her face in bucky's neck. he turned, holding her against his body, toward the rest of the group.

—boss says you can stay, —bucky announced.

yelena let out a yay, bob mumbled a sweet thank you.

rebecca peeked a little from the crook of bucky's neck, her eyes finding john first. he offered her a small, friendly wave. she hesitated but she ended up lifting her hand a mimicking the motion.

—out of all of them, —bucky murmured, more for john to hear than to her, —you had to wave to walker first?

john of course heard it and rolled his eyes.

in that moment your feet started to hurt more than you realized. too much standing for a seven months pregnant. you shifted your wight, trying to ease it, but even the small movement sent a bolt of discomfort up your spine. one of your hands instinctively moved to the curve of your belly and the baby fluttered under your palm, not a kick, just a little roll.

bucky noticed, but not just him, everyone in the room did.

—you okay? —ava asked.

—you should sit, —yelena added.

alexei immediately grabbed the nearest chair to him as bucky carefully lowered rebecca. —okay, bug, let's help mama, —he approached you, wrapping his metal arm around your body and helping you sit carefully.

rebecca stood, clutching with her captain america plushie tightly as her eyes flicked between john, bob, yelena and ava. none of them knew how to respond to her watchful presence, except for john, who caught her gaze again and with the little experience he had with kids, knelt down to her level, making himself less intimidating.

—why don't you guide me to the kitchen and we'll get your mom a glass of water?

she blinked, thinking about it for a second, then slowly nodded. john stood, not expecting her to wrapped her small fingers into his hand as she lead the way. to say that bucky was freaking out would be an understatement.

in the kitchen, rebecca pointed at the cupboard where the glass where kept. john took one of them and filled it with water from the tap. then, she gave him her captain america plushie so she could grab the glass, was this kind of bad joke? john followed her, still holding the plushie like he wasn't sure if it was meant to curse him or recruit him.

yelena and ava huffed a laugh when they saw him carrying the plushie.

rebecca carefully approached you, then gently handed over the glass. bucky gave john a grateful nod. you smiled warmly, taking a sip, —thank you, sweetie.

—my sister makes mama sick sometimes, —rebecca explained to everyone. the room was still, hearing her voice for the first time like it was something sacred.

—but you take good care of her, —bob said, his voice gentle.

—yeah, you sure are doing a great job, kid. i couldn't have brought that glass of water better myself, —john added.

rebecca showed a little smile, proud. with extreme care, she placed her tiny hand on your belly, her fingers splaying and she waited, hoping for the smallest kick from her baby sister. bucky kissed the top of your head.

—i made dinner, but i only expected bucky...

a chorus of don't worry, not hungry, i'm okay, i ate earlier, happened before you could finish talking. you looked around them all, tired, boots dusty from whatever roads they'd taken today, and hungry. no matter what they said.

—so we could order something, —you finally suggested.

bucky thought it was a great idea because there was no way he was going to let them go to bed with empty stomachs. while he made the call to the pizzeria, rebecca marched to the kitchen, ava and walker behind her like shadows as she pointed out the drawer with the cutlery.

back in the living room, you stood up from the chair. yelena, alexei and bob didn't let you out of their sight for a second. bucky, still on the phone, caught your movement and gave yelena a sharp nod, a silent command to keep you from doing anything else and to get you to the couch. you assured that you were fine, but it was no use.

at least alexei was no bore, he talked nonstop, about everything that came to his mind, most of the times embarrassing memories of little yelena. and rebecca had abandoned ava and walker to their luck in the kitchen and sat down next to bob with her notebook. you heard her mumble a wanna see my drawings? and the boy, as the sweetheart he was, couldn't deny. she explained every detail to him, not even letting bob get a word or ask a question.

ava helped bucky spread the tablecloth and john placed carefully the plates and glasses on the table.

—so, —ava said, looking at bucky with a teasing smirk, —another girl? you're the ultimate girl dad.

—yeah, three girls plus you and yelena. keeping me on my toes.

ava didn't say anything but she felt a little warmer at the way he'd included her and yelena in that count, like they were a bigger part of his life. he hadn't said it with any special emphasis, hadn't even looked at her when he said it but still, it stuck with her.

and the dinner was nice. so nice. bucky sat close by your side, his fingers gently holding your free hand over the table. rebecca was between yelena and ava but she was laughing at something walker had said to her, something funny enough to light up her whole face. bob had a soft blush on his cheeks. people laughing, sharing stories, the clink of plates and glasses, it almost felt unreal to him.

bucky leaned to kiss your cheek. you absolutely had no idea where all these people were going to sleep. the couch, the floor, a few air mattresses if the closet still held them, but definitely not enough beds. but looking at all together, sitting around the same table, full and happy, it didn't seem to matter at all.

[bisexual-spiderling]

❝ 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after getting injured on a mission and dismissing your help, you can’t seem to shake why john doesn’t like you. the answer is more complicated than you thought.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.0K (sorry!)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), teammates to lovers, angst, talk of insecurities, john is an asshole who’s emotionally constipated, mention of violence, wound tending trope, heavy kissing, groping, teasing, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, mild body worship, hair pulling, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, missionary position, john has a huge praise kink, aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: listen ,,, I know he’s a bad person & he’s flawed but he’s so well-written and hot … and it’s wyatt russell !! first time writing for john and I loved this, I hope you guys love it too! thank you so much for your support! 🫶

Ash floats through smoke-laden air in the aftermath of an explosion, chunks of a building blown into the streets, screams of civilians pounding within your ears. Time stills, as if it’s come to a crawl, and everything slows around you.

Missions still paralyze you from time to time, fear and doubt creeping in, keeping you frozen in-place. It’s gotten somewhat easier, adapting to chaotic situations, attempting to fit in with your new teammates.

A clammy perspiration clings to your flesh beneath your suit, the design nondescript. Valentina had pushed for something flashy, more in-line with your abilities, but you refused. The less that you stuck out, the better.

It wasn’t nearly as impressive as the rest of the team, healing powers at the expense of your own energy, but you were designated as the ‘medic’, for obvious reasons. Whenever someone was injured or too roughed-up, you were there to help.

“You still with us over there?”

John Walker’s snide quip emanates from the communication link sitting in your ear, and it’s enough to effectively shatter your stupor. It wasn’t a malicious remark — just a little annoying, likely furthered by his tone of voice.

Steve Rogers was someone you knew, years ago — an acquaintance, really, but he’d helped get you out of a bind with undercover H.Y.D.R.A operatives. When he wore the shield, when Sam wore the shield, it stood for something greater than themselves.

Walker had been thrown into enough turmoil already; losing the role of Captain America, murdering an innocent, losing his family. It was all his fault, he knew this — it didn’t make the pain any less, knowing he was at the root of it all.

The both of you butted heads more often than not, two differing personalities that clashed in verbal sparring matches or thinly-veiled hostility. You’d tried to empathize with him, but he made it difficult with his condescending attitude.

Bucky had played mediator more times than you could count — you didn’t enjoy getting angry, the feeling never benefited you. Nevertheless, you were trying to get along with Walker and learn to work better as teammates.

Things were progressing, albeit slowly. Even after extending the olive branch and being kind to him, maybe too nice, he still held some lingering indifference towards you.

“I copy.” In the aftermath of thwarting enemies of the state, you prefer to help the civilians, ensuring that they were out of harm’s way, healed. Jogging toward a group of people attempting to move rubble aside, you’re quick to assist.

“There’s still one more, if someone wants to take care of it,” Ava’s voice comes over the communicator, muddled by background noise of emergency vehicles. “Unless you need help.”

“I got it.” Quick to volunteer, Walker’s voice cuts in before dissipating. You’re busy helping move wreckage aside, freeing any trapped citizens and making way for ambulances. Wailing sirens fill the air, and things move swiftly.

The air smells of burning, intermingled with a twinge of copper, a streak of crimson splashed upon your cheek. It’s a shallow cut, something trivial and minor, muscles aching with a dull throb after the dust begins to settle.

Helicopters begin to circle overhead, the media soon to follow. It was some rogue section of former H.Y.D.R.A operatives that had caused this mess, and with the formation of the New Avengers, these threats seem to appear more often.

The public is torn — one side openly celebrating that there’s protection again, the other side scornful of a ragtag group of government rejects. You aren’t one to pay attention to the discourse, focusing on finding your own footing, building relationships and making amends.

Despite having the team to lean on, you had a complicated relationship with your own family. After your powers manifested, you became isolated, kept at a distance, prompting you to run away and find S.H.I.E.L.D, when it still existed.

Still, you felt alone sometimes, but the pain had lessened with the passage of time. Alexei, of all people, treated you like a daughter, and Ava proved to be a reliable friend, despite her constant grimace. The more you assimilated with them, the more the bitter sting dissipated.

The team was a conglomerate of fragmented pasts — scars, veiled wounds, regrets; but they had become your family, or something close, and that meant the world to you.

As first responders began to flood the scene, you regrouped with the rest of the team, scraped and battered from the fighting, but all intact. Bucky and Yelena typically helmed any media events following a battle, but this time, everyone wanted to go home.

“Look at us,” Alexei laughs, placing a hand on John’s shoulder, and Yelena’s. “We are good team! The best team that the world has ever seen!” He cheers, and you find his enthusiasm endearing. John winces, stepping away from the Russian’s hold.

“You say that after every mission.” Yelena points out, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The jet is somewhere down the street, and you all begin the arduous process of walking back.

“It is to remind of the truth, of our strength.” Alexei boasts, gleeful as ever as he jogs to keep up with Bucky. Bucky’s taken to letting him pretend that he’s the “co-captain”, just to keep his spirits high.

Morale is Alexei’s specialty — there is never a dull moment when he’s around, and his enthusiasm evokes a small smile from you, curling at the corners of your mouth. Dull, throbbing pangs of sore muscle ebbs through your body.

Straggling along at the tail end of the group, you step through some of the smaller pieces of rubble, a majority of what remains to be disposed of by a clean-up crew. Your mind is elsewhere, and the idea of sleeping once you’re back to the Watchtower is very appealing.

John is there too, uncharacteristically quiet as he walks a pace or two ahead of you, and you notice the slight stutter in his gait. There’s crimson blooming from a gash on the back of his suit, a deep wound, and your brows furrow together.

He didn’t say anything about it, which is typical, but you can’t help but be concerned. You didn’t dislike John, simply abhorred his attitude and the way he sometimes believed that he wasn’t at-fault.

Closing the distance, you come up on his flank, softly clearing your throat. “You’re hurt,” You murmur, low enough for only him to hear. He has an issue with getting injured, as if his pride is simultaneously bruised, so you keep it cordial. “I can take care of it.”

He’s always been reluctant to accept your help, allowing himself to fester within the pain, as if it’s some sort of penance for all the wrong he’s done. His muscles ache, and the gash, bruises, and cuts don’t make anything easier.

“I’m fine,” Dismissive, John brushes your concern aside, focusing on getting back to the jet without collapsing. The serum does its part, easier to manage the pain, but it doesn’t take away the sting. “It’s not that bad.” He utters, hoping you’ll drop it.

It’s his tone again; bitter, indifferent, swatting your offer aside as if you’re more bothersome than helpful. For reasons you can’t explain, it makes you angry, as if he’s too good for your help. Your jaw clenches, and you try again.

“There’s nothing wrong with accepting help, John. When we get back to the Watchtower, I can —”

“I said I’m fine.” Walker retorts, snapping at you without hesitation. It’s born from an amalgamation of agony and his own innermost demons that he’s wrestling with. He stares ahead, not wanting to look at your expression.

Bewildered, you fight against getting frustrated with him, wondering if there’s something that extends beyond his surface-level condescension.

Though, you wonder what you did to make him hate you so much — you sparred about the past, sure, but you were trying to bury the hatchet.

As if pierced by something sharp, you scoff, attempting to smother the flicker of fury that burned within your chest. It overrides your judgment, mouth moving before you can tell yourself to stop. “What’s your problem with me? Jesus, Walker, I just want to help you.”

The both of you are far away enough for the rest to remain oblivious to your sudden squabbling, and John grits his teeth, a sharp inhale splitting his lungs. “I can handle this on my own.” His tone is edged, but there’s something more beneath the surface.

Cerulean hues issue a warning for you to drop the subject, and you do, albeit reluctantly. Anger diminishes into confusion, uncertainty; you didn’t understand. Despite your efforts, he continued to swat you away as if you were a pest.

The splinter of desperation in your cadence turns his stomach, verbal sparring settling into a tenuous silence. John steals a glance despite himself, noticing the forlorn look that is etched into your brow, as if you’ve done something wrong.

He knows it’s not you — never has been, it’s him. John’s agitation dwindles into guilt, knowing that your intentions were wholly good, selfless. It’s something that he wishes he could have, and he’s working on it, but the process is emotionally heavy.

Scorned, you keep pace with him, even if he’s pushed you aside, ensuring that he makes it to the jet intact. The rest of the team regards you with perplexity, though you’re dismissive of it, settling into the webbing of your flight-seat.

The aftermath is often hushed — bodies catching their breath, a wordless recuperation, senses beginning to climb down from heightened adrenaline. Bucky’s piloting you out, heading back to the Watchtower.

Exhaustion settles in, replacing the exhilaration that comes with missions, the surge of vigor in your bloodstream. Tilting backwards, your head meets the cool interior of the jet, engine’s idle buzz thrumming beneath your boots.

John sits beside you, unexpectedly, his strenuous sigh rattling your body, passing from the bulk of his bicep to you. His visage is contorted into a look of thinly-veiled wistfulness, glancing sideways at you, a faint grimace of apology.

Quiet, you don’t relocate, simmering in the silence without so much as a murmur. Copper stings your nostrils, the scent of his blood, and you pretend that it doesn’t phase you; it does.

Your arms loosely fold over your chest, listening to the drone of the quinjet. The ride home is short, shorter than expected, and you’re eager to crawl beneath scalding water and let it burn the rush away.

As Bucky prepares for landing on the helipad outside, your gaze flutters toward John, whose stare is attempting to sear through the metal walls of the jet’s interior. He seems gone, as if his mind is a thousand miles away.

It was the same look he had when you were in the Void with him; loathing, conflicted, ripping himself apart for you to see.

The jet tremors violently as it descends onto the helipad, the noise scraping against your ears, a sound that’s still jarring to you. John remains unphased — he’s done it hundreds of times, terse as the hull begins to open.

Saying something now seems meaningless, words fading to ash within your throat, raw from thirst. Your fingers idly curl into the sleeves of your suit, tension relinquished as the team begins to file out of the jet, bearing the bruises and scrapes from the mission.

When you enter the Tower, a sense of relief finds you, the comfort of home, shoulders slouched as you make for your room. Bob is lingering beside the window, a book in his hand, headphones dangling from his ears.

“Good work today,” Bucky calls, attempting to boost morale. He’s at the helm, trying to steer this ship in the right direction, but it’s harder than it looks. “Get some rest.” He moves toward the lounge, hoping to get a status update on the cleanup.

Alexei chimes in with an echoed remark about how everyone did a good job, mirroring Bucky’s own statement. A smile curls at the corner of your mouth despite yourself, feet dragging as you sluggishly stumble toward your room.

Through the light clamor, you don’t see John, disappearing through the tinted pane of your door, feeling it hiss and click behind you. Your room is warm, cozy; it’s a sanctuary you’ve created, making something within the ruins of your old life.

A hush falls throughout the Tower, typically a quiet evening after returning from a mission. Outside, the skies turn to a swirling ink, veiled by heavier clouds that signal the onset of rain.

Peeling away your suit, your flesh is exposed to the coolness of your quarters, glittering with a layer of perspiration, body speckled in light cuts and fresh bruises. The shower calls your name, inviting, and you marinate beneath the water for half an hour.

Bruises pulse with a dull ache, remnants of crimson swept away by the water, leaving you renewed as you change into loungewear. Perched along the edge of your bed, you towel-dry your hair, gaze flickering toward your door.

You shouldn’t be the one to apologize.

The thought of checking on John crosses your mind, and then it stays, leaving you frustrated and torn. You didn’t hate him, you never have; if anything, you were left wondering why the strange hostility still lingered, after everything.

Even then, your desire to help overrode the brief spat that you had. He was your teammate, and leaving him to lick his grievous wounds without ensuring his safety felt cruel.

A tremulous inhale invades your lungs, steeling yourself as you cross into the corridor, leaving your room behind. His quarters are down the hallway, towards the very end, marked by blanched lights on either side.

No one sees you, and you creep over the cold tile as if you might be apprehended in the process. The walk there feels as if it’s stretched on for an eternity, taunting you with each step as you make it to the tinted panel.

His lock is off, you realize, and you try to knock, the sound eerily soft. There’s nothing, only an awkward stretch of silence that makes you shift uncomfortably, the chill of the floor sending a shiver down your spine.

“John?” Abandoning the use of ‘Walker’, you idly pace before the door, weaving in idle circles as you wait for him to answer. Still, nothing — you wonder if it’s intentional, if he’s purposefully ignoring you to prove a point.

Intending to ask for forgiveness later, you slide the door open, stepping into his room with a twinge of anxiety. You shouldn’t be skulking around in here, but his lack of answer had you worried — more than you should’ve been, really.

“So much for knocking,” His voice cuts through your scrambled thoughts like a serrated knife, though lacking the sardonic poise. “Could’ve waited a minute.” John utters, and you spot him in his bathroom.

Startled, your gaze draws to him, attempting to patch himself up with bloodsoaked fingertips and a disgruntled countenance. His back is facing the mirror, head craned over his shoulder, blonde brows creased together, throat stirring with a noise of agitation.

“You didn’t answer.” With a weak protest, you hover in the doorway, shuffling forward to let it close with a subtle click. Everything seems devoid of personal decorum in his room, as if he’s still deciphering what goes where, some belongings still in boxes.

“You didn’t give me a chance.” John retorts, lips parted to make room for a strained sigh. He’s been harsh enough today — he recollects, composes himself, and lets his guard waver.

“I was worried about you.” The weight of your confession brings him pause, hand poised against his back, attempting to apply gauze. He’s failing miserably, cerulean hues darting toward you, arms folded over your chest.

John stops, jaw tense as he huffs with frustration, discarding the roll of gauze onto the bathroom countertop. The low glow of the light glitters against his skin, pleasantly sunkissed, muscles taut and broad, speckled in violet bruises.

There’s a rawness to him, sinewy yet firm, the honed strength of a trained soldier. He’s visceral, nothing grossly herculean, but he’s worked for his physicality, sacrificed plenty for it.

You realize you’ve been ogling him, gaze carefully tracing over the blonde hair smattered over his chest, trailing along his abdomen before it disappeared beneath his tactical pants.

Tendrils of heat snake across the back of your neck, a twinge of something desirous stirring within your stomach. You aren’t used to it, and you feel yourself attempt to rip your gaze away to something else; and you can’t.

He’s a man beneath it all, beneath the shield, the armor, the facade of an inflated swagger, all of the peacocking — he’s vulnerable, now. John’s countenance softens, startled by the sincerity that permeates your voice.

It’s unusual for him to be this quiet, as if you ripped the bravado and smugness right from his throat. Pacing forward, you decide to extend the offer again, hoping that he’ll accept your help and throw away the pride.

“I can help,” Your tone is disarmingly tender, something that John knows he’s undeserving of, given his behavior towards you. You vex him, but not because of your demeanor — he’s falling, and he’s trying to stop himself; he can’t. “Please.”

John concedes, head bobbing in a brief nod as he turns to face the mirror, lukewarm water ridding the crimson that stained his fingers. Coiled muscle cuts across his back, flesh littered in old scars and a colorful variety of bruises.

With a soft exhale, you awkwardly move into the doorway of the bathroom, blanketed by the pale orange of the lights, the distant buzz something of a comfort to you. The gash stretches from his left rib to spine, an ugly wound, oozing red that trickles over his back.

Scraped, calloused hands grip the edge of the counter as he props himself up, gaze flickering toward your reflection in the mirror. Your hair, still damp, tousled and disheveled, a cut on your cheek, mannerisms somewhat shrewd.

It’s quiet — too quiet for your liking, but you don’t want to be the one to break the ice. Wordlessly, you reach out, palm beginning to mist with wisps of a faint green, your powers manifesting.

“I’m sorry for today,” John murmurs, stopping you in your tracks. The mist wavers, concentration effectively shattered by his apology, which happened to be entirely unexpected. “About not letting you help me.”

“Is it something I did?” Your inquiry evokes a pang of melancholy, as if his heart is bleeding, still halfway stitched together. “Listen, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m trying to move past it.”

John sighs, exiting through his nostrils; measured, restrained. “You didn’t do anything,” He’s learning to admit when he’s the problem, digits tightening against the dark granite; it groans beneath his grasp. “I don’t hate you.”

Relief blossoms within your chest, as if some weight is lifted from your shoulders. Still, you wonder what exactly is wrong with him, festering below the surface, something he’s trying to bury. “Be honest with me — what’s wrong?” You question, brows furrowing together.

He’s reluctant to tell you why he’s comfortable with sitting in the pain — why he feels he deserves it. John knows that you mean well, always looking out for everyone else, showing kindness when you didn’t have to.

“This is what I deserve,” John utters, cadence embittered, withholding a wave of emotion. Tears swim, unshed within his eyes, and he actively fights against it. “The pain — for what I did, for what happened.”

For Lemar, for Olivia, for the blood on his hands, for the son who’ll only know his father as a deadbeat. He hates himself, deep down — he’s learning to be a better man, if that were even possible.

His transparency startles you, attempting to process this information in a way that evokes empathy. No one on the team is truly, wholly good — there’s amends that need to be made, most of them in the healing process, including you.

It’s a bleak contrast from the man constantly barraging you with snarky remarks, constantly engaging in banter with you. You don’t remember him opening up like this with anyone else.

Still, your hand drops, fingers twisting together as you scramble to come up with some encouragement. You’re so accustomed to his general smugness and cocksure attitude that this blindsides you.

“Just because you’ve done bad things doesn’t mean that you deserve to suffer, or rake yourself over the coals again,” It’s gentle, sound advice — John’s eyes screw shut. “Everyone deserves to heal, including you.”

The blood on his hands feels heavy, like some anchor dragging him down. After being stripped of the role of Captain America, spiraling, losing his family, he briefly considered it — a way out. He was glad that he never went through with it.

In the Void, when you found your way into his room, it was the moment Lemar had been killed. Replayed, over and over again, unable to be prevented — but his reaction could’ve been.

He could’ve been a better man.

In the beginning, he tried to justify it, rationalizing killing someone in cold blood. After time passed, he knew how wrong he was, how he desecrated the shield, the mantle; all for something else, to sate his rage. No matter how much healing he did, that would haunt him forever.

“Thanks.” He grits, as if he doesn’t fully believe your words. John understands your intentions, that you’re being empathetic and kind despite the abrasive way he’s acted towards you. It makes him feel worse. “I am trying.”

“I know,” Placating, your digits begin to shimmer with wisps of emerald energy, your power manifesting. “I know you are, John.” Oozing with a tender amiability, you can hear the tremor in his exhale.

When you called him John, it startled him; he’d gotten so accustomed to ‘Walker’, but he didn’t mind this in the slightest. Despite the rough beginning the both of you had with one another, he was warming up to you.

Admittedly, he thought it was the right thing to do, not fully letting you in to protect himself. When you had cordial conversations, he felt your kindness shroud him like a warm blanket; you’d moved on from the past.

Quiet, your hand finally lifts to his wound, brows creased in concentration, energy expelled into healing mist as it curls around the flesh. It feels like cold water, albeit soothing, pluming over torn skin and blood until it sinks inward.

A low grunt rips through his throat, somewhat startled at the sensation of your powers; simple, but wildly effective. It’s as if he’d never been slashed to begin with; the bruises and scrapes don’t go away, but the rest of it does.

Strained, your arm quivers, resolve slipping as you step away, using the doorway as a form of support. You’re always a little weak after you’ve healed someone, almost as if it’s an exchange of life.

“Better?” With a tender smile, you watch as he nods, inspecting himself in the mirror; nothing left behind. “Next time this happens, I hope you’ll let me help you.” You prompt, and he chuckles; it isn’t the typical condescending chide he gives you, either.

“I can’t make any promises.” John’s tone loses that bite, the indifference; it’s disarmingly soft. “Thanks again, for that. I’ve been an asshole to you — wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to help.” He murmured, tone lacking mirth.

“You have, but that can change,” Lips remain poised into a smile, one that makes his heart lurch within his chest. “You don’t have to keep being an asshole.” Your remark makes him scoff, though it’s more of a bemused sound, than anything else.

“I’ll lose my charm,” John counters, but he’s being sarcastic — somewhat, at least. You suspect he’ll still remain sharp-tongued and smug, but lose the indifference with you. “I know it’s something I need to work on.”

Grateful for his acknowledgment, you finally feel your energy return, a slow ebb that spreads throughout your body. Leaning off of the doorframe, you awkwardly step aside, figuring that this was your queue to leave.

“For the record, I never disliked you,” He utters, jaw clenched as he carefully navigates on what to say next. “Never had a problem with you, either. Your problem with me was justified.” John shrugs, his stare even-keel.

Bewildered, you let the pang of surprise fester, head cocking to one side. “I never really had a problem with you, or disliked you,” After this, you were beginning to understand why he was an asshole sometimes. “It’s all in the past, now. I want us to move forward.”

John’s halfhearted smile oozed with sincerity, a genuineness rarely seen by others. “I can do that.” Even still, he wouldn’t blame you if you had some sort of gripe against him, but you were kind — you were good, even if you didn’t think so.

His gaze hasn’t left you, cerulean hues fluttering over your countenance; you’re beautiful, eyes beset by kindness, half-dried tresses strung over your crown. The shirt you’re wearing is a size too big, sweatpants baggy, too.

He’s acutely aware of how obvious he’s being, ogling you; he always thought you were pretty, but in the bathroom’s faint glow, you’re stunning. You weren’t subtle either, he knows this, catching your shrewd gaze as it lingers on his arms.

John’s hands reach for his shirt, black spandex all wrinkled, balled up, stained with dried blood. The tension becomes unusually thick, mere embers kindled to life, now a fire that he doesn’t know if he can extinguish.

“Can I ask you something?” Your inquiry pierces through the tenuous silence, and there’s some momentary relief you gain from it.

“Yeah.” John’s tone is barely above a whisper, warm; as if he’s trying to calm himself down, ease the tension. With his shirt still clenched in one hand, he’s offering you his undivided attention.

With arms loosely folded over your chest, your fingers idly pluck at frayed stitching on your sleeves, a fleeting distraction. “Why were you always indifferent towards me, if you didn’t hate me?” You’re not accusatory, just curious.

Shit — John’s mind is scrambling for an answer that doesn’t make him seem strange. He’s got feelings for you, and you’re slowly drawing them out into the open; he doesn’t know how to handle it.

“Sometimes it’s easier for me to not let somebody in,” He shrugs, gaze wavering, flickering toward the ground. The vulnerability is something he’s still growing accustomed to — rawness of pain, feeling his emotions, choosing the right way to cope. “Because of what’s happened.”

Even then, his explanation still feels like he’s covering up for something else. Nevertheless, you let it rest, offering him a threadbare smile. “We don’t judge here, if you haven’t learned that already,” You sigh. “I’ll be here for you, if you choose to let me in.”

He already has — he’s appreciative, nodding as a display of gratitude before he finds your gaze again. “Thanks.” John smiles despite himself, swallowing down the words that want to escape him.

Silence settles between, the same tension simmering like before, causing you to shift your weight. He’s staring again, but you’re oblivious to it this time, angled away, trying to figure out what to do next.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, your shoulders begin to slouch with relaxation. “I should probably go — you need rest.” You blurt, fumbling over your words, maintaining a sheepish smile as you shuffle toward the door.

John doesn’t really want you to leave; and he knows it’s selfish of him. His lips part, as if to ask you to stay, but he’s frozen, rooted in-place. Still, he nods, quietly resigning to letting you go back to your room.

His feet feel anchored to the floor, each step a drag as he trails after you, following you to the doorway. He’s quiet, still deliberating, turning over every word, every action within his mind. John comes up short, watching as you stop to say something else.

The closeness is sudden, wracked with tension; you’re nearly brushing arms with him, gooseflesh crawling along your spine. You’re both reaching for the door panel simultaneously, fumbling, fingers ghosting over one another; you recoil like you’ve been burned.

In the slim proximity, he catches a whiff of your shampoo — vanilla and peach, something sweeter, causing his jaw to tick. He’s looking again, unable to stop himself, gaze wandering over your body, appreciative; he grips the door frame as a distraction.

When you catch his stare, it burns you, something incendiary, as if he’s searing you into his mind. A subtle hitch forms within your throat, and you’re prepared to tell him goodnight, end it there — but you won’t move.

Silence stretches on, the sort of contemplative quiet before the onset of a storm, the deep breath before the plunge. Bodies linger within arm’s reach, screaming, and you have the audacity to stare at him, doe-eyed.

Then, you say his name, a feather-light whisper, gentle and placating. It barely registers, but he hears it, notices the parting of your lips, the way you haven’t recoiled from the closeness.

John’s mouth is suddenly pressed against yours in a heated frenzy.

A sharp inhale splits your diaphragm, lungs quaking, filled with a sudden surge of ecstasy when he kisses you. There’s a gasp stuck in the back of your throat, swallowed by the snare of his mouth.

His lips are unexpectedly soft, a stark contrast to the sharpness of his smart mouth. There’s a charged passion that echoes beyond the kiss, as if he’s walking the fine line of restraint.

Bewildered, your head is spinning, brain foggy, as if someone knocked you out. Left reeling, you don’t know what to say, what to do. Though, you’re receptive, mouth shyly moving against his, hands frozen at your sides.

When he pulls away, gauging your reaction, you appear as shocked as he does.

Each breath is labored, wrought with the sudden sting of exhilaration, butterflies beginning to pool within your belly. “I’m sorry.” John’s voice is low, a pleasant hum within your ear, but you don’t seem upset by what he did.

“Don’t be.” Without pause, your lips fly to meet him again, reciprocating the kiss, one that seems sluggish and passionate instead of frantic.

He’s kissing you back, hand dropping from the door to your hip, calloused digits caressing you through your shirt. The gesture ignites a fire within your bones, unable to stifle your mounting excitement.

Shyly, your hands move toward his chest, soft like velvet, smoothing over his pectorals as he presses you up against the door. A low groan vibrates through his chest, reveling in the feeling of your skin touching his.

There’s a poised strength coiled within his body, firm, flesh and blood, chest rising and falling underneath your hands.

His kiss is disarmingly gentle, something unexpected, but not unwelcome. You feel his body nudge against yours, distance now nonexistent.

You don’t know what’s gotten into you, gotten into him, but you’re enjoying yourself — you want him, need him, starving for contact.

He tastes metallic, an amalgamation of copper and a natural musk. Digits idly smooth over the coarse, blonde hair that covers his chest, descending toward his groin. The thought alone makes your knees weak.

Each kiss sends you spiraling, clawing for his mouth, leaving you ragged, desperate for his touch. You can’t remember the last time someone kissed you like this — even then, your experience is thin.

His scruffy countenance melds with yours, bleeding heat, kissing you with enough vigor that it prompts you to hold onto him. Your heart gallops, races — it’s quick and erratic, beating in your ears.

Recoiling from the kiss, your fingers tremble, deftly tracing over his collarbone, over scar-kissed skin, over faint clutches of freckles. “John, I — Are you sure?” You whisper, hoarse, afraid that he might regret it all in the morning.

“Wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t sure.” John murmurs, voice low, curling thickly as his hands rub circles into your hips. He’s strong, secure — you didn’t expect to feel so comfortable with him. “I’ve thought about it for a while.”

His lips make contact with your jaw, mouth clamoring over your skin, kissing the spot beneath your ear. Flush to you, his confession makes your bones lurch, and you wonder what else he’s thought about, too.

Flustered, you’re quick to melt into him, visibly smitten, as if you’ve wound yourself into a tight knot. John notices, mouth twitching into a smirk as he places a string of kisses beneath your jawline.

“John …” A soft mumble rolls from your tongue, hands beginning to trail from chest to shoulders, anchoring yourself to him. His beard burns against your flesh, a pleasant scratch, reminding you that he’s real, this is real.

Warm breath feathers over your throat, your jaw, your cheek — he’s still smirking, too. “You’re getting shy on me.” He mumbles, able to taste the heat that bristles from your flesh. A hitch forms within your throat, his remark making you burn.

“No,” Posturing a weak defense, your body succumbs, lips parted to make room for a dizzying sigh. “I’m not.” It’s pathetic, your retort, but he’s still grinning as if he’s caught you in a trap, attempting to reign in the smug attitude.

“Right.” John’s cadence is dangerously low, little more than a pleasant husk that scratches the back of your brain. He’s teasing you still, cerulean hues alight with mirth, fingertips barely skirting underneath your shirt.

He’s charming — too charming, and it makes your flesh burn with an embarrassed heat. His lips plume over your throat, hips brushing against yours, and that’s when you feel it. Something firm through his kevlar pants, briefly grinding against your pelvis.

A noise echoes from John’s throat, somewhere between a grunt and groan, causing you to smile, as if you’ve discovered his secret. “Already?” It’s playful, sure, but you’re simultaneously flattered that it didn’t take much work.

It’s his turn to blush, scarlet crawling over handsome features, red spreading towards his neck. “Can’t help it,” John mumbled, gaze briefly meeting yours. “You’re beautiful.” His low timbre made you shiver.

Unable to smother your smile, you urge him closer for another kiss, digits clamoring for the nape of his neck, toying with the blonde hair there. Each entanglement of lips seems to grow in fervor, charged with mutual excitement, passion.

His hands are fisted in your shirt against, giving it a soft tug, as if silently asking you for your permission. Mouths continue to clash, a mess of lips and teeth, tongue when John initiates it, eliciting a moan from your maw.

With a brief nod, he breaks from you, only to assist in removing your shirt, tossing it elsewhere in his room. You aren’t wearing a brassiere, which catches his attention, stopping in his tracks as he admires your physique.

“Jesus,” John sighs, rapturous, noticing the doe-eyed look you’re giving him again. Lips part, jaw unclenched as he not-so-subtly ogles your collarbone, letting it drift toward your chest. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Swallowing your anxiety, you feel yourself melt beneath his stare, incendiary enough to turn you to cinders where you stand. “The thought hasn’t crossed my mind.” Barely above a whisper, your gentle teasing evokes a half-smile from him.

A huff leaves him, hand steady as he kneads into your hip, dipping lower, grasping at your haunch as he lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his hips. You’re still kissing him, held aloft by John’s arms, bearing your weight without effort.

He carries you to his bed, gray sheets already disheveled, laying you down as he crawls on top of you. A soft exhale whistles through your nose, arousal beginning to coalesce between your thighs, warmth pooling in your belly.

“You sure?” John murmurs, wanting to ensure that you’re certain about this. He is, but he wants to make sure that all cards are on the table. He’s not used to this, to showing vulnerability, but it feels comfortable with you.

“Yeah, I am,” Gazes twine together, the only illumination being the glow from the bathroom, blanketing you in swirls of orange and shadow. “I want you, John.” Your admission is saccharine, steeped in a warmth that he clings to, savors.

Christ, he wants you, too — craves you more than air, cerulean hues glistening with a thinly-veiled ardor. It’s a sudden shift from how things were before, but the tension had finally come to a boiling point, and he was glad that it had.

Mouths connect instantaneously, eliciting a pleading moan from your throat, swallowed by his kiss. Your legs drop, spread apart to accommodate for his frame, lean muscle wedged between your thighs.

His palm kneads into your calf, dragging to the crook of your knee, caressing you over your baggy bottoms. Your hands thread against the nape of his neck, taking handfuls of his blonde tresses, ensuring that you weren’t rough with him.

Chests brush against one another, firm muscle exuding warmth, peaks of your breasts ghosting over his pectorals. Each kiss rips the air from your lungs, leaving you reeling, gasping as you feel his tongue prod against yours.

A whine bubbles from your throat, smitten, tongue shyly mingling with his as the kiss turns into a mess of passion. Your fingers are carding over the back of his skull, slipping over his hair as his teeth catch upon your bottom lip.

John grunts, the tent in his pants grinding recklessly against your core, friction causing both of you to writhe. As if to torment him, you roll your hips forward, evoking a groan from him, his gaze pleading with you to stop.

“Don’t,” He warns, strained, attempting to hold himself together. Your mouth quirks into a smile, one that he feels even as he kisses you again, your palm splaying over his shoulder. “Can I take these off?”

His hands curl into your sweatpants, fingers teasing the waistband as he waits for you to consent. As soon as you nod, accompanied by a breathy ‘yes’, he’s tearing into them, the stitching splitting apart beneath his inhuman strength.

A gasp slipped from your mouth, writhing beneath him to free yourself from the fabric, kicking them to the floor. John marvels at the sight of you, your body something perfect, malleable within his grasp, mouth planting a kiss against your jaw.

Cool air plumes over your heated flesh, offering some alleviation, a reprieve from the fever-pitch of your body. John’s hand smooths over your leg, squeezing into your thigh, digits flicking over the hem of your panties.

The brief gesture makes your head spin, desperate for him to touch you. He’s already got an idea in his head, calloused fingers rough like leather as he drags his hand between your legs.

Knuckles ghost over your clothed cunt, feeling the tangle of damp cotton, the way your throat sputters with a subtle gasp. Your thighs twitch, knees trembling on either side of him as your nails trace over the back of his neck.

“Christ,” He huffs, forehead nearly flush against yours, watching as you squirm from the brief caress. John repeats the motion, feeling your nails dig harder into his skin, mouth screwed open. “You like that?” His murmur makes you feel weak.

With a nod, you want more, hips urging into the friction of his hand. To your delight, he doesn’t torment you, doesn’t make you work for it as his fingers slip beneath your panties.

Two fingers stroke along your cunt, gathering the warm slick there with one sluggish swipe. To your utter bewilderment, he lifts his digits to his mouth, sucking them clean before he lavishes your throat in a myriad of kisses.

“John, please.” Moaning his name, the sight he just treated you to is sure to be burned in your mind forever, causing your thighs to rub together. Kissing a trail down your neck, he finds your sternum, mouth voracious, ceaseless.

A boyish grin settles onto his features, deriving enjoyment from your reaction, continuing to worship your flesh in rapturous kisses. No inch of skin is safe as he descends, lips pluming over your breasts, your ribs, navel; lower, and lower again.

You taste sweet, as if your skin oozed with sugar, and he’s savoring every piece of you, kisses steeped in a disarming reverence. His beard tickles your flesh, goosebumps cascading down your spine as he makes it to your waist.

His muscles flex, pulled taut as he crawls lower, face hovering beside your hip as he eases your panties down, letting them creep over your thighs. Everything feels hot, body set ablaze, arousal coalescing against your cunt.

Lips press to your thigh, shoulders creating space, bullying your legs apart. Digits flex, trembling as they lower to card through his tresses, gaze ensnaring with his own, causing you to shiver.

John kisses a trail over your inner thighs, toward the glistening heat at your apex, listening to your breath hitch. It’s labored, wrought with exhilaration as your back begins to arch.

That ghost of a cocksure grin feels like a hot brand against your thigh, softening when you make a strangled, pleading noise. Nearly prone against the sheets, he lets your legs recline against his shoulders, hands gripping your hips.

The first rake of his tongue over your cunt is agonizing, hot embers, scorching against your flesh as he laps traces the length of your slit. It’s sluggish, exploratory — he’s keen to know what makes you writhe.

With parted lips and eyes wrenched shut, a needy moan splits past your throat, unable to keep quiet. John’s chest stirs with a low grunt, greedy tongue deftly splitting past your folds, tasting you with a sudden fervor.

Still, he’s gentle, disarmingly so, careworn palms massaging into your hips, keeping you slotted against his face. The scruff of his blonde beard scratches ragged over the inside of your thighs, sandpaper to silk, the sensation pleasant.

John eases you into it, committing every detail of your body to memory; hoping there’s a next time, thumbs tracing circles into your skin. Lapping against your core, his ministrations slowly gather haste, nose grazing your clit.

A myriad of moans leave you, attempting to keep the sound hushed, as to not alert any unwanted attention. Your legs tense, flex on either side of his head before his shoulders nudge you apart again, mouth dragging over your cunt.

He maintains something of a rhythm, attempting to walk the line of restraint, as to not overwhelm you. Your body rattles beneath him, spasmodic tremors of delight rolling down your spine, waves of bliss felt all over, ebbing through your veins.

One hand haplessly fists at the sheets, fingers curled so tightly that you want to rip it apart. He’s too good at this, which surprises you — he doesn’t give that impression, initially.

The room feels like a furnace, bodies bleeding heat, each breath hoarse, tight with rapture. His mouth is a thing of perfection, pleasuring you as if it’s his sworn duty, tongue lapping at every inch of your cunt.

John’s gaze flutters from the task at-hand to your countenance, contorted into an expression of ecstasy, effortlessly pretty. His heart skips a beat; you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.

You’re wound up, coiled over and over again, into a tangle of heat, furled desire that’s begging to be released. Carding through his tresses, you gingerly scratch at his crown, briefly tugging on his hair, hips wantonly urging into his mouth.

“G—God, John,” A sheepish moan falls from your mouth, coupled with a sharp inhale that rips through your diaphragm. Your cunt clenches pathetically around nothing at all, back arched from the mattress. “So good at this.”

It’s an inkling of praise, but it’s enough, evoking some hunger from John, who's eager to please. The tent in his tactical pants is borderline painful, erection grinding against the bed in a pitiful attempt to alleviate some of the friction.

Driven to the brink, you feel as if you’re beginning to toe the line of some steep plunge, his lips urging you closer to a release. Everything feels hot, as if you might combust, arousal coalescing between your thighs.

John has you pinned down, nose ghosting over your folds, tongue still ceaselessly lapping at your core until there’s a shift in rhythm. He presses a kiss to your clit, listening to the tremor in your exhale, feeling your legs tense.

Teeth catch across your bottom lip, biting down with an absent pressure, digits beginning to lightly curl against his scalp. His name emerges from your mouth again, desperate and wanton, breathy as you squirm.

“You’re easy to rile up.” John murmurs from between your legs, a breathy chuckle floating from his chest when your fingers pull on his hair. He plants a reverent kiss to your thigh, teasing, but the break doesn’t last for long.

If it weren’t for his lips pursing around your clit, you might’ve clawed for a retort, but he rips any remark from your throat. The sudden ripple of bliss sends you reeling, choking on a simpering whine as you shift beneath him again.

His mouth gingerly laps at that sensitive clutch of nerves, shockwaves shattering through your body, tingles of ecstasy following suit. A strangled moan snares in your throat, slipping through when he drags his tongue along your cunt.

He’s right, though — you are easy to vex, and he’s mapping you out as if you’re intimately familiar to him already. John’s mouth is voracious, tongue endlessly greedy, eating you out as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

You’re getting close, body being pushed to a blissful oblivion, the white-hot heat that threatens to consume you. His hand drifts from your thigh to the slick warmth between, thumb seeking your clit like a missile, slowly circling around it.

“Fuck,” You moan, the expletive uncharacteristic of you, but he finds plenty of enjoyment in you saying it. His name is soon to follow, a bedroom hymnal, repetitive as it spills from your tongue, crying out his name to the ceiling. “J—John!”

It’s pathetic how easily he’s got you squirming, tension beginning to unfurl, the knot within your belly stretched to the brink. He’s careful, tender, intimate in a way that makes your features surge with warmth.

“That’s it.” John murmurs, timbre little more than a drawl as he coaxes an orgasm from you, thumb continuing to toy with your clit until you burst. He’s mesmerized, a super-soldier reduced to a lovesick boy, watching you with a thinly-veiled rapture.

With one simple circle of your pearl, you’re gone, ecstasy bleeding from you in one wave, nearly overwhelming. You’re blinded by euphoria, white-hot stars crossing your vision until you’ve melted into the sheets.

Nerves are frayed from bliss, tossed into the throes of pleasure, one that you may not fully recover from. Stars linger still, head foggy, dizzy from a desirous haze as you try to find a scrap of composure.

He tastes you again, one last time, committing it all to memory as he kisses your leg, kneeling in-between your thighs. You’re shaking, chest tight with drawn-out sighs, gazes ensnared, burning with adoration.

“You’re really good at that.” A soft whisper rolls from your lips, appreciative, but John looks like you’ve just called him perfect. He’s starved for praise, reduced to a mere beast, laying at your feet, preening for more.

John’s up on his knees, staring a hole through you, hands reaching for his belt. Driven by both excitement and instinct, you sit up, fingers clamoring with his own as you’re helping to wrestle his belt off, unzipping the front of his tactical pants.

“You drive me crazy,” John groaned, feeling you grow smitten in the wake of his admission, desperate to be inside of you. “Can’t think straight.” He utters, and you know it’s an intentional compliment.

He repositions himself, hunched in, blanketing you with his bulky physique, lean muscle glued to your frame. He’s much larger than you, you realize, listening to the shuffling of fabric, feeling his cock press incessantly against your navel.

You’re intimidated, bewildered by his size, startlingly large, unabashedly so. Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, your hands come to hook around the back of his neck, no space remaining.

As if to ignite the tension further, your mouth catches his, lips locking together in a heated kiss. You can taste yourself, an added layer of debauchery, but he’s groaning into your lips, fisting the pillow near the side of your head.

John’s other hand finds your thigh, kneading into your haunch as he steadies himself, cock heatedly grinding against you. Mouths tangle, clash — it’s a war of teeth and tongue, thirst instead of hunger, as if he needs you more than anything.

Wanton, exhilarated breaths drag between bodies, the warmth of his sigh pluming over your features, his beard ragged against your cheek. His blonde tresses are tousled, disheveled — he’s painfully handsome, kissing all over your mouth.

He withdraws, heads flush together, mere centimeters apart as he adjusts himself, cock nudging against your folds. You’re clinging to him, a twinge of anticipation churning in your belly.

“You alright?” He utters, low and husky beside your ear, actively restraining himself from being too spirited. There’s something intoxicating about the way you’re staring at him; it’s tender, more than he deserves, he thinks.

Slowly, you plant a kiss against the scruff of his jaw, and then beneath, where a yellowing bruise sits. Hands wander to the firm muscle of his shoulders, kneading over freckled skin.

John exhales; a drawn-out, contented sound that releases coils of tension from his shoulders. With a nod of consent, you let yourself get comfortable. He drags his cock over your cunt again, biting back a stifled groan.

“Go slow,” You squeak, body already sore from the mission — he might add to it, if he isn’t careful. His lips seal themselves to your throat, peppering your flesh in a myriad of sweet kisses, nose brushing over your jugular. “I need you.”

Serum-infused blood pumps through his veins, oozing raw strength, but he knows to rein himself in, head bobbing in a brief nod. “Say that again.” John grunts, cock prodding against the warmth of your cunt, preparing to push past.

His head is partially buried into the hollow between throat and shoulder, beard prickling your flesh, a satisfying sensation. An excitable buzz wracks your body, sending tingles all over, a throbbing pulsing from between your legs.

“I need you,” Wantonly, your palm splays over his shoulder-blade, nails digging into his skin, eliciting a low groan from your paramour. “J—John, please!” It’s a plea, a desperate one, spoken through a beguiling cadence, one that winds him into tight knots.

With a shudder, John is thirsty for your embrace, a man lost within a desert, finding his oasis. His forehead nudges beside your temple, hotly grunting into your ear, sending waves of ecstasy through your belly.

His hips slowly urge forward, flushed head of his cock pushing into you with mild resistance. Disarmingly gentle, John doesn’t move quickly or rough, heeding your words as he fists at the pillow, body kissed by perspiration.

The tightness of your cunt drives him to the brink of madness, huffing beside your ear, fighting against baser, lesser instincts. Clinging to him as if he might fade through your fingers, he moves at an agonizing pace, not wanting to hurt you.

He doesn’t, a husky groan ripping through his diaphragm when your hips accidentally roll, feeling his muscles tense beneath your hands. “Jesus,” John grits out, feeling your nails dig crescents into his shoulder. “You’re perfect.”

A moan tumbles from your parted lips, his cock filling you completely, nearly bottoming out as he sinks forward. Intermingled groans and hot sighs tangle in the thin space between, heat against heat.

Your knees squeeze near his waist, legs kept spread apart by his musculature, bodies clawing for one another, ardor thinly-veiled. John’s countenance is contorted into a look of concentration coupled with bliss.

“S’good,” You moan, having adjusted enough, allowing yourself a moment of composure; it won’t last, and you know it. “Move.” Breathy and wrought with exhilaration, you give him the signal to take things further.

John’s resolve is crumbling, foundation swept away in the wake of your affections, and your wanton moan doesn’t make anything easier. Propping himself up on one arm, the other holds steadfastly to your thigh, an anchor.

Foreheads knock together, noses ghosting over one another as he begins to thrust into you, bicep flexing with exertion. The first drag of his hips sends you reeling, and you know that you won’t last long — and neither will he.

A string of hoarse expletives flutter from his mouth, barely above a whisper, setting your bones ablaze as he pulls back and pushes forward.

The fit of him is tight, cock oozing with heat as he draws back again, following through as he jolts forward.

Beneath you, the bed frame creaks — faint, as if it shows some give with the super-soldier on top of you. Your digits coax him in for a kiss, mouths colliding in a messy clash of tongue and needy lips, fire feeding fire.

John groans into your mouth, pushing and pulling, hips urging into yours, cock filling you with each thrust. Between fervent kisses and pleading moans, your head is foggy, dizzy with desire.

He develops a rhythm, the pace steady, each drag of his hips ripping a moan from your mouth, and he earned it. His hand kneads into your thigh, squeezing on occasion when the pleasure mounts, muscles coiled within his stomach.

“Y—You’re perfect,” The praise leaves your tongue as a hoarse whine, a noise that leaves goosebumps trailing over John’s spine. It’s the validation he desperately craves, the veneration, knowing he’s doing something right. “Don’t stop.”

A husky, throaty groan pierces through his chest, the noise making you shiver, arousal slick and warm between your thighs. It makes each snap of his hips easier, cock sinking into you over and over again.

It’s unintentional, his shifting pace; it begins to climb, from drawn-out and steady to needy, rutting into you as if each stroke would be his very last. John is trying to keep himself controlled, but you make it so difficult.

He slows again, the pleasure mounting, a knot that is becoming frayed at either end, prepared to be pulled apart. His cock throbs incessantly, pulsing inside of you, feeling your cunt clench around him.

Perspiration glitters along his brow, glistening along his hairline as he hunches in over you, and you feel all of him, viscerally.

The bed frame rattles in protest, as if bowing to his strength, and he’s already tearing the stitching in the pillowcase beside your head. A soft gasp slips from your lips, his mouth ghosting over yours.

Grunts of ecstasy leave him in droves, cock easing in and out of your cunt as if you’re made for him. John’s countenance is one of bliss and concentration, frustration now dissipated.

Each snap of his hips drags you further into the throes of ecstasy, and he’s nearly there, cock spearing into you. His breathing is growing ragged, raspy as it curls beside your ear, hot breath pluming over your face.

Noises surge in volume, filling his room with the sounds of vigorous lovemaking; he doesn’t care if the team hears anymore. John’s rapturous groans make you shiver in delight, head flush to yours again, the closeness addicting.

Another grunt ripples through his chest, the sound stretched, the rest tapering off as his hips begin to stutter, pace erratic and desperate. He’s close, weighing the odds of finishing inside of you, nearly whimpering when your legs hitch around his hips.

His name spills from your lips like a confessional, sobbing to the heavens, feeling your body begin to unfurl with tension. Bodies move within one another, his cock buried deep, kissing your cervix with each thrust.

From the tension in his muscles alone, you can tell that he’s about to burst, combust like fireworks in your hands. You’re on the pill, and so you urge him closer, wanting him inside of you even still.

When your name emerges from John’s mouth, you’re awestruck, flustered by the way in which he says it so tenderly. “I’m on the pill.” It’s all you’re able to say before he’s swallowing your words, covering your mouth with his.

The kiss is voracious, needy — John is unable to mask how he feels about you, letting it all bleed into tangled lips as he cums. He releases inside of you with a groan, followed by a rush of warmth that blankets your insides.

Tingles of delight wrack your body, a subdued release that seems to twine with his, a muted buzz surging through your bones. John’s hips crawl to a sluggish rhythm, agonizingly slow, as if to absorb the last few traces of friction.

Each breath heaves for composure, shallow and taut with exhilaration in the aftermath, sweat-slick skin melded together. His forehead nestles against yours, labored breathing evening out quicker than yours as he stills.

His spend and your arousal feel slick between your legs, making a mess of his sheets, joined bodies bleeding heat. You’re reeling, slower to recuperate as he pulls out of you with a soft grunt, rolling over to lay beside you.

John doesn’t leave, cerulean hues glued to your countenance, as if his whole sense of gravity has been shifted, changed. It’s hushed, save for your labored sighs, in-tandem with one another.

Wordlessly, he coaxes you closer, muscled arm hooking around your middle, inviting you to lay against his chest. One palm remains splayed, flat against your ribs, soothing you with easy caresses.

“Are you still with me?” John’s wisecrack makes you blunder, a soft laugh escaping you, hand playfully bumping against his chest.

“Yeah,” Unable to smother your smile, you’re delighted to sink into his embrace, keeping your hand on his chest. The hair beneath is something you trace through, over muscle, over old scars and greenish bruises. “I …”

As you trail off, John’s head cranes down enough to brush his lips against yours, the kiss sweet, bristling with a thinly-veiled affection. He lets you finish your thought, watching as you sit up enough to see him fully, perched on your stomach.

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” You utter, agonizingly soft, cadence wrought with an amalgamation of sentiments. John’s trying to be better, and it’s something you want to be a part of, if he’ll let you.

Neither did he, admittedly; it’s something John’s willing to admit to. “The thought never crossed my mind,” He murmured, blonde lashes fluttering as his hand cupped your jaw, calloused and careworn over satin skin. “But I’m not perfect.”

“I know, that’s why I like you.” With a dazzling smile, he’s caught right in the crosshairs, lips parting with a placating huff. It turns into a hum of a chuckle, his hand still firm against your side.

In a gentle clamor, his lips find yours, beard tickling your skin again, the sensation wholly pleasant. The kiss lingers, something that feels closer to home, a newfound warmth that the both of you desperately crave.

John’s mouth twitches into a half-smile, a peculiar mirth beginning to touch his eyes. He feels you plant a kiss against his shoulder, and he knows he’s completely screwed — you’re falling, but he’s falling harder.

[bisexual-spiderling]

❝ 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: your friendship with john is put on the line after you’re injured during a mission — what follows is something neither of you can anticipate.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 13.0K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), friends to lovers, angst, jealous & angry john, descriptions of violence & injuries, wound tending trope, talks of insecurities, “she fell first but he fell harder”, confession of feelings, john is emotionally constipated, extreme levels of yearning, john’s praise kink, grinding, dry humping, dirty talk, making out, biting, hair pulling, fingering (fem!rec), handjob, mutual orgasm. aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this is a pretty big fic (sorry not sorry) and I worked really hard on it! I really hope that you guys enjoy, a lot of time & effort went into it! Thank you guys for your support! 🫶

John Walker doesn’t understand how to handle vulnerability.

He comes close, teetering along the edge in soft-spoken conversation through the early hours of morning, or in the aftermath of a particularly rough and arduous mission.

Validation was something he subconsciously craved, the desire to feel wanted, to feel as if he was greater than the sum of his parts. Losing his rank in the military and losing Captain America screamed inadequacy; he was learning to be better.

In that journey, somewhere, he found himself getting closer with you. It often manifested in the form of teasing and sarcastic jabs, banter to keep things light, but as months ticked by, he found himself opening up.

Vulnerability strikes fear into him, greater than that of a weapon being waved in his face, or thrown into any warzone.

There’s something effortless he’s found within you, something comfortable, and that scares him. It’s kept him distanced, watching from afar, attempting to keep you at-bay, knowing the consequences of what could happen if he let himself get attached.

Everyone who gets close to him always loses — Lemar lost his life, Olivia lost a partner, his son lost a father. John had come to the realization that he didn’t want to lose you, too.

On more than one occasion, you catch glimpses of a shattered man who’s still picking up the pieces, directionless; a man who’s trying to do good, but still can’t quite get it right.

It wasn’t easy, befriending him — his cocksure smirk and arrogance often warded away others, but you, in all of your optimism, had waded through without complaint.

He’s militant, rigorous, rough; though, you’ve managed to dig just beneath the surface, where a softer man resides. He’s known for sharing, for being zealously overprotective, and for his dry, sardonic humor.

It doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone on the team when your feelings are revealed.

The both of you are two halves to a whole, lamenting to a buried and burning flame, continuing to dance around one another.

Unbeknownst to either of you, the feelings are there, and it’s powerful — you want him, he wants you.

Admittedly, you felt that it was glaringly one-sided, you liking him; you assumed it’d be unrequited for the rest of your days. The more he began to keep you at a distance, the more accepting you became of the outcome.

On the quinjet, it’s hushed with preparation, the deep breath before the plunge. The mission is somewhere oceanic, aboard a hijacked S.H.I.E.L.D helicarrier swarming with mercenaries and thieves.

The darker realm of espionage, violence, and deception is somewhat newer to you. Before being inducted into the New Avengers, you were scouted by Valentina for your abilities, avoiding time in The Raft for something you didn’t do.

Now, it all feels strange — you’re traveling the world, you’re helping people, you’re a hero.

“You’ll drop in here,” Bucky’s brows are furrowed together, a visage of stoic calm, adopting more of a leadership role. He’d run thousands of missions, dismantled armies — none of this was unusual for him. “With Walker.”

Strapped into his webbed jump-seat, John bristles at the mention of his name, and yours. He gets heated before a mission, as if he’s working himself up, noticeably coiled like some predator waiting in the wings.

There’s a visible tension in his jaw, a weight in his shoulders, white-knuckling his still-bent shield as if it’s a vice. He isn’t nervous — just impatient, ready to get the job over with.

“Say we drop in, and it’s compromised,” With a low hum, you point to the scanned layout of the helicarrier, attempting to discern a backup plan. “What should we do?” It’s a fair question, and you’re worried about the specifics.

“Double back to here, and wait for Ava to clear the path to you,” Bucky affirms, peering at Walker, who’s partially tuned-in, partially brooding. “If all goes according to plan, you shouldn’t have to rely on the backup position.”

Bucky’s close to you; too close.

John catches it in heated glances, countenance riddled with the face of jealousy’s ire, blonde brows pinched together. Unfortunately, he doesn’t mask anything well, letting his sentiments reveal themselves, rear their ugly head.

Shoulder-to-shoulder, you’re leaning in; for you, it’s an involuntary thing. Bucky’s similar to an older brother figure, offering a sense of comfort when things seem to be too much.

Though, John doesn’t see it that way; all he sees is Barnes invading your space as if it belongs to him, and you’re none the wiser.

His abdomen twists into knots, as if he’s swallowing his rage, only to make room for misery.

John Walker doesn’t understand how to handle his own affections, either.

It was simple for him to pinpoint when exactly he realized he’d liked you, too. A few months back, he’d gotten sick with frustration, toiling over Olivia moving on, finding someone else. He couldn’t blame her after everything, but the fury hadn’t subsided.

Instead, he was left raw, with this amalgamation of emotions that had twisted into some catalyst, a maelstrom of everything he’d done wrong in life.

Through this tide of navigating newfound feelings, there were plenty of moments where he’d wanted to get closer.

John thought about it often; draping a blanket over your shoulder when you’d fallen asleep in the common room, hands brushing when you’d reached for the same object, bodies ghosting over another during training sessions, his lingering stares when he thought no one else was watching.

There you were, staying up with him into the early hours of morning, before dawn’s first scrap of light could pierce the black horizon. He thought about that night more times than he could count — he thought about how much you cared, how kind you were.

It was more than he deserved, admittedly. Without a shadow of a doubt, John knew that he didn’t deserve to have you in his life, let alone like you. Things were less complicated when he kept you distanced, even if it felt completely wrong.

He figured that you getting with Bucky was his punishment for fumbling your friendship and isolating you, avoiding you. Nothing hurt worse than seeing the look in your eyes whenever he dismissed you, or kept you at arm’s length.

Then again, he didn’t want to see your blood on his hands, or have to stomach the sight of your body if he messed up, or if he let you get too close.

If he wasn’t fast enough, strong enough, good enough to protect you — he didn’t want you to end up like Lemar.

Between Bucky droning on about the mission at-hand and Alexei attempting to give some inspirational speech, your eyes find John, brows furrowing together.

There’s an established familiarity, one strong enough for you to know that he’s upset about something, frustrated. He’s not as adept at concealing his emotions as he thinks he is; whatever he’s going through, it’s branded into his countenance.

As Bucky prepares for landing on the far side of the helicarrier, John’s forlorn stare is attempting to sear through the metal walls of the jet’s interior. He seems gone, as if his mind is a thousand miles away — somewhere else entirely.

For the past month or two, he’s pushed you away, shut you out as if he’s slammed a door in your face. It stings even still, an embittered thing, and you’re left to wonder why.

You were friends, closer to him than the rest of the team, much to everyone’s amazement. Something doesn’t feel right whenever you look at him, as if he’s dragging around a weight, unwilling to let anyone else shoulder the burden.

Your feelings for him seem to complicate everything.

Quiet, you decide to sit in the jumpseat beside him, buckling yourself in, pondering how to broach the tenuous silence that lingers between you. Before, he might’ve said something insolent or made a sarcastic remark; instead, you’re met with nothing.

“When we drop in, should w—” Before you can rationally discuss tactics, John interjects.

He cuts you off, as sharp as a blade. “When we drop, you stay on my flank and don’t engage unless I tell you to.” John gruffs, uncharacteristically quipped with you, and everyone else seems to notice, too.

Startled, you’re mildly taken aback, left confused as to why he’s treating you like this. You aren’t prone to outbursts or snapping back with the same cutthroat demeanor, resorting to a sullen silence.

Yelena grimaces, nose wrinkling in a thinly-veiled disdain. “Walker, relax. She is just trying to help.” She murmurs, still attempting to work around her twinge of uncertainty about him.

John’s haughty gaze floats toward Yelena, as if he’s winding up to say something callous. Instead, the words seem to turn to ash, retort buried somewhere in the depths of his throat.

The jet tremors violently as it descends onto the helipad, the noise scraping against your ears, a sound that’s still jarring to you. John remains unphased — he’s done this hundreds of times, terse as the hull begins to open.

“Ready?” Bucky calls over the comms, quinjet descending through darkness, making a quick flight for the small helipad toward the back of the vessel.

As the hull opens, you’re quick to clamor behind John, who’s often barreling first into danger without blinking an eye. The two of you jump first, and it’s a shorter fall to the helicarrier’s landing zone, tucking and rolling as you make it down.

Swallowed by darkness, the only light happens to be the glow from various posts scattered around the area, making it difficult for you to follow his silhouette. For a man of his size, he moves quickly, enhanced by the super-soldier serum.

To your relief, your drop point isn’t compromised, not swarming with mercenaries as you thought it’d be. John takes two of them out with ease, leaving you to rush to catch up, scrambling after him as best as you can.

“Slow down, John.” You urge, watching as his shoulder rolls, head twitching as he draws his pistol. It was a waiting game, now; letting the others secure their portions of the ship and make their way forward.

“Watch my flank,” Flat, John knows that no one is likely to ambush from behind, given your location. It gives you something to do, something to distract so he can keep you pinned behind him. “That’s all you need to do.”

“I can’t do that if you’re rushing into this,” With an urgent protest, you keep watch nonetheless, eyes peeled through the darkness for any unforeseen threats. “If something happens, I don’t know if I can react in-time …”

With your powers, you’re still adjusting — it’s a constant work in-progress, testing the limits, trying to see how much you can handle. Telekinesis is nothing menial, however, you’re struggling to fully grasp the boundaries of your abilities.

“Stay behind me.” John barks, cadence akin to an angry drill sergeant instead of your teammate, your friend.

Emotions run high in the wake of his sharp tone, and you’re inclined to react, hopelessly lost as to why he’s upset with you.

“What’s wrong?” Bad time to ask, but you can’t help it anymore. “John, we’re friends. I know that something is making you frustrated.” Your poignant line of questioning invokes his scorn as he turns around, pushing you into the wall of a shipping container.

He isn’t rough, but it’s done with urgency as you narrowly avoid the prying barrel of a rifle, armed with a flashlight attachment. With bated breath, he waits for it to pass, firmly keeping an arm on your waist, caging you against cool metal.

Looking as if he’s on the verge of succumbing to rage, his nostrils flare, jaw locked as he directs his wave of anguish onto you. It’s everything, all at once — his jealousy, his anger, his feelings for you and unwillingness to act.

“We’re not doing this.” He grits, and it’s a command, not a suggestion. His voice is low, pitched with something indiscernible, and you can taste the anguish that wafts from him in hot waves.

Conceding, you appear as if you’ve been struck, wilting beneath his sharp tongue, succumbing to the blade he sinks into you. “I’m sorry — I won’t ask anymore.” Firm, your words ring in his ears; he’s guilty.

Silent, you gently step away from his grasp as if he’s burned you alive, skin stinging where he kept his hand on your waist. Deciding to focus on the mission at-hand, you leave your affections there, for now.

John’s gaze shifts toward the ground, brows pinching together, countenance warping into a mask of frustration. He’s angry with himself, above all; he hates that he’s doing this to you.

Armed mercenaries patrol the open spaces of the main deck, guarding crates of illegal weapons smuggled from various battles. There’s supposed Chitauri equipment inside, Asgardian, remnants of S.H.I.E.L.D and H.Y.D.R.A, too.

It’s easier to follow his lead, his experience far outweighing yours as he moves to find some level of cover. “We’ll make for that wall,” John murmurs, motioning toward a divot of sleek steel, several feet to your left. “Go on my mark.”

The vessel groans, shockwaves pulsing beneath your feet as an explosion fires off in the distance, a large chunk of the command center blown apart. You’re quick on the comms, pressing a button that’s built into your suit.

“Was that us or them?” You question, watching as an eruption of fire consumes the deck. John winces, moderately impressed as the both of you hang back, waiting for the right opportunity to push ahead.

“I had to improvise — you can all thank me later.” Ava’s voice reverberates over the comms, and you can envision her smirk through it all. As the mercenaries scramble to move shipments away from the blast, John’s ready to move.

As he hops over the short, concrete barrier, a sudden click hisses behind you. Every nerve in your body seems to freeze, recognizing the noise as the safety of a gun being unlatched.

“Don’t move.”

Three mercenaries stand behind you, rifles drawn, blasting columns of light into your eyes. You’re like a deer in the headlights, brain wracking, scrambling to try and figure something out.

John acts quickly, throwing his bent hunk of metal at one of them, gun clattering from his hands as he draws his pistol. He huffs like a bull when he fights, body pumping with adrenaline, jaw locked as if it might shatter.

He’s primal when he’s dismantling his opposition; smooth, experienced, and hotheaded. When it comes to morally bankrupt mercenaries, he doesn’t pull a single punch, moving like some barricade of brawny muscle.

You’re trying to disarm the second with your powers, though it’s faltering, exceedingly difficult to concentrate. Between the poor lighting, John’s agility, and your scrambled psyche, you come up empty-handed.

In the midst of the scuffle, you notice a rifle being aimed at John. It’s as if your powers know when to bleed through, as you shove him away with a pulse of your mind. He stumbles, flails, and loses his balance.

Though, it’s momentary, just enough to be a distraction so John didn’t get hurt. It’s difficult to distinguish what’s happening through the dark, save for the lights strapped to the end of rifle barrels.

The mercenary that you’d tossed to the ground is getting back up, angry.

Instead of attempting to use your abilities again, you resort to throwing a wrench at him. Before you can follow through on your movement, a gunshot rings out — and it’s not John who gets hurt.

Something sharp and piercing penetrates through your suit, slicing through thin kevlar, going right into your abdomen, somewhere on the right side of your ribcage. Agony blossoms over you, like tendrils of a scorching heat blistering over your skin.

The bullet whistles clean through, exiting with more bite and tear than how it entered. You’ve never been shot before — maimed and bruised, perhaps, but nothing grievous like this.

The wind ripped from your lungs, as if someone had stolen every scrap of air from you. It was all shock, burning and burning still, before you collapsed in a heap, hand immediately clutching at your ribs.

John’s still roughing up the remainder of the mercenaries without a shred of mercy, and once they are grounded, no longer a threat, he sees you.

It feels like he’s in Latvia again — feels like yesterday, the suffering too raw and too visceral, as if he’s reliving the memory. Time slows to a crawl, his heart nearly bursting from his chest.

Crimson begins to flourish through the fabric of your bodice, wet and hot, but you’re beginning to feel dizzy. Everything is spinning, and fear begins to settle, you’re scared. You don’t know if you were hit somewhere critical.

“John?” You croak, feeling something firm catch you before your head can knock against the concrete.

He’s not there, he’s trapped in a nightmare; reality settles in with its bitter sting and cruelty when he feels your blood on his fingertips.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” John’s clinging onto you, shield slung on his back, cradling you in his arms, trying to get you to stay alert. “Shit, come on — She’s hit! Bucky, I’ve — She’s down!” He sounds as if he’s speaking in half-sentences, babbling and broken.

A haze forms at the fringes of your vision, blurry, and that’s when the pain begins to surge, like a hot iron being dug into your flesh. A cry of torment rips through your diaphragm, every breath feeling labored, as if you’re heaving.

He’s carried men from the trenches of war torn countries, he’s saved hostages, he’s dragged barely-conscious bodies through the desert.

Nothing could’ve prepared John for this, for you laying bleeding in his arms, latching onto him, startled and in unimaginable pain. Any sliver of calm has left him, replaced with anguish, with panic, with an amalgamation of emotions.

“You’re gonna be fine,” John chokes, attempting to calm you and himself, but nothing is working. “Gonna be okay, just — Hey, just focus on me.” He’s lifting you into his arms, knowing that it might make things worse, but he’s got to get you somewhere safe.

The trauma he carries with him still seems to split open like a dam, bringing with it an overwhelming sense of anguish, of suffering. John is suffocating beneath the weight of it all, and in that darkness, he’s scared of losing you.

He should’ve told you how he felt, he shouldn’t have pushed you away, should’ve been a better man — should’ve been stronger, faster.

John feels like he’s drowning, swept away within a riptide, an unforgiving current that’s threatening to wash him away. He wonders if that’s what he deserves — erased, to slip away and let the world forget.

When he feels you gripping his arm like a vice, those feelings begin to disappear. “J—John,” You stammer, voice hoarse, thick with turmoil as you cringe at the pain. “Don’t go anywhere, please.” Able to get out a string of words, your consciousness begins to waver.

“I’m right here,” John’s stoic cadence warbles, wrought with the thickness of emotion as he tries to stay calm for you. He’s trying to pull you to safety, get you onto the quinjet, holding you firm to his chest. “Stay awake, stay with me.”

“Walker, what’s your location?” Bucky doesn’t sound nearly as panicked as John, but there’s a terse edge to his voice, something coiled.

Another explosion shakes the deck, and he nearly barrels over, keeping his footing firm to avoid losing his grip on you. You’re threading along the fringes of consciousness, gaze half-lidded, visage drawn up into one of discomfort.

“Drop point,” John shouts over the comms, petrified, something fearful in his voice, which happens to crack at the end. “She’s hit bad, you need to get here now!”

Struggling to keep yourself afloat, your grasp is weakening, anchored to the front of his body armor like a tether to reality. “M’okay,” You slur, your voice little more than a murmur. “Still here.” It’s mostly to placate John, who’s looking completely lost.

Panicked, cerulean hues stare at you through the dark, holding steadfastly to you as the quinjet descends a few feet away. John moves, trying to avoid jostling you around as the hull begins to open.

“I got you, I got you.” John’s chanting it to himself like some mantra, noticing the glazed look in your eyes. Tendrils of burning agony continue to plume through your abdomen, blood warm, oozing from your wound.

In the back of the quinjet, there’s several crates of items stolen from the helicarrier, one of which Valentina had specifically asked for. The rest of the team is there, and Yelena moves to the edge, helping the both of you in.

Everyone becomes blurry, hovering around you, but you can’t see faces. You hear John more than the rest — he’s angry. “Put pressure on the wound,” He barks, feeling his hand shakily smooth over your crown. “Bucky, you need to hurry!”

Bucky’s reply is indiscernible, but you can only assume that he’s attempting to console John from the pilot’s cockpit. John says something back, sharp, like a dog that’s biting at a handler.

Voices begin to drown away, as if it’s all become mere background noise, a dismal hum. Consciousness wanes, bleeding away at the edges, and your grip on John’s chest falls slack.

All at once, everything fades to black.

Dizzying, blanched light pools around your peripheral when you finally rouse from unconsciousness, and the agony that’s festering in your ribs has become a dull, incessant ache.

A sharp inhale pierces your lungs as you attempt to gather your bearings, and you feel something soft, cushioned beneath you. The Watchtower’s medbay is stark and glittering, a newer addition that’s seen some use.

Beneath your brow, your head throbs something awful, and as the grogginess begins to wear off, your surroundings become crystalline. Everything seems too sterile, too sanitized.

Tangled in pale hospital sheets, you glance to your left — nothing, empty; save for the other medical beds and metallic fixtures.

It’s what’s on your right side that startles you.

John is slumped in a chair, half-dressed in his suit, navy-blue compression shirt clinging to his musculature. He’s dozing off, head tilted back along the seat’s rim, chest rising and falling with shallow, steady breaths.

Blonde tresses are disheveled, glistening with a layer of dampness; he must’ve taken a shower. There’s a yellowing bruise behind his left ear, countenance grizzled with his beard, noticeably rugged.

Something wet clings to your ribs, prompting you to pull up the hem of your shirt to find a cluster of gauze and bandages wrapped over your wound. Dried crimson stains the linen, but in much smaller amounts than before.

Inevitably, your gaze shifts back to John, whose visage seems less anguished when he’s resting. His brows are still furrowed, but there’s a prominent lack of frustration present.

He was painfully handsome; you always found him attractive, but it’s enhanced when he’s simply existing. Part of you wonders how long he’s been sitting here for — how long you’ve been bedridden.

In his lap, he’s got one of your sweatshirts, which is a peculiar sight, one that makes you curl with warmth. Gooseflesh courses over your spine, a shiver following after as you shift against the mattress.

Swinging your legs out from underneath your sheets, you attempt to stand, wobbling slightly as you find your footing. The tile is blisteringly cold beneath your heels, and you feel jabs of a throbbing ache spread through your side.

The bed creaks, a faint metallic grinding that reverberates throughout the room. Before you can quietly creep from the mattress, John is stirring in the chair beside you.

“What are you doing?” It’s the first question he asks, tone clipped, as if you’re doing something wrong. Running a hand over his face, he lets out a soft grunt, readjusting to his surroundings.

“Getting something to drink,” Through a hoarse croak, you swallow, attempting to quench the dryness that burns in your throat. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“I’ll get it,” John murmurs, aloof as he stands from the chair with a low groan. Muscles are sore, bone-deep from the mission, but he knows that he’ll endure. “You sit back down.” His command is noticeably gentle.

“Thank you,” With a smile, you shuffle back into bed, nonplussed by the ripples of slight pain. Admittedly, you weren’t expecting the wound to feel so light; it’s only aching. “How long have I been out?”

Striding toward the sink, John fills up a glass of water, sleeves of his shirt rolled toward his elbows. Corded muscle wraps taut around his forearms, dusted with blonde hair and a myriad of scrapes and bruises.

“Twelve hours, give or take,” His bedside manners are surprisingly intact, more than you thought possible. He’s avoided you so much lately that having him back feels nice. “Might need to change your dressing.”

Quiet, your hand falls to your ribs, fingertips lightly flicking over the gauze, over tufts of white. “Have you been here the whole time?” Your tone was gentle, tender; everything seemed to crawl to a low hum.

Through terse shoulders and a brief sigh, John answered you. “Bucky came by a little while ago,” He murmured, returning to you with a glass of freezing water. “Yelena, too.”

He didn’t answer your question fully, which didn’t go unnoticed. With a nod, you took several greedy swigs of water, your throat soothed by cool liquid, adjusting your position.

“I didn’t ask about Bucky or Yelena,” Clicking your tongue, your gaze shifts to John, almost pleading with him for some semblance of truth. “Thank you for staying with me.” Maintaining a cordial smile, you placed the glass aside.

John nodded, a subtle gesture that held more meaning than he let on. A silence settled between, more uncomfortable than tranquil, prompting him to rifle around for medical supplies.

Basic first aid was ingrained into him, but there was some wariness he felt with patching you up. It was all closeness, a growing intimacy that made his bones blister.

He liked you so much, wanted you so terribly that it began to gnaw away at him — and he felt entirely undeserving.

Bruises dust his knuckles, hands visibly rattling with a subtle tremor. He’s steady when he fights — assured, confident, lethal.

With you, in the gentle silence and unspoken feelings, he starts to feel the pressure mounting, the nerves.

“Should be healed in a few weeks,” John murmurs, stepping towards the edge of the mattress, subtly gesturing for you to move closer. “You got hit at close-range.” He says it as if it’s a painful memory.

Memories float at the fringes of your mind, and what you remember most is John; he never once left your side, toiling over you, and the panic. The mortifying fear in his eyes was something you remembered the most.

“It doesn’t feel that bad.” With a shrug, you move toward the edge, swinging your legs over the side. Awkwardness sweeps in as you lift your shirt, shy beneath his stare, which is unusually warm.

John swallows, jaw ticking, knuckles white as he clutches the roll of gauze. When you lift your shirt, there’s a blotch of dark crimson, nothing too severe, but he’s left feeling guilty.

He told you to cover his flank, and you were ambushed — he should’ve known better. Cerulean hues settle over your wound, brows furrowing before he reaches down to unravel the soiled bandages.

Calloused fingertips brush over bare flesh, and the both of you shiver as if you’ve been electrified. Gooseflesh follows in a wave, snaking over your flesh, causing you to clear your throat to relieve a sliver of tension.

He’s standing between your legs, broad musculature creating something of a gap, staring down at you with an indiscernible gleam. The closeness is sudden, exhilarating; you can feel the heat wafting from his body.

“You’ve been really distant lately,” It’s quiet, your observation; your cadence lacks any real malice, only perturbation. “I miss our friendship.” Sullen, your confession makes him inhale, a sharp and poignant sound that splits his lungs.

John distracts himself by prying your old linens aside, tossing them onto a metal tray that sits beside your bed. “Yeah,” He knows it’s his fault. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.” A partial truth, but it’s better than fibbing to you outright.

He’s jealous, he’s angry, he’s riddled with guilt.

It’s an amalgamation of everything negative, of everything sour and rotten that sits inside of him, burning a hole right through. John knows that he isn’t a stellar example of a man, but he’s trying to do good. He wants to do right by you.

“How long will it take for you to realize that I’m here for you? That I can handle the truth, no matter how ugly it is?” Even then, you never raise your voice, sitting soundly as John inspects your stitches, countenance pinched together.

“I don’t want to get in the way.” He grits, and he fights the urge to sound disgustingly bitter. Jealousy is an emotion he doesn’t handle well, something volatile; anger, too.

Bewildered, you wince when he dabs antiseptics against your agitated flesh, and he’s swift to apologize. A soft groan of discomfort slips past your mouth, teeth clenching.

“Sorry,” John soothes, blonde brows creased together, his visage one of immediate apology as his hand recoils. “I’m sorry.” He huffs, flesh crawling when he realizes he accidentally hurt you.

Bruised knuckles graze over your abdomen, as if he’s offering another apology through touch alone. The sensation makes you quiver, digits tensing into the pale sheets beneath you.

“It’s alright,” With a smile, your gaze flutters toward his hands again, mapping every bruise, scrape, scar — you notice the slight tremor again. “You’re good at this.” You remark, attempting to placate him.

With a sardonic chuckle, John makes a face, as if he’s in a state of mild disbelief. “Not really.” He counters, gruff, gently cleaning your wound, eyes traveling over your features. You’re so beautiful, and it makes him nervous.

“Take a compliment, John.” There’s a softer lilt to your tone, one that eases the coiled frustration that carries in his shoulders. The smile you give him is saccharine, the sweetest thing he’s ever seen.

Writhing around, your movement makes it increasingly difficult for him to steady the gauze over your wound. “Stop moving.” He quips, as if he’s reverting back to being in some perpetual state of frustration.

Nodding, you mumble an apology, allowing him to thread the linen around your torso. He ensured that he was exceedingly gentle when it came to the flesh around your wound.

There’s a beat of silence, one that stretches on for too long, causing you to break it with a question. “Why do you think you’re getting in the way?” Your inquiry takes him by surprise.

“What?” John plays dumb, knowing that he shouldn’t have said anything. You’re often too curious, but you care — you care so deeply for him, and it’s written on your face.

“You said that you didn’t want to get in the way,” Trying again, your brows crease together, chin jutting forward as you maintain a steady stare. “I’m not sure what you’re getting in the way of.”

Cornering him, John doesn’t know what to say — maybe he needed to say it, to get it out in the open. If you acknowledged your relationship with Bucky, maybe it would be what he needed to try and move on from his feelings for you.

His jaw is tight, unnaturally so; the muscle might snap into two from how hard he’s clenching. With a stinging inhale, he decides to broach the subject with a blunt tone, but the bitterness sits heavy.

“You and Barnes.” John grits, hearing the startled gasp that escapes your mouth. Judging from your expression, this came as a surprise to you.

He’s jealous — the realization hits you all at once, and everything begins to slowly click into place. The indifference, the avoidance, the sudden bite of frustration — he thinks you’re with Bucky. It couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“John,” Bewildered, you attempt to refute his claim, but he’s interjecting, as if his mouth is flying before his brain has time to catch up. “That’s not …”

“Wish you would’ve told me.” He grouses, even though it isn’t remotely close to the truth. The distance between bodies is nearly nonexistent, and you’re face-to-face with his sternum, feeling his fingers ghost beside your thigh.

“I don’t like Bucky,” You mumble, which visibly catches him off-guard. “I’ve never viewed him as anything more than a brother, and he feels the same way.” Once that’s out in the open, John feels incredibly stupid.

Dumbfounded, his countenance contorts from a thinly-veiled frustration to something forlorn, and then he realizes how blind he’s been. He’s been punishing you for something you had no part in, keeping away because he thought it best.

Through a tight throat and dry mouth, you know then and there that you want to tell him — tell him everything. Your feelings are overwhelming in the heat of the moment, coercing you into a confession.

“I don’t like Bucky because I like you,” In one tremulous exhale, you say it, let it slip into the gap of silence and sit with it. “I wish you’d stop pushing me away.” Through a whisper, you try to slow your breathing, but it’s quick.

John freezes, blonde lashes fluttering as he attempts to register what you said. There’s a sense of disbelief that accompanies the shock, but it dissipates when he looks at you.

It’s love he sees, a tender affection that doesn’t scorn his past or see the facade — you see him, and that’s what matters most. “I don’t think I’m good enough for you.” He says it through a throttled neck, cadence thick with anguish.

“That’s not true,” Insistent, you reach for his arm, digits cold over his flesh, like kisses of ice. “John, when I look at you, I don’t see your mistakes. I just see you, and I like the man that I see.”

The blood on his hands feels heavy, like some anchor dragging him down. After being stripped of the role of Captain America, of everything, spiraling, losing his family, he briefly considered it — a way out.

He was glad that he never went through with it; he found you somewhere along the way, and that was more important to him than anything else. There’s still part of him that hates himself — but he’s healing, he’s making room for you.

John shakes his head, nostrils flaring. “This is my fault,” He gruffs, brows pinched together. “Shouldn’t have told you to watch my flank. You wouldn’t be here right now, you’d be —”

“Stop it,” Before he can spiral into an infinite cycle of self-blame, you interject, ensuring that he doesn’t rake himself over the coals for this. “You can’t predict the outcome. You didn’t know we’d get ambushed.”

“But I should’ve known,” John snarls, malice not directed at you; it’s inward, and he’s crawling with fury toward himself. “I’m better than that. If I’m not, if I lose you …” He huffs, shoulders tight with tension.

“You didn’t. I’m right here, I’m fine — John, look at me,” Through a tender utterance, you coax him into meeting your gaze, breath hitching. He’s staring at you with the look of love. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Hushed, his head jostles in a nod of acknowledgment, opting to take your words to heart, even if the guilt still lingers. One hand holds your hip, thumb tracing circles over your exposed flesh, keeping you close to him.

“You’re too good,” John utters, knuckles dragging along the underside of your jaw, the gesture making your breath hitch within your throat. “I don’t understand how you do it.” A brief huff sticks in the back of his throat.

“I’m not perfect, John — nobody is,” All of you wants all of him; imperfections, flaws, heart — everything matters to you. “What I do know is that I’m tired of going on like this, tired of not being with you.”

Crimson snakes over his features, an incessant heat that consumes him like wildfire. He’s tired of it too, pretending like he doesn’t want you. He cups your jaw, palm rough like leather, thumb smoothing over your cheek.

“I think you’re perfect,” He whispers, reverent as he gazes longingly at you, heart aching so bad that it produces a dull throbbing within his chest. “You’ve got me.” John confirms with a sense of finality, foreheads ghosting over one another.

John doesn’t fully trust falling in love after his divorce — but he does it anyway, he keeps falling for you, and falling again.

Beneath your chest, your heart is nearly ripping right from your sternum, threatening to combust as you wait for him to say something. Maybe you’re waiting for the real rejection, or something else — you aren’t sure.

Cerulean hues study the delicate curve of your jaw, sweeping over your mouth; it’s familiar, he’s done it a hundred times whenever you weren’t looking. This time, it carries a certain heaviness, a torrent of feelings finally revealing themselves.

“Can I kiss you?” John rasps, as if he’s a man dying in a desert, desperate for the quench of water. His hands shift to cradle your hips, thumbs circling over your waist.

“Please.” Nearly breathless, you’re nodding, feeling him dip to your level, scratch of his beard prickling against your mouth. It’s a slow kiss, oozing with unbridled affection, the one he’s staved off for so long.

He’s typically rough; a rough mouth, rougher disposition, rough around the edges.

It comes as a surprise when he kisses you as if you’re delicate, something he’s terrified to break. He moves sluggishly, a crawl that only seems to build, the tension rising to steady simmer.

The kiss stretches on without pause, and you’re melting into him. Within the threading limbs and desperate mouths, your heartbeat crescendos, nervous system alert, nerves set ablaze.

It is in your kiss that he finds a semblance of peace, hunger continuing to grow until it becomes some ravenous bite. Mouths ceaselessly collide, wet and fervent, prompting you to reach for his bicep in order to anchor yourself.

Digits thread themselves into his compression shirt, tensing over spandex, involuntarily tugging him closer, distance between bodies now nonexistent. John is caged in around you, withdrawing enough to feel your exhale plume over his lips.

Wordlessly, he’s searching for you to continue, and you do, mouth returning to his own, intimately comfortable. It’s something he’s dreamt about a thousand times — and now, it’s a fantasy made reality.

The kiss deepens, warping into something passionate, embers kindled to a low flame, igniting a wildfire within your belly.

You’re craving his touch, feeling rough palms stroke soothing circles over your hips, grazing bare skin.

He feels safe, a sanctuary that you’re content to dwell within. As if to test the waters, your hand begins to trail from his chest to his shoulder, fingertips dancing upward.

Your palm splays over the nape of his neck, toying with blonde tresses. A low grunt splits through his chest, the kiss beginning to climb with intensity, mouths clamoring, desperate.

Footsteps reverberate somewhere from beyond the medbay, swiftly approaching, which prompts John to untether himself from you. He’s disappointed, stepping away from you with an agitated sound as Bucky lingers in the doorway.

Scarlet clings to John’s neck, a low huff escaping him as Bucky clears his throat. “You’re awake,” He remarks, noticing Walker’s unusual demeanor and your startled expression. “Feeling alright?”

The way you look at Bucky is humorously pointed, as if you’re mildly annoyed by his untimely interruption, and John sees it. You really do look at Bucky as if he’s some pesky older sibling; it’s not the way you look at him.

“I’m just fine,” You assure, hands folded within your lap as you attempt to squash the butterflies floating around in your stomach. The smile you’re wearing is infectious, happy. “John’s been looking after me.”

Bucky doesn’t conceal his smirk, pretending to act innocent, as if he has no clue about anything. You’ve confided in him more than once about your feelings for John — and John’s reluctantly done the same thing.

“Right, I’m sure he has,” Through a flash of pearlescent teeth and a streak of teasing humor, Bucky takes the terse silence as his queue to leave. “There’s pizza, if either of you are hungry.” He offers, leaning off of the doorframe.

John feels as if he’s burning, the back of his neck singed with heat as he peers at Bucky, and there’s a knowing look that passes between. “Thanks, Barnes.” He murmurs, mouth twitching into a brief smile before Bucky wanders off.

When he’s out of your periphery, John sits down next to you, leg-to-leg, hand gently resting over your thigh, thumb tracing circles over soft skin.

There’s a tranquil hush that passes between, the two of you sharing a longing glance. Leaning in, you find your purchase again the bulk of his bicep, firm beneath your cheek.

“I like you, too.” John murmurs, low and rumbling beside your ear, ensnaring your attention without any effort. Admittedly, he knew what he felt for you was stronger, overpowering — he was falling hard, and falling fast.

The bravado and swagger seem nonexistent when he’s alone with you, as if he’s stripped down to the rawest parts of himself, the parts he’s only willing to let you see.

Whatever facade he puts on, whatever barriers he constructed, they drop.

Tucking strands of hair behind your ear, he’s effortlessly charming, oozing with a veiled affection as he leans in to claim your mouth. The kiss is briefer than the one before, and he feels your hand press over his knee.

John can taste the sweetness of your lips, the way that you absentmindedly lean closer, ignoring the wretched ache that pulses through your ribs.

He caresses the small of your back, digits teasing bare flesh, thumbing over your bandages. A shudder passes through you, caught within the labyrinth of his mouth, a maze that you have no desire to escape from.

As if to shatter the moment, your stomach snarls with hunger, and you realize that it’s almost been a full day since you’ve last eaten anything. You reluctantly withdraw, visibly embarrassed as you clear your throat.

“Ruined the moment,” You murmur, but John doesn’t seem bothered, a smirk curling at his mouth, blonde brows lifting in amusement. “Did you mean what you said earlier, about liking me?”

“Yeah,” There’s a sincerity in his tone that you don’t often hear, but he’s genuine; he means what he says. Low, his cadence drops to a lull, timbre wrought with warmth. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.” He murmurs, brows furrowing.

A hitch forms within your throat, an exhilarated sound that he catches between his teeth, visage swirling with a torrent of emotions.

John is a storm — tempestuous, veiled with scars and insecurities, a maelstrom of a man that you’ve learned to navigate. He calms with you, finds a sense of peace in the quiet, and he lets you read his heart.

“What do I do to you?” Barely above a whisper, you’re vexed to know what he means, what feelings have lingered, long repressed. It’s an innocuous question, festering with underlying implications, and he knows this.

A soft huff escapes him, and he smooths a kiss over your brow, easing you off of the mattress. “Think you need to eat first.” John chides, and you don’t pursue his earlier remark, letting him help you onto solid ground.

Flustered, you’re moving together, and he grabs your sweatshirt from the chair, helping you to pull it on over your head to help with the chill.

There aren’t any surprised faces when you and John come to dinner together — and frankly, it was long overdue.

Everyone notices — he sits closer, he’s hovering around you, serving you food as if you’re incapable, smothering a smile when you aren’t looking.

Though, John tries his best to keep it subdued, even if it’s far from the truth.

“She lives! Was so worried about you!” Alexei bellows, caging your upper half in a bear-like hug, his knuckles scratching over your crown. “Ah, but she’s strong, eh? Not even bullet can stop you.” He grinned, prompting you to laugh.

John has the expression of a worried father, jaw terse, twitching when Alexei manhandles you. “Easy,” He warns, afraid of you getting hurt, or something else. “She’s still recovering.”

Ava rolls her eyes, amused by John’s behavior — he’s so in love that it’s sickening to behold. “I’m sure she’ll be fine, Walker.” She mused, feet kicked up onto the arm of the couch, a slice of pizza lodged into one hand.

“Thank you, Alexei.” You smile, patting the Russian’s thick forearm before he releases you. You’re quick to eat, staving off starvation, sating the incessant growl that lurches within your stomach.

When dinner is over and the team disperses, John is nearly attached to your hip; he’d deny it, but it’s glaringly obvious. He’s by your side when he walks you to your room, your gait sluggish as you make it to the door.

“Feeling alright?” John probes, ushering you inside before the thick pane hisses shut behind you. You’re met with a welcoming hush, rubbing the sleeves of your sweatshirt together.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Placating, you clear your throat, shuffling towards your bed. “Do you … Do you want to stay the night here?” The question itself is shy, shrewd. You don’t want to overstep any boundaries, but you don’t want him to leave, either.

John exhales; it’s subtle, hitched with a twinge of exhilaration. He nods, pretending that it’s under the guise of watching over you, but in all actuality, he wants to be close. “Someone’s gotta watch you.” He murmurs, prompting you to smile.

“I think we can be honest with one another,” Your remark carries as you wander toward the bathroom, planning on brushing your teeth until your gums ooze with mint. “It goes beyond that.”

He’s like a watchdog, a protector, trailing after you even when you’re only a few feet away. Lingering in the doorframe, arms loosely folded over his chest, he’s ogling you. “You caught me.” John’s cadence softens, jaw tight.

Admittedly, he hasn’t felt this since Olivia — and even then, they were high school sweethearts. John hadn’t had another partner other than her, he never loved someone like he loved you.

There’s a sliver of awkwardness that accompanies him, as if he’s wading into uncharted territory; thrilling, but it makes him nervous. He doesn’t want to screw anything up with you like he almost did before.

“I like you a lot,” He utters, low and confessing. Toothbrush in-hand, you swivel just enough to face him, doe-eyed, ardent. “I don’t want to screw this up.” John admits, as if it’s painful for him to do so.

Talking about his feelings, being vulnerable — it’s all relatively new for him. Though, he knows that he trusts you wholeheartedly, and he knows that this is how he heals, how he improves.

He wants to be the best that he can be for you.

Smitten, you gaze at him as if he’s everything; he was your friend first, but now, he’s something more. It all feels right, like a puzzle piece slotting into place, and you can’t imagine it differently.

“You won’t, John. We’re in this together.” Reassuring, you flash a tender smile, leaning against the bathroom counter as a brace, lashes fluttering. You have faith in him, believing in him when he scarcely believes in himself.

John’s mouth twitches into a threadbare smile, still observing you as you begin to brush your teeth, using an obscene amount of arctic-mint toothpaste. His nose wrinkles at the sight. “Jesus, bad breath?” He teases.

Through furrowed brows, you’re scrubbing at your teeth as if they’re covered in grime, hastily dragging the bristles over the flat of your tongue. You repeat this pattern longer than what’s considered appropriate before gargling water.

“No, just … If we kiss again, I wanted to make sure that it wasn’t off-putting.” Your admission is one of embarrassment, but he doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest. It’s the opposite — he’s magnetized by you, instead.

“If?” His head cocks to the left, as if the mere idea of not kissing you is preposterous. Blonde tresses sweep near his temples, disheveled, amusement scrawled onto his features. He swaggers closer, one hand dropping to your hip.

A shaky breath coagulates within the back of your throat, lips parted. “If.” You confirm, but it’s shattered, and he stoops down enough to capture your mouth in a passionate kiss.

A soft whine escapes your mouth, swallowed by your entanglement, lost within his lips. John kisses you gently, pouring his need into it, all of the pent-up affection he’s wanted to give to you.

A calloused hand steadies over your hip, thumb gingerly circling over your hip bone, the other ghosting across the small of your back.

Wedged against his musculature, your hands shift to the nape of his neck, fingertips toying with the blonde tresses there. He’s so warm, extinguishing the prevalent chill that grips your body.

His beard scratches against your mouth, a pleasant prickling that reminds you he’s real, flesh and blood, a beating heart. John exhales; a steady, exaggerated sound, attempting to cling to the fine line of restraint.

A charged passion echoes through the kiss, becoming increasingly heated, the longer you stand and reciprocate. Lips meld together, seamless, as if you’re made for one another.

Everything feels perfect — John’s been wanting this for months, and now that he has it, it’s almost overwhelming.

Snaking beneath the hem of your sweatshirt, his palm finds your bare flesh, caressing circles over the base of your spine. Another sound scrapes from your throat, digits interlocking over the back of his neck.

Each kiss oozes with a fiery want, and the more you entangle yourself into him, the more he wants you.

John is trying to keep things tame, given that your newfound relationship was in its infancy, but he couldn’t help himself.

Reluctant to withdraw, he stops, checking you to see if you’re still comfortable. “Still with me?” He murmurs, body flush against you, firm expanse of his chest brushing over yours.

With a nod, you’re unable to smother your smile, peering up at him through your lashes. Hands wander toward his broad shoulders, and then to his biceps, digits tensing over the muscle there. “Yeah,” You hum. “I’m a little cold.”

“Think I can help with that.” John’s mouth curls into a brief smirk, one that ignites a low fire within your belly. He plants another kiss to your jaw, catching the shudder that fans throughout your body.

You catch a glimpse of that cocksure, smug demeanor that had enticed you so much in the first place, followed by an underlying softness. Behind closed doors, he’s the first to succumb, handling you with a disarming gentleness.

“You’re a saint.” Your smile widens to a smitten beam as the both of you make for your bed. It’s as if you’re choked by your own anxieties — you can’t remember the last time you shared a bed with someone else.

John huffs, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Let me go change.” He nods, moving to slip out of your room. He disappears, leaving you alone, even if it isn’t for very long.

With measured steps, you crawl into bed, comforter shrouding around your body, and you’re met with some relief from the cold. There’s a gap of quiet — gives you time to think, process what’s happened.

It almost feels ethereal, as if you’re trapped in a distant dream; John likes you, you like him. A smile tugs at your mouth, giggling to yourself like some excitable schoolgirl with a glaring crush.

Settling against your pillow, your hands loosely fold over your chest, a dull stitch pulsing through your right rib cage. Minutes tick by as you wait for him to come back, drumming your fingers over your comforter.

Another minute passes, and then five; the door suddenly opens, startling and sudden as you lurch within your bed. Your gaze flutters toward him, glued to the compression shirt and sweatpants combination.

Wordlessly, John gets into bed with you, making sure that he sticks to your left side. For him, it’s been a long time since he’s slept with someone — even before his divorce, he was sleeping on the couch.

John stills, laying on his back as he invites you closer with an arm. “Come here.” It’s soft, he’s soft for you. The mattress shifts beneath you as you scoot over, keeping to your left side, curling into him with your head against his collarbone.

“Can I ask you something?” Your inquiry pierces through the tenuous silence, and there’s some momentary relief you gain from it.

He adjusts, cerulean hues flickering toward you, taking in the delicate plate of your visage. You rip the air from his lungs without even trying; John’s hand caresses the back of your shoulder.

“Yeah.” John’s tone is barely above a whisper, warm; it sends pleasant waves through your stomach. Attentive, he waits for your question, turning enough to see you fully.

“Why didn’t you tell me about how you felt?” You’re not accusatory, just curious. Even then, you want to know what stayed his hand, or prevented him from telling you the truth.

John’s jaw tenses, a catalyst of something forlorn brewing within his eyes. There’s a brief pause of consideration; he wants to be transparent, you deserve that. “Didn’t think you’d want me, because of everything I’ve done.”

Blinking, you roll onto your left side, albeit sluggishly, and he lets you rest your head against his bicep. A dab of cologne clings to him, and you nearly smile; that’s what took him so long to come back.

“John …” Through a gentle murmur, your hand slides toward his chest, circling over his collar. “We’ve all made mistakes. I don’t expect anything different, and you’re healing.” You caution, and he seems somewhat appreciative.

The vulnerability is something he’s still growing accustomed to — rawness of pain, feeling his emotions, choosing the right way to cope.

Oftentimes, he felt like the greatest mistake of all, a dog who needed to be put down. It was a dark mindset, taking him to a place that he’d worked tirelessly to claw out of.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” He grits, tongue running over his teeth as he shakes his head. “I didn’t want to tarnish you, or drag you down with me. I …” John tapers off, throat working, shoulders tight with tension.

Sometimes he goes around pretending as if the weight of his past doesn’t crush him; with you, the load feels lighter, a burden he can shoulder. You’re waiting, expectant yet patient, mere breaths apart, and you’re understanding.

“I am scared of losing you,” With that confession, a heaviness seems relinquished from his chest. He isn’t one to admit that he’s afraid, let alone drag it out into the open. “Scares the hell out of me, because I don’t know who I’ll be if you’re gone.”

A hitch forms within your throat, lips parting as a gasp inhabits your lungs. Everything shifts, his admission leaving you burning; your hand searches for his own, ice upon fire.

“You won’t lose me,” Insistent, you curl closer, flush against one another; you can hear his low, sharp inhale, warmth radiating from his body. “I’m yours, John — for as long as you want me.”

John swallows, gaze turning to something incendiary, shadowed by ardor and by desire. A rough hand snakes to hold your hip, curling into the cotton material of your shorts. “Yeah?” He utters, lips dangerously close.

“Yeah.” The way he’s staring at you is nothing short of complete and utter devotion; that’s how you know he’s genuine. The palm that’s pressed over the back of your shoulder slides over your spine, and you shiver.

“I want to show you how much I want you,” He gruffs, cadence thick with something husky, something needy. John knows where this will take him, take you — he’s never wanted anything more. “If that’s alright.”

He’s charming — effortlessly handsome, and it makes your flesh burn with an embarrassed heat. Intimacy with him is something you crave, and you’re ready for it; you need him as you do air.

“More than alright.” You whisper, breathless, and his mouth hotly clamors for yours. It’s an explosion of fireworks, of pent-up affection, of an ardor that’s been smothered beneath uncertainty.

The both of you are certain now, and that’s what matters most. His kiss is disarmingly gentle, something unexpected, but not unwelcome. You feel his body nudge against yours, distance now nonexistent.

Lips collide, collide, collide — you swear that he kisses you hoarse, beard scratching over your mouth, the sensation pleasant.

Each kiss sends you spiraling, clawing for his mouth, leaving you ragged, desperate for his touch. You can’t remember the last time someone kissed you like this — kissed you with a sense of finality.

A low moan bubbles from your throat, trapped within the snare of his kiss, and you’re pressing into him. John subtly slots a thigh between your legs, causing you to spasm at the sudden contact.

“John,” With a hoarse whisper, his name rolls from your tongue, wanton. A warm exhale feathers over his mouth, lips ghosting over one another, never too far apart. “John.”

John grunts, hot breath fanning over your features, mouth peppering across your cheek, instead. His lips make contact with your jaw, mouth clamoring over your skin, kissing the spot beneath your ear.

Flustered, you’re quick to melt into him, visibly smitten, as if you’ve wound yourself into a tight knot. John notices, mouth twitching into a smirk as he places a string of kisses beneath your jawline.

He’s careful, steady — he takes his time with you, savoring, wanting to explore your body. His lips plume over your throat, hips brushing against yours, and that’s when you feel it.

Something firm sits heavy, just below your belly, oozing with heat. A noise echoes from John’s throat, somewhere between a grunt and groan when you shift against him.

“That’s what you do to me,” John murmurs, voice low, curling thickly as his hands rub circles into your hips. “You drive me crazy.” He huffs; he doesn’t know how to handle it.

He’s strong, secure — there’s a protective edge to him, caged around you. Again, you shift, allowing your core to rock over his thigh, knee brushing over the growing tent in his sweatpants.

Swallowing a groan, John’s hands curl into the hem of your sweatshirt, nudging at the fabric. “Don’t want to hurt you.” He rumbles, asking for your consent before taking things further.

“You won’t.” Reassuring, you shuffle, sitting up enough for him to pry your sweatshirt aside, gingerly lifting the baggy garment over your head. You’re still wearing a t-shirt, which you initiate in removing.

The both of you are partially beneath the comforter, the room cast in an inky darkness, save for the soft glow of the light over your headboard. Tension blisters like wildfire between you, bodies flush, clothes shuffling.

Timidly, your hands wander to the hem of his compression shirt, gaze searching his, and he’s happy to comply. “Little eager, huh?” John chides, tone low, playful. It makes you flustered, shrewd beneath his stare.

“Maybe.” Through a sweet whisper, you recline backwards, just enough to give him space, navy spandex peeled away to reveal raw muscle. Your jaw slacks, mesmerized; he’s stupidly handsome.

Broad shoulders coil with slivers of tension, blanketed in light freckles, scars, and nearly-healed bruises. Biceps curl beside you, thick and firm, something for you to hold onto.

A dusting of blonde hair covers his chest, trailing over his abdomen and slipping beneath his waistband; it makes your head spin.

John exhales, cerulean hues drifting over your body, over the pallid gauze, mapping out every inch of you like you’re a constellation. “You’re so beautiful.” He purrs, palm grasping at your haunch.

Rough, careworn hands begin to caress beneath your dress, digits snaring into the soft cotton of your shorts. Sluggishly, he teases the waistband, neglecting to push past like you want him to.

“You can touch me,” Coaxing him, you notice the little twitch of his jaw, gaze glazed with a sheen of unbridled desire. “Don’t think I can go the whole way, but I still want you.”

“When you’re healed up, we’ll do this again.” John says it like a promise, a solemn oath that you desperately want him to keep. His lips search for yours, and he’s urging you in for a kiss, hand slipping between your legs.

Between slow kisses, you’re prodding him. “Already thinking about the next time?” With a teasing lilt, you shiver when calloused fingertips slip beneath the waistband of your shorts.

John bites back a smirk, palpable against your mouth as he plants a kiss there, musculature enveloping you, impenetrable. “Can you blame me?” He murmurs, digits finding your core.

Urging him in for another kiss, you’re lost within the heated labyrinth of his lips, savoring that rugged scratch of his beard. A low moan rouses within your chest, caught between your mouths.

Seeking the warmth between your legs, you nearly choked upon a strangled gasp as John’s digits ghosted along your slit. Arousal had gathered there, akin to the sticky sweetness of honey, prompting you to shiver beside him.

Wordlessly, he pushed deeper still, fingers pressing into your cunt. As he pushed past your folds, you moaned, the noise strangled, lost between the constant kisses and clawing sighs.

“You like that?” John gruffs into your mouth, a half-growl, pulling an excitable gasp from your lungs. He feels you nodding, and he begins to adjust, hovering over you, hand working against your cunt.

You squirmed, cunt aching for him in every way imaginable, hips jolting into the sensation of his practiced digits. He began to find a steady rhythm, worn digits sliding along the length of your cunt, letting you hold onto him as much as you pleased.

As if to even the score, you’re reaching for the front of his pants, noticing the glazed look in his eyes. John huffs, letting you touch him, palm grazing over the noticeable bulge.

A muted buzz courses through your body, legs spreading to accommodate for him, flesh burning with heat. An amalgamation of limbs and heat, your body feels sensitive, a live wire.

Any scrap of friction you received drove you mad, desperation climbing to new heights as your hips rocked forward into his hand. Planting a kiss to your jaw, he continues, hand fervently working to pleasure you.

John lowers, mouth pressing against your throat, showering your flesh in a myriad of kisses. A low moan split past your chest, thighs twitching, legs unsteady as you brush your hand over the swell in his sweatpants.

“Jesus,” He groans, low and husky beside your face, rumbled into your neck. His beard scratches ragged over your flesh, and your other hand sinks beside his ribs. “Stop teasing.” He hisses, tone audibly pitched with arousal.

His lips caress over the bend of your shoulder, to the velvety hollow between that and your throat. A string of kisses manifested there, digits continuing to caress over your slit.

The rhythm was agonizing, your body screaming with ecstasy. Bodies twist together, writhe — a mess of heady sighs, moans, grunts.

Thick digits continued to warm you, prodding against your entrance as he introduced his thumb, allowing it to circle around your clit. A sharp moan ripped through your throat, agonizing.

John’s teeth suddenly puncture the juncture between your neck and shoulder, harshly grazing over your soft skin. Another pleading moan erupts from your throat, finding pleasure in the sting of his rough bite.

As your hand worms past the waistline of his sweatpants, you’re clamoring, finding his cock, masterfully well-endowed as your digits brush over the flushed head. He’s not small by any means, causing your stomach to flip.

His cock throbbed incessantly, the pressure coiled within his abdomen, unexpectedly seizing when your hand wrapped around his length.

“Christ,” John groans into your shoulder, propped on one hand, the other buried into your cunt. His fingers stutter, fleeting, digits grazing over the bundle of nerves. “S’good.”

He’s painfully hard in your palm, bleeding heat, slick within your grasp as you give his cock several sluggish, gentler strokes. Another grunt stirs within his chest, flush to yours.

There’s a tension prevalent in his shoulders, one that slowly begins to unfurl, the more you touch him. It’s a mutual exchange of bliss, touching one another, bodies twined and grinding.

“I need you,” You sputter, a half-whine, hand moving to grasp at the nape of his neck, feeling his hips urge into your palm. “Needed you for s—so long, John.” Tapering off into a moan, his body shudders against you.

John’s gaze sears a hole through you, crackling, festering with heat as his mouth draws away from your throat. He clings to your words as if they’re a lifeline, kissing you hard, enough to make your chest burn.

Chests brush against one another, firm muscle exuding warmth, peaks of your breasts ghosting over his pectorals. It’s all teeth, tongue, and want — veiled attraction spilling to the surface.

Each kiss rips the air from your lungs, leaving you reeling, gasping as you feel his tongue prod against yours.

A whine bubbles from your throat, smitten, tongue mingling with his as the kiss turns into a mess of passion. Your fingers are carding over the back of his skull, slipping over his hair as his teeth catch on your bottom lip.

“You’ve got me.” John gruffs, blonde lashes fluttering, kissing the rugged skin beneath his eyes. He slows the kiss, savoring the sweet taste of your mouth, knowing that you are what he wants, forever.

Two fingers stroke along your cunt, gathering the warm slick there with one sluggish swipe. He’s passionate, exploratory — his digits trace back to your clit, thumb beginning to circle over it.

Between your hand stroking at his cock and his hand drawing slow circles over your clit, you’re both on the edge of combustion.

As you draw your hand along his length, caressing from the base to the flushed tip, John shudders, hips rocking forward into your palm. The sensation is maddening, coil pulled tight within his stomach, the pleasure mounting.

His thumb languidly circled your clit, other digits sliding against your cunt. You squirmed and careened forward, insides hot as liquid warmth pooled between your thighs.

“John,” You moan, singing his praises as he ruts his fingers into you, his forehead flush to yours. Noses ghost over one another, lips pressing into his with another bruising kiss. “M’close.”

Never wavering in your ministrations, your hand continued to stroke along his cock, pace developing into something evocative. It was all a haze of want, touching one another as if you were bitten by a fever.

John groaned, eyes half-lidded, pliant mouth parted as a string of satisfied grunts escaped him. As your thumb dragged over the swollen head, he nearly buckled, huffing against your mouth.

The simmering flame of desire burned brightly within the pit of your stomach, his digits continuing to piston in and out of your cunt. A cry of delight tore past your lips, nails digging crescents into the nape of his neck.

Pain throbbed, an incessant ache that rippled through your ribcage, something that you actively fought to ignore. You were too enamored with John, hovering above you, stomach tight as he nears his release.

“Christ,” He gruffs, husky and rumbling as he jolts forward another time or two, cock pulsing with heat as he curls his fingers inside of you. The reaction you have is visceral, blissful. “That’s it, that’s a good girl.” John huffs.

Instantaneous, your cunt clenched tightly around his thick fingers, hips urging forward, nearly crashing into his as his thumb nudges your clit.

The sweet nickname he uses nearly sends you into some frenzy, chewing at the inside of your cheek. You want him to say it again, but your body reacts first, blindsiding you with a white-hot haze.

Teeth lightly catch your bottom lip as the both of you reach your release, a mutual entanglement, feeling his hot spend rope over your palm. You cum on his fingers, a knot of coiled tension that unfurls with a vengeance.

Stars sweep through your vision, back arched, begging for friction as you brush against him, warmth coating the juncture between your thighs. John grunts, huffing again, the noise tantalizing as he curls into you.

It’s searing and feverish, as if you’ve been washed in fire, all-consuming. He’s touching you still, grinding over your clit, breathing heavily beside your ear as if he’s running a marathon.

Perspiration smatters along his brow, countenance furled into a look of stern bliss, lips parted to make room for another groan. There’s a mess between bodies — sweat, arousal, heat.

Drawn-out sighs escape you in an attempt to recuperate, catch your breath as you lay beneath him, legs trembling from your orgasm. It’s been a long time since someone touched you and meant it, and it was a satisfying feeling.

John moves off of you, collapsing in a muscled heap at your side, knowing he’ll have to go change again. A gap of silence stretches between the both of you, comfortable, and you’re sluggishly climbing down from your peak.

“You okay?” John murmurs, chest rising and falling, breathing beginning to steady out. His head tilts, cerulean gaze traveling over your body, appreciative — the light blankets you perfectly.

“Yeah,” Unable to stop yourself from smiling, you glance at John, half-lidded with a thinly-veiled affection. “That was really nice.” You confess, thighs still shifting together to relinquish some of the tension.

With a cocksure grin, John’s body shakes with a brief laugh, and he’s sitting up, gaze warm and never wavering from you. “Hope so,” He murmurs, planting a kiss against your jaw. “Want something to drink?”

Made you cum so hard you saw stars, and now he’s asking if you want a drink; you’re beaming, head jostling in a nod. “If you don’t mind. I think I might need a painkiller or two, too. The ache is a little much.” You sigh, and he nods.

“Right.” John is often one who prefers acts of service — it’s how he displays his devotion, his affection. He does it all seamlessly, leaving your room with a confident spring in his step.

When he returns, he’s holding a bottle of prescription ibuprofen and water, along with another change of clothes. He offers you both with a brief nod, letting you relax as he slips into your bathroom to change again.

You catch a well-lit glimpse of his body, muscles raw and sinewy, shoulders broad, a layer of sun-kissed brawn. He’s impressive, handsome, strong — your gaze travels over the labyrinth of bruises and scars.

Slipping back into your raggedy t-shirt, you take several swigs of water and a lower dosage of medication, swallowing it all down before you recline back into the pillow.

He’s crawling back into your bed, scooping you up into his embrace, keeping your good side wedged against him. Exhaustion settles in, and you’re quick to cozy up to him, hands idly tracing over his abdomen.

“I could get really used to this,” You remark, soft as he plants a kiss to your brow, palm splayed out over the small of your back. John takes comfort in that, knowing that he shares the same sentiment. “Spending the night, waking up to you, being together.”

“Yeah?” He husks, scarlet settling over his visage as he nods in agreement. “I think I could, too.” John hesitates, choosing his next words carefully. “Someone has to keep an eye on you.” He grouses, as if it’s an inconvenience.

A hint of something playful lingers within his tone, prompting you to press a kiss over his scruffy jaw. The sensation makes him preen, caging you in against his musculature.

“If it’s anyone, I’d want it to be you.” Curled beside him, you feel tired, letting the haze of exhaustion begin to overtake you. He’s spent too, eyes fluttering shut as he lets out a low hum of acknowledgment. “Falling asleep on me?”

“No,” John grumbles, nose wrinkling slightly. “Your voice is putting me to sleep.” His light teasing sends your heart soaring, and you can’t help but smile, content to have him hold you.

“Really smooth,” Pressing a kiss to his shoulder, you make yourself comfortable, eyes closing as you decide to let yourself rest. “Goodnight, John.”

His mouth quirks into the ghost of a smirk, happening to open one eye as he turns his head, mouth meeting yours in a brief kiss. “I’ll see you in the morning.” John murmurs, warm breath pluming over your cheek.

You fall asleep in his arms; the pain in your ribs subsides.

[bisexual-spiderling]

old man bucky blurb ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა

cw: age gaps, erectile dysfunyion, old man-isms

Problems where going to happen eventually. You don’t get to be a hundred something without a few complications. A few complications as in Bucky, for the life of him, can’t get hard. You were laying there so pretty, like a present waiting to be unwrapped, you’re probably sitting there confused when he immediately retreated to the bathroom. He can imagine that cute puppy dog look you’re sporting and it garners a throb. He too stubborn for viagra, or any other stupid medication. He can get it up the old fashioned way goddammit! Bucky thinks about your cute face, your soft skin, the way your hair smells, snaking his hand down the front of his boxers, giving his cock a few tugs, he actually manages a semi, he wants to bash his head into the mirror.

Bucky meets you back in bed, he tells himself he just needs a little more motivation. Some kisses, soft touches and fondling, it’ll be fine. It’s not fucking fine. “Hi.” He whispers breathily, almost shy, “Sorry I kept you waiting.” he murmurs, looming over you. “‘S okay, didn’t feel long.” You’re quick to reassure, looping your arms around him. “I—I don’t think it’s gonna happen tonight.” He says solemnly, he feels disappointed with himself. You’re young and still have a libido and needs, he wouldn’t, doesn’t, leave you hanging, he still has a working hand and mouth. Bucky just gets sulky with himself, but hearing the soft echo of your laugh soothes his frayed nerves. “Honey…it’s fine, notta big deal.” You say stroking his chestnut hair. You could never be upset with him, you knew what you were signing up for, and he’s never made you feel bad when you’re not in the mood for sex. “You look so pretty, I want you to know that, it’s not you, it’s me.” You laugh again at his cheesy phrase, giving him an affectionate squeeze.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I really am sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be.” You seal it with a kiss, cupping his stubbly chin. You squeeze him tight, he likes feeling your tits squished against head. This is good too, not as good as sinking his cock in your warm cunt, but a close second. He feels 103 all over again, truly, you keep him young.

dividers by @uzmacchiato

a/n: this was saved so long in my drafts for a reason

[bisexual-spiderling]

cradles and chaos 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x pregnant!fem!reader

warning: morning sickness, loads of fluff, and team shenanigans

summary: you wanted to surprise bucky with the news—you’re pregnant. the only problem? everyone else on the team found out first. cue the chaos.

word count: 3.5k

author's note: i love writing fics with teeth rotting fluff, genuinely love them so much! i hope you enjoy them, i love ya and stay safe out there!

requests are open! i love, love, love soft!bucky

The day started like any other.

Morning training. Groggy coffee run. Bucky kissing the top of your head before heading off to spar with Alexei and you trying not to gag at the smell of the protein powder he insisted on putting in his smoothie. Just the usual.

Until it hit you.

The wave of nausea crashed into your gut so suddenly that you barely made it to the compound bathroom in time. Knees on the cold tile, you gripped the toilet bowl and dry-heaved like you were trying to launch a demon from your oesophagus.

It was violent. Loud. And, unfortunately for you, not private.

Footsteps approached behind you, followed by a dry, unimpressed voice. “If this is your version of The Exorcist, you forgot the head spin. Come on, at least commit to the bit.”

You groaned. “Yelena, for the love of—”

She stepped inside without hesitation, casually grabbing a hair tie from her wrist and gathering your hair like this was a weekly occurrence. “Let me guess. Either Alexei made you try his ‘secret stamina shake’ again, or…” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re pregnant.”

Your blood ran cold.

“Wait,” she said, pausing mid-sentence. Her expression changed, slowly morphing into that wide-eyed look she got when she spotted a new target. “Wait. Wait.”

“Don’t—”

“YOU’RE PREGNANT.”

“Shhh!” You jumped up and flushed the toilet like it would somehow erase the moment. “Keep it down!”

Yelena’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “You are! Oh my god. I knew it. That explains the pickles and peanut butter at two in the morning. Also, the weird crying over that dog food commercial last week.”

“I was hormonal! That golden retriever had abandonment issues!”

“I’m not judging,” she said, clearly enjoying this too much. “I’m just honoured to be the first to know. Or like, second, I guess?”

You bit your lip. “…He doesn’t know yet, does he?”

She froze. “Wait. You haven’t told Bucky yet?”

You winced. “Not yet. I wanted to surprise him. Big surprise. Sweet. Emotional. Crying, maybe him, not me. I’ve cried enough.”

Yelena blinked twice. Then her hand flew to her chest in dramatic horror. “Oh my God. I am in charge of a secret. I’m responsible for withholding information from Barnes. Do you know what this means?”

“That I trust you?”

“That I’m going to be the best fucking godmother in the world.”

You finally breathed again, until she added, “Though… I am tempted to tell the others."

“Yelena.”

“Relax,” she said with a shrug. “Your secret’s safe. For now. But if you die, I get to raise the kid like a tiny assassin. Deal?”

“…Yelena.”

“Deal?”

“…Fine.”

She grinned, already scheming.

You had taken every precaution.

No more sparring. No caffeine. Your prenatal vitamins were hidden behind a bag of trail mix no one ever touched. You kept your hoodie on at all times, avoided combat drills, smiled through nausea, and faked normalcy like your life depended on it.

But Ava wasn’t the type to be fooled by quiet exits and thicker sweatshirts.

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need to. She just watched. The way a blade waits in the dark, calculating without moving. You could feel it—her eyes on you during training, her steps falling in line behind yours a little more often than before.

One morning, you reached for your weighted vest only to find it mysteriously lighter. Five pounds missing. No explanation. She said nothing.

Then one night in the rec room, you were curled up on the couch half-watching some movie you’d already forgotten the plot of, when a packet of ginger chews landed softly in your lap. You looked up, startled.

Ava didn’t turn. She was sitting in the armchair across the room, casually typing something on her tablet like she hadn’t just sniped you with snacks.

“You gagged in the elevator this morning,” she said, still not looking at you. “Second time this week.”

You blinked, fingers tightening around the ginger chews. “I—maybe I’m just coming down with something.”

She didn’t answer. Just gave the softest hum. Like she was humoring you. You waited for her to press, to demand answers, to ask what Bucky somehow hadn’t noticed yet.

But she didn’t.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” you asked after a beat, quieter now.

“I don’t care,” she said, voice flat, eyes on her screen. “Unless you get yourself killed. Then it becomes my problem.”

You exhaled through your nose, smiling despite yourself. “So this is you being… concerned?”

“This is me avoiding paperwork.”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing. Ava didn’t do affection, not in the traditional sense. She did proximity. Action. Silence that somehow felt like reassurance. She didn’t say much, but she never missed anything.

“Don’t carry anything heavy,” she added after a moment, her tone just as even, like she was reading off a grocery list.

Over the next week, you noticed the little things.

A decaf coffee cup on your desk, slid across the surface wordlessly while she passed by. Her cutting her own training short to spot you during stretches, silent and watchful, and you were never more grateful.

Once, you opened your locker and found a small bottle of prenatal vitamins tucked neatly beside your usual supplements. The label had been peeled off. There was no note. But you knew exactly where they came from.

Bucky, meanwhile, remained adorably clueless.

He still kissed your cheek every morning, still asked if you wanted spicy noodles, the ramen kind for dinner, still rubbed your back when you sighed too hard without even realising why you were sighing.

“You’ve seemed kinda tired lately,” he said one night, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You okay?”

And just like that, Bucky let it go.

The next morning, there was a new water bottle waiting on your desk. One of those fancy ones with the hours marked on the side like hydration was a full-time job. You didn’t need to guess who left it there.

Ava just knew. And that was enough.

It was bound to happen.

You were doing your best. Truly. Between Yelena’s feral excitement and Ava’s silent protection, you were managing.

Bucky was still clueless (somehow), not that you were complaining, and the rest of the team had stayed suspiciously uninvolved.

But then came Alexei.

Loud, dramatic, built like a brick wall and absolutely no understanding of what the word subtle meant.

You didn’t mean for him to find out. In fact, you weren’t even in the room when it happened.

It started in the kitchen.

You’d left your tea steeping on the counter—ginger with a splash of lemon, the only thing that didn’t make you want to retch—and stepped out to grab your hoodie from the lounge.

Two minutes. Maybe less.

And that’s when disaster struck.

Alexei strolled in, whistling some vaguely patriotic tune, spotted the mug, and immediately sniffed it like a bloodhound. You weren’t even there to defend yourself.

“Hm,” he muttered to himself. “This tea… I know this tea. My babushka (russian for grandmother) used to make this for woman in village. When they were… what’s word? With child.”

From across the kitchen island, Yelena looked up from her cereal with mild panic in her eyes.

“Do not do this,” she warned, spoon halfway to her mouth.

Alexei didn’t listen.

Instead, he sniffed the tea again, leaned back with both hands on his hips like some kind of Soviet sommelier, and declared, “It is pregnancy tea! Very good for nausea. Calms stomach. Boosts circulation. Ancient remedy.”

Yelena slowly set her spoon down. “Alexei—”

“WAIT.” His eyes widened. “IS SHE WITH CHILD?!”

You walked in just in time to see him throw both hands into the air and look around like he expected confetti to fall from the ceiling. “IS THERE A BABY? ARE WE HAVING BABY?!”

Yelena let her head thunk against the table. “You absolute moron.”

Alexei turned to her with wild-eyed enthusiasm. “YOU KNOW?!”

“Of course I knew, you donkey. Bucky doesn't, yet."

He gasped like someone had stabbed him—but dramatically, like an actor in a very bad stage play. “You betray me! I am her family. I am her protector. I am baby future grandfather!”

“I’m gonna throw up,” Yelena muttered.

And then he saw you.

Alexei’s expression softened, somehow, impossibly, turning from full-volume chaos to absolute, genuine awe. He crossed the room in two heavy strides, grabbed your hands in his like you were made of glass, and stared at you like you were the eighth wonder of the world.

“You,” he said, lowering his voice like it physically hurt him to be gentle, “are miracle.”

“Okay—”

“No, listen. You are tiny, like small baby rabbit, but you carry powerful legacy. You carry strength. Heart. Warrior blood."

Alexei cupped your face—not quite gently, but at least without crushing your skull—and nodded to himself like he was solving a world crisis. “I will protect this child with everything I have. I will teach them discipline. Honour. How to disarm man in six seconds. Also fishing.”

“Alexei—”

“Shhh.” He tapped your forehead. “Little Starfish, you are busy now. You grow hero. I will build cradle. I have plans already. And foam. And tools. Maybe missile too.”

You stared at him.

“…Please don’t put missiles near the baby.”

“Decorative.”

Yelena snorted.

Alexei turned back to her. “We need banner. And possibly anthem. Something that plays when child enters room.”

You sighed into your palm. “No one is making an anthem for the baby.”

He placed a hand over his chest. “We see.”

You didn’t mean to drag John into it. Not directly, anyway.

But desperate times called for desperate measures.

You were curled up on the compound couch one afternoon, hoodie pulled over your knees, watching a rerun of Shark Tank and trying your absolute best not to commit murder out of pure hormonal rage when the craving hit, hard, out of nowhere.

You held out for a few minutes—tried breathing, counting backwards, chewing on the inside of your cheek. But by minute five, your resolve crumbled. You pulled out your phone and fired off a text.

you up? can you get me mango gummies. and pickles and vanilla yogurt. not greek. please.

There was a pause. Then:

Walker: you want me to bring you pickles and yogurt?

You: together. in the same container. i'm gonna dip them.

Another pause. Longer.

Walker: that's weird, but I’m on my way.

True to his word, John showed up twenty minutes later, slightly out of breath like he had sprinted through a Costco. He had two grocery bags in hand and a look on his face that said he had seen war—but nothing quite like this.

“Okay,” he said, dropping the bags like they might detonate, “I got four kinds of yogurt because I didn’t know what you meant, three kinds of pickles because apparently there are options, and the mango gummies."

You blinked, mildly overwhelmed. “You're a hero."

He didn’t move. Just stood there, watching as you cracked open the yogurt, dunked a pickle, and took a bite like it was the most normal thing in the world. You let out a blissed-out sigh.

John stared, horrified. “You’re really eating that?"

“Yup.”

“Like... voluntarily?”

“It’s good.”

He sat down beside you slowly, arms crossed like a disappointed gym teacher. “I don’t think that’s how taste buds work.”

You shrugged, popping another pickle. “Maybe not for you.”

There was a long silence. Then John tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like it held answers. “Okay,” he muttered. “You cried during that dog adoption video last week.”

“So did you,” you pointed out.

“Yeah, but you sobbed. Like, full on ugly cry. For twenty minutes. Over a golden retriever named Meatball.”

“He was alone in the shelter for six years.”

“And then there’s the naps. The weird tea. The fact that Ava’s been hovering. And now you’re eating that.” He gestured vaguely at your snack combo, then narrowed his eyes.

“Wait. You sparred with me the other day and said my voice gave you a headache.”

You didn’t even look up. “Sometimes it does.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh my God. You’re pregnant.”

You froze, mid-bite.

He gasped and stood up so fast the couch groaned. “You’re pregnant, and I gave you a concussion last month!”

“I was already pregnant,” you said flatly. “You just didn’t know it.”

“Oh my God.” He started pacing, one hand on his head. “I told you to lift heavier weights. I told you to jump off that ledge. You had two plates of nachos for breakfast last week and I mocked you.”

“John—”

“I called you a sleepy turtle.”

“John,"

He turned, wild-eyed. “Am I complicit?”

You blinked. “In the pregnancy?”

He looked genuinely uncertain. You let out a long breath. “No, John. You are not.”

There was a pause. A beat of silence. Then he nodded once and walked to the kitchen like a man on a mission. A minute later, he returned with a glass of orange juice and handed it to you like it was a peace offering from a defeated warrior.

After that, he slumped onto the couch beside you with a dramatic sigh, arms flopping out over the cushions.

“I’m gonna be such a bad uncle,” he muttered.

You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

“I brought four kinds of yogurt.”

You smiled. “You’ll be great.”

Bob found out by accident.

You were in the mess hall, quietly sipping ginger tea and trying not to vomit over the smell of John’s overly seasoned reheated chili, when Bob slid into the seat across from you with a smile and a soft, “Hey.”

“Hey,” you managed.

He blinked at the tea. Then at the saltines. Then at the way you were ever-so-subtly glaring at the chili across the room like it had personally wronged you.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said too fast. “Fine. Just a headache.”

Bob’s brows pinched together. He looked concerned. Thoughtful. And then, as if connecting puzzle pieces like the others had in real time, tilted his head. “Wait. Is this… like a headache-headache or a pregnant and trying not to barf from chili fumes headache?”

You froze.

His eyes widened. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Are you—?”

You sighed, smiling sheepishly. “You weren’t supposed to find out yet.”

He immediately looked horrified. “I wasn’t supposed to find out—oh my god—was this a secret? I didn’t mean to—I just—I saw the tea and the crackers and you’re glowing a little and—"

“Bob,” you laughed, “it’s okay.”

He relaxed slightly, cheeks flushed. “Does Bucky know?”

“Not yet.”

Bob pressed his lips together. Then nodded. “I won’t say a word.”

You smiled. “Thanks, Bob.”

He hesitated. Then softly, genuinely, “Congratulations (y/n), you’re gonna be an amazing mum."

And with that, he stood, walked off quietly, and—ten minutes later—came back and wordlessly slid you a chocolate milkshake with a note taped to the cup that read:

“For when the smell finally clears. – Bob”

You stared after him as he walked off, hands in his jacket pockets, head slightly bowed like he hadn’t just completely melted your heart.

Bucky wasn’t supposed to be back yet.

You had counted on at least two more hours, just enough time to hide the half-built, borderline indestructible crib Alexei had wheeled in, distract John before he could bust out his laminated “Uncle Training Schedule,” and maybe, if the stars aligned, finally scrub the yogurt stain off your hoodie.

But the mission ended early. Debrief went faster than expected. And now your husband stood in the doorway of your shared bedroom, still in half his tactical gear, brow furrowed as he took in the scene before him.

There was a crib on the floor, if you could even call it that. John was crouched beside it, cross-legged, a wrench between his knees. Alexei was hammering something loudly and completely unnecessarily.

You were mid-movement, frozen between hiding a pink baby blanket under the bed and whisper-screaming at Alexei to shut up.

Bucky blinked, stepping forward just slightly. “Why is there… furniture in our room?”

“It’s not furniture. It’s a cradle.” Ava replied, almost flatly.

There was a beat. Bucky’s frown deepened. “Why is there a cradle in our room?”

Alexei perked up immediately, beaming, holding up what might’ve once been a baby mobile, now covered in polished throwing stars. “Because you, my friend are going to be papa!”

Silence.

The kind of silence that settled in your bones. Bucky’s eyes scanned the room slowly, the cradle, the weapons-grade mobile, the glittery “CONGRATULATIONS?” banner that Yelena had duct-taped across the headboard. And then, finally, his gaze landed on you.

He looked confused. Careful. Like he couldn’t quite trust what he was seeing.

His voice came soft, hesitant. “You’re… what?”

Your heart was hammering. You took a breath and straightened slowly, hands behind your back, nerves thrumming through your fingertips. “I was going to tell you,” you said gently. “I had a plan. There were cupcakes. A playlist.”

Bucky blinked, still reeling.

John, who had been trying very hard to fade into the wallpaper, raised a hand slightly and said, “Yelena ruined the cupcakes.”

You turned your head slowly. “John.”

“She punched one!” he said quickly.

“It had a baby face on it." Bob quipped.

Yelena’s voice floated in from the hallway. “It was smiling at me wrong!”

Bucky blinked, trying, and failing, to process any of it. His eyes drifted back to you, still full of questions, still locked somewhere between shock and awe.

And then you reached for his hands. Everything softened.

You stepped toward him slowly, reaching for his hands. He let you take them without hesitation, but still stared down at them like they didn’t quite belong to him yet.

“I didn’t want to drop this on you before a mission,” you said softly. “I wanted to wait until it felt like our moment. Something small and quiet. Just us.”

Another beat of silence. And then something shifted.

His shoulders dropped. His hands tightened around yours.

Then he looked up, and everything changed.

You watched it all happen in real time. The realisation, the wonder and the warmth. His features softened, lips parting as his eyes filled with something impossibly tender. Awe bloomed like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“You’re really having my baby,” he whispered, like the words alone could undo him.

Your throat tightened. “I’m really having your baby.”

He moved before you could say another word. One hand came up to cradle your cheek, the other curling around the small of your back as he kissed you—softly at first, then deeper, slower. Like he wanted to memorise the moment through touch, like he was anchoring himself in you.

When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy. His forehead pressed against yours, breath trembling.

“I didn’t know I could love you more than I already did,” he murmured. “But you proved me wrong.”

You smiled through the tears. “That’s my job.”

His hands slipped to your waist, pulling you against him fully. One palm eased down to rest over your stomach, warm and steady, and stayed there.

You could feel it in the way his thumb moved—small, gentle strokes over the fabric. Like he was already in love with the tiny life growing there.

A shaky laugh escaped him, part joy, part disbelief. “We’re gonna be parents.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “We are.”

He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your cheek. He couldn’t stop touching you, holding you, grounding himself in every tiny, real part of this.

You let yourself lean into it, into him, feeling more whole than you ever had in your life.

"God, I love you". Bucky said softly.

“Even after I’ve eaten yogurt-dipped pickles?” you teased gently, chin tilted up.

He pulled back just enough to raise an eyebrow. “That was you?”

“Still recovering from that." John mumbled.

Alexei cleared his throat dramatically. “I play anthem now?”

Yelena appeared in the doorway, cupcake in one hand, "Come on guys, let them have their moment.”

Bucky glanced around the room, eyes still soft but amused. “Wait. You all knew?”

Every head nodded.

He let out a slow, incredulous laugh and looked down at you again, full of something so warm it made your knees wobble.

“Well, damn,” he whispered. “Guess I’m the last to know.”

You smiled, eyes shimmering. “Yeah, but you’re the first to feel our baby kick.”

And right then, perfect, almost surreal, you felt it.

A flutter beneath his hand. A tiny, impossible shift.

His breath caught. His gaze snapped to yours. “Was that—?”

You nodded, tears spilling. “Yeah.”

“Oh my god,” he whispered, dropping to his knees in front of you, hand still over your stomach, lips brushing gently against the space just below your navel. “Hi, sweetheart. It’s me. I’m your dad.”

You laughed through your tears, fingers threading through his hair as your team stood quietly in the background, letting the room finally fall into peace.

And in that moment, with his hand on your belly, your heart in his hands, and the promise of forever in the air, Bucky looked up at you like you were his whole future.

Because you were.

[bisexual-spiderling]

"problematic tower romance"

pairing: John Walker x fem!reader

words: 6.5k

summary: John liked to remind you that he was fifteen years older than you. You liked to remind him that you honestly didn't care.

warnings: age gap (John is in his late 30s, reader is in her early 20s), mutual pining, fighting & arguing, getting together, explicit sex scenes, (wet humping, vaginal sex)

a/n: the title of this fic is inspired by the book "problematic summer romance" by Ali Hazelwood! (big recommendation, I marked so many quotes of it on my kindle) thank you for everyone who showed interest in a fic idea like this, I was so motivated to keep writing because all of you!🤍 Enjoy!

ao3 version

────୨ৎ────

Everything you knew about John Walker was contradictory.

All your life, you had been trained to spot patterns, to look at a stranger and know their weakness within seconds. And yet, months had passed after you had become one of the New Avengers and still you couldn’t figure out the riddle that was John Walker.

He was made of the strongest steel, hardened from his life and never letting down his guard – never not hiding behind the shield of his own smugness and cockiness. He was harsh and commanding and older, and if he wanted to, he could be a real pain in the ass.

But somewhere along the way, between missions and the everyday life at the tower, something between you had shifted.

On the first glance, you had nothing in common.

He had a history, tragedies that had struck his life and evidently changed it for the worse and you were a blank slate, only growing into the abilities that made you strong and valuable to the group. Where he liked to stay for himself, playing grumpy old hard-to-get, you liked to surround yourself with your new companions, quickly carving yourself a place in everyone’s hearts.

Yet, there was an invisible force pushing you together.

And there came the day where almost inevitably, John subconsciously started to look out for your smile, his ears adjusting to find your sunny laugh echoing through the space that slowly became home.

Him and you drifted towards each other, circling each other’s orbit without meaning to. Closer, closer.

Neither of you had a habit of sleeping in and so, the kitchen was often shared between the two of you in the early mornings. Silently at first and then over hushed, small conversations that grew longer and longer over time. You discovered John was a pretty good cook until you weren’t even able to imagine what it was like to start your day without his greasy cheese and bacon toasts anymore. He often almost burned the eggs when he listened to you sing quietly along to the radio, in awe and mesmerized.

When the others eventually joined you for breakfast, the coffee between you had long gone cold with conversation. One last glance shared, almost like a secret before you’d go on with your day.

You joined his training – brutal at first, but so damn efficient – and he showed you how to defend yourself better, even letting you carry his shield for practice in case you’d need it one day. John didn’t know yet what the funny tug at his heartstrings meant when he saw you with it. And when you complained over sore muscles the day after, he sneaked you a salve from his private stash. He thought no one saw it, but Yelena and Ava shot you a knowing grin as you turned away with heated cheeks.

It was surprisingly easy to mess with John. It seemed like his shoulders only lost their tension when you made a joke, your sweet laugh a comforting music to his ears.

One time, Bob and you had tried to get one of the old kitchen devices to run since you wanted to bake a cake together.

“There’s no way anyone walking this planet still knows how to use this ancient technology.” Bob quirked his mouth at you and when you saw John come to stand above the two of you, a smile was ready, tugging at the corners of your lips.

“Hmm…let’s ask John, he was born among the dinosaurs.”

He cocked a brow at you, wanting to stay unimpressed which was hard when a literal sunshine was grinning up at him. “Really? An age joke? Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, studying or something?”

You stuck your tongue out at him, his laughter warming your chest like nothing else.

On missions, there always was a shift in him and gone was your grumpy yet soft John, replaced by a sharp and focused weapon of a man who yet always found a way to look out for you. You didn’t miss the way he started to stick to your side, even if it meant breaking protocol. The ghost of his gloved hands drifting over your spine, to move you out of the way or give you an extra push to launch into an attack he had taught you.

You were becoming a team, on the job and outside of it and of course, as a woman in her twenties, you possessed good eyesight: John Walker was, almost annoyingly so, pretty fucking hot.

He wasn’t perfect, but battered yet sharp at the edges, and when he leaned over you for the first time to grab something on the table, freshly showered, white shirt and damp hair, his cologne had filled your senses and you couldn’t look away from him.

The thought of him, the idea of being with a man who wasn’t only older than you but a steady, comforting presence in your life, kept following you way into the nights until all you could think about was him and your hand inevitably drifted underneath your bed covers, fantasizing about what could be.

It was the smallest contacts that haunted you the most. 

His calloused thumb brushing over your braid. The way his eyes turned a shade darker when you looked at each other a moment too long. The warmth of his body when he brushed past you, getting to work and making you eggs the way you liked them. That one time during movie night his thigh feather lightly touched yours, your fingers drifting over a scar on his hand in the dark, barely breathing…

With the years John had on you – a decade and a half you liked to brush off as nothing when you thought of him, he was more experienced in every aspect and liked to show it. Whether it was his cut, commanding orders during missions or correcting your technique in the gym again and again, he liked to remind you that you were younger. Inexperienced to the world and its ways. Just a little doe that now played with the adults.

It drove you wild.

It turned you on more than it should’ve.

You had never wanted anyone more.

And secretly, while John beat himself up for getting a boner at the thoughts of you circling through his mind, you fully gave into them and thought: why the hell not?

During a mission in Rome, the tension between him and you had finally boiled over.

The others had stayed in New York while the two of you went to Europe, playing happy couple on a little trip while also spying on a cartel that had brought Val some trouble recently. Which meant that most of the time spent there, John was supposed to take you out on some fancy rooftop dates, with you dressed in pretty sundresses and heels as you tried to concentrate on the mission with his hand constantly on your lower back or your arm.

It also had been a shock to discover that you were actually the impulsive one in this unusual pretend-pairing, especially when this certain attribute surfaced during a chase through the narrow alleys until you had nearly caught a knife to your chest.

But John’s shield had been faster, catapulting the thing that could’ve ended your life against a wall and killing your opponent with it. For a moment, you both had stood still, breathing heavily as the reality of what could’ve happened sunk in and your eyes met. Yours confused and a little dazed, his wide and terrified. 

In the next second, you were pressed up against the wall, your thigh hooked over his waist as he kissed you desperately, senseless.

Maybe it was the aftermath of the scare, the adrenaline still pumping through both of your veins.

Or maybe what had been blossoming quietly between the two of you.

In that moment, it didn't matter.

When he had muttered a weak “We can’t…” against your lips, you only kissed him back harder, your arms secure and wanting wrapped around your neck, making him bend down to meet you.

“I don’t care.” You had whispered back, sealing your fate.

Back then, you hadn’t known yet how complicated John liked to make his own life.

The rest of the time in Rome had been spent in a dream, the mission complete, the flight scheduled soon but out of reach. The two of you had let yourselves be swallowed by the vibrant city, getting lost in the streets and old monuments, forgetting of the titles you both wore and who you were supposed to be.

An invisible question mark floated between you at all times.

Will we? when his thumb brushed over the corner of your lip to wipe away some vanilla ice cream.

Will we? when you casually entwined your fingers with his as he carried your shopping bags.

Will we? when you watched the sunset and you leaned your head against his arm, one of his hands splayed over your thigh.

During your last night, after a delicious dinner where pinkies kept brushing and electricity sparking, you finally found yourself in his hotel room, drowning in his sheets and him.

You were tangled together, all breathy moans and heated flesh, his suit and your flowy flower dress dropped and forgotten on the floor. Your silky hair splayed down on his pillow, his broad shoulders reddened from your nails scratching him passionately.

John tried to keep most of his weight off you, but you kept dragging him down.

You didn’t want to be babied. You wanted to be covered in him, swallowed up by all of him and never to be seen again. Your back arched as he hit just the right spot and you gasped into his mouth, your hand pulling him down by his sweaty nape, ready to be devoured by his kiss.

“There’s fifteen years between us.” He gasped against your neck, hips rutting into you slow and deep, his teeth gritted and hot breath lighting you on fire.

You nudged your nose with his, forcing him to look at you as you bit down on his bottom lip, hard. “Congrats on knowing how to count, John.”

Everything in you seized up when he suddenly bit down on your neck, softly licking over the mark before doing it again just because you let him. Your pussy clenched around him, ankles locking behind his back and pushing him further into madness.

There was a crazed urgency in the way his hips snapped into yours. Like he needed to get deeper, no sight of being sated yet as he fucked you into the mattress. John was everywhere, filling up your senses as he kept you full with his cock, legs spread wide around him as you held on to him for dear life.

He couldn’t look away from you if he wanted to, fascinated with your rosy cheeks and soft, parted lips.

You were soft. 

Not fragile, far from it, but precious to him and the others.

And even as if he was buried deep into your sweet warmth, all John could think about was that it was only a matter of time until he’d mess this up and break you just like everything else that used to be good in his life.

But he had never claimed to be perfect.

And so, he kept fucking you into an earth-shattering high, until your body twitched and shook in his embrace and you slowly fell asleep on his chest, his arms keeping you safe and close to him all night.

After Rome, he withdrew.

Putting a reasonable and safe distance between himself and you.

John had no bigger enemy in this world than his own mind sometimes and so, he carefully loosened his hold on your sleeping form the next morning, trying his best to shake off what had been growing so gently inside of him.

You had not realized the last time he planned to allow himself to be in a room with you was the debrief with the team after you got home. And even then, John had barely looked at you.

The next day, after sitting over cold breakfast for an hour, you understood that he wasn’t coming. And when he walked past you with Bucky later, jaw tense and face scarily neutral, something inside of you reeled back in shock. 

The first few days, you were a little lost, the happiness you had felt when you had drifted off in John’s arms fading into a numb confusion. The passionate night shared between you kept replaying itself in your mind and you wondered where things had taken a wrong turn. You hadn’t been in a relationship before and you couldn’t help but think you had done something wrong.

And John didn’t give you a chance to ask.

While life at the tower went on, John avoided you, never crossing paths at the gym and even excusing himself from conversations when he saw you approach.

At first, it was frustrating.

Then, it became infuriating.

Your hurt heart built itself a cage of anger, a constant burn in your chest following you around until one day – after a good, healing talk with the girls and Bob – you understood what the fucking problem was.

There was a deep, heavy self-hate inside of John Walker.

A guilt he couldn’t brush off, dark and ugly and making him believe after everything, he didn’t deserve happiness like the one he felt with you. After his downfall in society, the split with Olivia…what good had he done to deserve you? What gave him the right to rely on someone like you, still so young and unsullied from the world’s tragedies?

Even after the mission and time you had spent together, you haunted him in his dreams, your smile and beauty brightening up his nights until he’d wake and hate himself a little more for not being able to let go of you. The idea of you. Someone young he’d have a second chance with. John knew if you were his, he’d spend every second of his day cherishing you, spoil you rotten and keep you as happy as he could.

But you deserved better.

So, he continued to give you space. When he refused to go on another duo mission with you during the next conference, suggesting Bucky could get the job done instead, you finally had enough.

You watched him leave for the gym like a coward, determined to not give up on one of the few things that truly made you feel alive and wanted. If John wasn’t going to talk to you or acknowledge what happened, you’d have to pry yourself a way back into his life.

Manchild.

You went after him, making a quick detour to your room to change into the shortest gym shorts you could find. When you arrived, John was already blowing off steam at one of the boxing sacks, his shirt drenched with sweat.

Leaning against the wall, you watched with an aching heart, the way his muscles shook, strength and anger searing through every vein of his. John was not going to stop until he’d either thrown the sack off its hook or you found the bravery to put an end to this.

“You should take it out on me.” You spoke up after a while, bitterly.

John stilled, breath heavy as he turned around to look at you. One look, that’s all it took. “Fuck no.”

“I want you to.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Oh? Since when do you care about what you want?” You pushed yourself off the wall, glaring at him angrily. “You’ve done an excellent job to convince yourself that you don’t want me. If you want to push me away so badly, I need you to fight back.”

There was so much unspoken between the two of you.

But you were a fighter.

If the point came where words weren’t enough anymore, you still had your fists.

You launched yourself at him, a surprised grunt leaving his lips as you attacked, unhinged and frayed at your very edges. You were tired, occupied at night to think of the one in front of you and you were angry that he possessed the audacity to toss you aside like you were nothing to him.

And your body held on to this ugly knot inside of you and doubled it, making sure to throw every storm of feeling abandoned and rejected into the fight. Annoyingly easily, John slipped into defense, keeping you away as you tried to crowd him, getting all up into his space with a growl.

Sweat stuck to your exposed skin as he kept pushing you away, never attacking back.

When your closed fist hit his chest, John didn’t even flinch and it poured gasoline all over the fire inside of you. You were getting messy, not smart or strategic anymore, just trying to hit him wherever you could while he kept his defense up with a stubbornness that made you see red.

Only your heavy breathing and grunts echoed across the gym, reminding you of when he had been on top of you, his cock dragging over that mushy spot that made you see stars, your mouths melting together in a wild kiss.

A sudden sob tore its way from your throat when the skin of your knuckles broke against his solid form and you hissed, head fuzzy and swaying on your feet. John instantly lost his posture, trying to grab your wrist and check the damage.

You struggled against him, hating the way tears suddenly pricked at your eyes. “Let go ofme!”

“Hey, you have to stop- Stop, honey, stop!”

With one last raging strength, you pushed him away. Staring at him wide-eyed, you panted and felt every inch of your bruised heart beat wildly in your chest. “Really, John?! Honey? You ignore me for days, leaving every room like I’m the walking plague after you railed me into your mattress and now I’m suddenly honey?! Looking back on how you treated me, I am nothing to you, am I wrong?”

John stared back at you, hating the way your blood dripped down on the floor because of him. And the look in your beautiful eyes…he hated himself just a little more.

He rubbed his face in frustration, knowing that if he didn’t put his hands to use, he’d pull you into his arms with them. “You’re not no…fuck. I just shouldn’t have… I lost control. I was taking advantage and I’m not going to be-“

You scoffed, offended, and cut him off. “I can’t believe you. Are you seriously blaming yourself for me ending up in bed with you? God, I wish- I wish you would realize that I’m in fact an adult and have critical thinking skills. If I wanted to stay away from you, I would’ve. If I didn’t want to be close to you, Rome would’ve never happened the way it did. Do you really think I would’ve let you fuck me when I didn’t fucking want you so badly I can’t even breathe? Are you thinking this low of me, John?”

You hated the way your voice had started shaking, the insecurity of the past days rising again in your chest. For the first time, you really acknowledged the years between him and you. Your heart was young. If he was going to break it, you’d have all the time in the world to heal – but without him.

John shook his head, a tortured expression on his face. “It’s not- Christ, I could never think low of you. But this can’t happen. It’s not about you, it’s…”

Just as he wanted to turn away from you, you grabbed his shoulder and spun him back around. “Then tell me what this is about. Talk to me!”

You were standing close now, him looking down on you with dark, clouded eyes. Fighting against himself on the inside. Lowly, he said: “I’m fifteen years older than you. This is a new situation for all of us and if anything, I’m supposed to be someone who protects you, a- a friend.”

The word tasted bitter in your mouth. “Friends don’t sleep with each other like it means something.”

And just like that, the fire was back in him. “Fine, then someone who’s not taking advantage when there’s clearly a power imbalance! This is problematic.”

“You’re not taking advantage.” You urged, clinging to the little hope you had of talking some sense into him, although you felt just as mad as he did. “I want you. You want me.”

“How could I not want you?!” John exploded, muscular chest falling and rising rapidly, out of control when his heart was only screaming for you. “You’re smart and beautiful and the best thing that happened to me in months and I stood no chance, none. I’m trying to be reasonable and good for once in this new fuckery that’s my life and I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you and you keep making it so fucking hard to stay away from you.”

You were breathing each other’s air, the anger you had held on to not lose your mind slowly saying goodbye and vanishing in the depths of his blue eyes. John looked defeated and regretful and wide open and you felt yourself taking another step. Right into his space, his heart. (But that had been yours from the beginning on.)

“Then don’t.” You said simply and took his hand, his large warm palm resting in your uninjured smaller one. “I don’t want you to stay away from me. We can fight or argue or whatever it is you prefer over fucking me senseless the way I want you to. Even if there was a power balance, I wouldn’t give a fuck if it means I’d have you. I…want to be close to you and I want to fall asleep in your arms without worrying that you will disappear in the morning. But I also want to joke with you and talk and- go back to how it used to be between us. Just…don’t go back to ignoring me because I can’t take that and- I’ll murder you if you do.” You ended weakly, a sad smile on your face.

John swallowed hard, his long exhale unsteady as his thumb brushed softly over your hand. “You’re too good. I didn’t want to treat you like this, it’s just…I think I’m going to screw this over like I do with everything else in my life. If I’m ever hurting you again, I’ll gladly let you end me, honey.”

There it was again, the nickname.

Familiar and soothing.

Slowly, as if you were about to startle him, you leaned up on your tiptoes and let your lips press the smallest kiss to his stubbled jaw. Lovingly, you murmured against his skin: “Idiot.”

“I know, I know…” He pressed his lips together, his eyes so full of longing, you almost forgot to breathe. “I’m going to make this up to you. You deserve the fucking world and I’m…I’m gonna try to be better.”

You softened. “You’re already good enough for me.”

He didn’t agree, but he also didn’t argue.

Instead, John pulled you into his arms and held you against his chest. You let out a sigh, marveling at the way your head fitted perfectly under his chin, how you felt at home in the blink of an eye, cradled and loved the way you were meant to me.

“I don’t just want sex.” John murmured into your hairline, his hand rubbing circles onto your small shoulders. “I want it all, with you. If you’ll have me.”

You smiled, dazed and hopeful and wide open. “I already got you, John.”

“Good.” He nodded, his lips kissing the top of your head, then your temple, your nose. You could’ve stayed like this forever, tired out by the fight but finally at peace before his deep voice broke the silence in the gym once more. “Will you please let me look at your hand now?”

And despite the low throbbing pain in your knuckles, you laughed breathlessly into his chest.

For a while, things between John and you were fragile, careful.

What had started out as a fire out of control had simmered down to a slow exploration of each other, cautious of any more bumps his self-punishing streak could cause.

You were still doing breakfast together, but now those lazy mornings would start with neck kisses and tasting blueberries and pancakes on his lips. You still had some age jokes in the chamber and so had the rest of your team now that you didn’t hide anymore.

You were as unapologetic about your attachment as ever and you couldn’t help but beam every time John lost some of his self-hate. When your hand found his or your head needed to rest on his shoulder for a while, he’d let it happen.

At some point – you couldn’t really pinpoint how it started – John developed a habit where he couldn’t sleep without you. It started slow, with him quietly trailing after you once movie night ended, a big shadow following you to your room. He’d move in sync with you and help you out of your clothes only to put one of his shirts on you. 

In the beginning, your heart had nearly exploded when John had crawled into bed with you, his touch searching but not demanding as he moved you like a dolly until you’d fit perfectly against him and he was satisfied with the amount of his skin making contact with yours. He was kind of like an oversized teddy bear like this and when you whispered exactly that into his ear, he softly slapped your ass and cuddled you even closer.

Those were the peaceful and quiet nights at the tower.

You came to know others, too.

There were times when John still blocked you off.

There was so much guilt inside of him, suffocating him at times where he would’ve shut off completely in the past. But when he drew up his walls now, they went up with you in them. In the dark silence of his room, where everything felt too heavy and out of control, you laid yourself on top of him, a warm and very much alive safety blanket that grounded him better than any self-destructive gym session ever could.

And when you brushed some of his hair away from his forehead, taking care of his bruised soul with the softest touches and words, John knew he was going to be okay.

Magically, your things wandered over into his room over time until you couldn’t imagine anymore what it was like before, pining after one another wall to wall. Your nights always consisted of murmured conversations now, nose to nose and keeping each other warm and comfy and you resisted the urge to pinch yourself if this was really your life now. (John pinched himself on a daily basis.)

He learned every way to make love to you, sometimes sensual and slow, other times hard and fast when you both needed it to be that. You were more than smug when you discovered that John was kinda getting off on knowing you were younger now, allowing himself to love you unashamed, for all you were.

Your hunger for each other was insatiable. Ever-growing.

Like a fire you could only put out when he was balls deep inside of you and even then, John and you burned.

This morning, miraculously, he and you had stayed in bed.

You had gotten home from a quick mission a few days ago, but the time difference was still messing with your head. Since John revealed himself to be an oversized cuddly bear, you had a hard time getting out of bed early in the morning anymore. Which meant: you literally couldn’t move because his arms wouldn’t let go of you.

You stifled a little yawn, content to watch the city outside of the panorama windows for now, John’s body a steady presence against your back. You remembered having fallen asleep on top of him, but now he was spooning you, your head bedded on his bicep and his other arm slung around your waist, massive hand close to cup your chest.

It was so natural, familiar.

If your mornings started out anything different than this, without him, you didn’t want them.

You sighed happily and shifted back against his tall form, luring a sleepy groan from deep within his chest when your barely clothed bum brushed against his dick. John’s arms tightened around you and he exhaled deeply, burying his face in your neck and making you squirm as his hot breath hit the sensitive skin behind your ear.

“’morning…” He murmured, his hoarse sleepy voice sending pleasant shivers down your spine. Last night, you had ridden him like a goddess, taking him deep inside of you as he worshipped your body dutifully and let you lead. He had stayed inside afterwards, out of breath for once and a fucking goner for the girl in his lap. But now, with him so closely plastered to your back, his thumb brushing lazy circles around your rosy buds, you knew he was far from done with you.

You looked over his shoulder and touched his beard. “Hi…time to take your morning meds yet?”

His nose scrunched up, two of his fingers plucking on your nipple and making you moan between your giggling. “Fuck off.”

“Actually, no.” You grinned at him, rubbing your ass shamelessly against the growing bulge in his boxers. “Fuck me.”

John shook his head in playful disbelief, brushing your hair away from your shoulder so he could kiss your neck, all open-mouthed and wet and exactly how you craved it right now. You could already feel yourself getting wet from being so thoroughly caged in by him, no chance of escaping his sweet assault. “Such a dirty girl…you already soaked, honey?”

You grabbed his chin and led him up, kissing him filthily as he moaned into your mouth and your ass rubbed over his hard dick just right. “Come and find out, old man.”

That was every invitation he needed.

In a whirlwind, John threw the covers off the bed, leaving you unprotected and barely clothed in front of him. You bent one of your legs, showing him how wet the silky fabric of your lace panties already were, your chest blooming with hickeys and bite marks he had left on you when you had bounced on it last night.

John’s eyes darkened, fixed on the dark patch over your center. He loved the color of your hair against his navy-blue sheets. Loved how you smelled like him, how familiar you were in his space. And he loved nothing more than fucking his girl into oblivion and he licked his lips, planning to do just that.

You writhed against his sheets, beaming under his undivided attention, breath hitching when he leaned over you and parted your legs with his hips. John hummed deep in his throat, nosing at your neck as he took both your wrists and placed them up over your head. Quickly, he pulled his shorts down and threw your panties over his shoulder.

“Fuck, John…” You stared up at him, trusting and excited and he thought, if he wouldn’t get into trouble about it, he’d keep you in this room forever. Away from everyone else that wasn’t him, his to cherish and love and fuck.

“’gonna take care of my baby girl.” He mumbled, kissing down your chest before he pushed his hips forward. You both exhaled sharply when his long, curved cock slid over your wet pussy just right.

The friction was delicious and you seized up, back bowing off the bed as he started to rub himself against your core, coating his length in your arousal like it fucking belonged to him. Your fingers closed around nothing, trying to center yourself and he noticed instantly and surged down, connecting your lips in a hot lazy kiss.

“Shit, that feels s-so good…” You whimpered between kisses. Your efforts to somehow match his rhythm couldn’t compare to his authority. It was John leading, knowing what you needed. You slumped back and gasped when the tip caught at your clit, soaking it in his precum too.

“Jesus, you’re unbelievable.” John peppered kisses over your boobs, sucking them into his mouth and listening to your little moans like it was a symphony. You were ruining the bed and he fucking loved it, feeling your legs around his waist, heels digging into his butt as he kept grinding against you.

“I need you to- fuck, get inside me.” For emphasis, you bit down on his bottom lip. “Now.”

John sat back, letting go of your wrists and being immediately pulled down by you. “Greedy little thing.”

“You were the one who woke up with a boner.”

“You rubbed yourself against me.”

You winked at him. “I heard old people often just need enrichment.”

John chuckled darkly. “Oh, honey. I’m gonna fuck the sass right out of you.”

Yes please.

He sank down on you, stroking himself one more time before he slowly pushed into you. You sometimes still needed a moment – the serum had enhanced everything – and he watched carefully, the little frown on your face softening as you adjusted, your hands a bit shaky on his shoulders.

His calloused thumb circled your clit for a while and slowly, you eased up around him with a sigh.

“’s good…” You nodded and tested the waters by flexing around him, eliciting a bunch of curses from his mouth at the sudden pressure. You giggled in delight, a little unbelieving, a lot in love. He was yours and he was not going to leave again. “You can move. Don’t hold back.”

John kissed you, pulling out almost all the way before he pushed back into you, making your toes curl as he started a steady passionate rhythm. You moaned against his lips, fingers digging into his shoulders and holding onto him tight.

“Fuck yesss…” You hissed as he cupped your bum with one hand and lifted you just a little bit, the new angle allowing John to hit your g-spot just right.

“God, you’re so wet for me, honey.” John groaned, resting his head against your shoulder and moving you back and forth on his cock as if you weighed nothing at all. “’m gonna make you see stars.”

The snarky remark on your tongue died as he swiftly turned you around on your stomach before immediately pressing himself flat against your back.

“You’re mine.” He growled, hand pushing your sticky thighs apart as he buried himself in you once more, your whimper damped only briefly by the pillows before his hand came to rest easy on your throat and lifted your head. A moment later, he bit you and you convulsed around him.

He fucked into you as if he hadn’t already claimed you for himself. Full of purpose and aching need, hot-headed and adoring. John bullied his hand between you and the mattress, cupping your whole pussy with it as he grinded into you like a man possessed.

“You look so fucking beautiful, honey, so cute with your little whimpers.” He whispered into your ear, knowing he had you completely now. “’gonna come in you so deep, you’ll feel it for days. My good girl. Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight.”

You sobbed in pleasure, not caring for your drool on his pillow, trying to grab behind yourself and push him deeper.

He growled into the soft space between your shoulder blades. “Still need more of me, hm? We can fix that.”

In one swift, strong motion, he sat back on his haunches and took you with him, your whole body boneless and slumping against him, just as you had woken up. Your back against his chest, your dripping pussy now spread wide around his dick.

You shrieked, feeling him up in your belly and grabbed his hair, letting yourself be lifted and pushed down on his cock like he wanted to. The filthy sound of skin slapping against skin, combined with your shared moans, filled the room. It was fucking heaven.

With one of his hands still resting lightly on your throat, the other sneaked down and rubbed your throbbing clit and you moaned his name, head dropping onto his shoulder as he bucked wildly into you.

“J-John, I’m gonna come-“ You whimpered, reduced to only feeling him, your combined scent enveloping you and mind slipping further away as white-hot pleasure completely overwhelmed you.

“That’s it.” John gritted his teeth, spurning you on towards the edge. “Come on my cock, honey. Let me feel you. Fuck yeah-“

You screamed, falling over the edge in his arms and letting go of yourself entirely. John held you through it, his hips bucking a few more times until he came with you, both of your bodies almost melting into one as he slowly let you down on the bed and gathered your twitching body right back into his arms.

He was still inside of you and you smiled blissfully at him through your lashes, brushing a few blond strands away from his sweaty forehead. John looked absolutely wrecked for you and you couldn’t help but hide your wide smile in his chest. You were so full of him, blissed out and sleepy and he was still there, right where he belonged. With you.

“You are incredible.” John said quietly and kissed your temple, both of you slowly climbing down from your high as your breath mingled. “So, so good for me…”

“If you continue sweet talking to me like that, we’re not going to leave the bed.” You whispered while drawing little hearts on his naked chest.

John huffed out a laugh. “Not a problem for me.”

“For me neither.” You playfully bit down on his pec and he groaned underneath his breath. “Just worrying about you, y’know?”

“Ah, come on.” His hand glid over your spine, softly stroking your back and keeping you warm. You felt him softening inside of you, but it’d be only a matter of time if you kept this up. “Don’t make me proof myself like this.”

“We’ll see.” You kissed his nose contently. “I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.” John smiled, hiking your leg a little higher on his hip for comfort. It wasn’t the first time you had said it, the words lived in by now yet making his heart flutter every single time he got to say or hear them. He was home.

After a while, in the quietness of his bedroom, John blinked back at you and muttered: “I think I pulled something in my back.”

Your giggle echoed in his ears, his heart.

Recently, John was grateful for a lot of things, but above all, he was grateful that you had not given up on him and made him stay.

And now? He was never going to let go of you again.

────୨ৎ────

taglist: @sagexsenorita @ivedonemywaiting13 @soantiyou @fandom-trash-kenzie @iamthatonefangirl @gummy-little-bear @princesschyanne @starktonyx @slutfordaddyjohnwalker @olivia21blunt @somemadart @smooth-raikkonen @voidslxt

[bisexual-spiderling]

No One Has to Know What We Do

Jealous!John Walker x Thunderbolts*!Reader

Summary: Valentina forces the Team to attend a Charity Gala. Tensions are high, especially when you sharing a dance with Congressman Barnes is the talk of the gala. And John has to pretend he is unbothered.

CW: Thunderbolts* spoilers, hidden feelings, mutual pining, reader was involved in the End Game battle/is a former Avenger, Reader is a bit of a tech geek, typical Bucky vs John dynamic, Valentina being a shit (I hate and love her), media coverage, paparazzi being creeps, typical MCU violence, kinda love triangle I guess(?), mild degradation, makeout, fluff, spanking, oral f!receiving, p in v, creampie

a/n: okay I got mouthy with this, but I don't know the last time I dedicated this much time to a single fanfic. I really enjoyed laying out such a detailed story so I hope you enjoy!!! <3

word count:

title track 🎶🥂

~~~

“I have to wear… this?”

Your hands hovered around your torso. Low-cut dress hugging every curve of your body. Flattering. This just was not something you were used to. Tactical gear was usually all you wore. Unable to remember the last time you were this dressed up. Probably Tony’s funeral.

“Don’t be picky. It’s custom tailored for you,” Valentina shrugged with a smile.

No doubting that. The way it perfectly cupped your breasts and ass told you that. Never would some random dress off a rack fit you so well. Unsure how to feel. It was stunning, far more expensive than anything you had ever owned. But you could not help but think of the practicality of it. Skin tight dresses did not give you optimal movement. Especially with the heels Valentina just insisted you wear.

“What if something happens?”

“Nothing is going to happen,” Valentina sighed, turning to look at you. Head falling softly to the side, snickering, “Other than you having to fight off some bachelors tonight.”

You rolled your eyes hard. Hating Valentina’s obsession with your personal life and relationships. She knew that any press was good press, so of course it excited her to think of the possible headlines that would be plastered everywhere by tomorrow morning. ‘New Avenger spotted leaving party with Congressman!’ It made her heart beat faster. Thinking of all the coverage it would bring for the Team.

“Val,” you chastised. Arms folding over your chest as your brows furrowed. You were no stranger to her games. Setting you all up to have to swat away paparazzi for the next month over this Gala. A charity event for people who lost everything during the blip. A fundraiser that had started off small by a lady in Queens. Blossoming into something bigger with the sponsorship of Happy Hogan. All in honor of the late woman.

“Come on. You’re young. Hot. And single. You really think the boys won’t be dripping off you tonight,” Valentina shimmied her shoulders with her words.

You sighed loudly. Staring yourself down in the mirror. Shifting side to side to get a better look at the fabric of your dress. Valentina really thought she knew it all. While she was mostly correct, you made sure to keep certain personal aspects of your life hidden. Especially from her.

Like your harboring crush on one of your teammates. Super soldier. Gruff. Recently divorced. Cocksure attitude a turn off to most, but not you.

John Walker. Former Captain America. Even if it was only for a few weeks. And he made sure none of you forgot that he was Captain America. Chosen to be. Government’s number one pick. High school football champion. War veteran.

All the things he considered achievements.

Smug attitude was pretty on him. The way his eyes would light up when he made a smart comeback. The soft tug of a smirk on his lips whenever he would watch whoever he taunted get angry.

You liked him this way.

As much as you hated being this dressed up, the idea of the look on John’s face when he saw you made your stomach flutter. His eyebrows would bounce and his lips would softly part, displaying his bottom teeth. Eyes raking down your body, definitely lingering on your chest. And it would make you blush. Probably would not even be able to make complete sentences.

“Hurry up and get your shoes on. Limou will be here in ten,” Valentina stared down at her phone as she snapped her fingers. Exiting your room. Airlocks of your door shutting back. A soft hiss the only sound in the room. You sat on the edge of your bed and closed the straps of your heels. Not accustomed to wearing shoes such as these. Wobbling on your legs like a newborn deer. Strutting across your room until you got the hang of it. Large hooped earrings jingling in your ears. Necklace laying across your collar. Stopping in front of your vanity, leaning over it to look closely at your makeup. A full face. Grand departure compared to the usual mascara and lip balm you wore. False lashes and thick eyeshadow. A matte lipstick accented with a matching gloss. Highlight and contour accented your face. You bared your teeth, seeing the splotch of lipstick on them. Rubbing your finger across your teeth with a little squeak trying to get it off.

Firm knocking on your door made you jump. Thinking maybe time had slipped away from you. “Coming,” you called out to whoever it could be. Flattening your hands on your dress and walking over to the door. Ghosting your hand in front of the reader so that it would open. Expecting Yelena or the return of Valentina. Coming to tell you to hurry along. But instead you were greeted by a taller figure.

Broad chest. Navy blue suit adorning his body. Perfectly accenting his piercing blue eyes. Solid black undershirt, unbuttoned at the top. No tie, only his dirty blonde chest hair peaking out. His dog tags tucked, but the chain was shining. Hugging against his large shoulders. Metals he had been presented from his time in the military pinned to his jacket. Hair slicked back, looking tamer than it ever had in his time on the team. Beard brushed down.

Your chest tightened. Stunned with how handsome he looked. Fluttering long lashes up at him. Holding your arms firm at your sides. Wanting to rub your hands across the expansion of his chest.

John was taken aback by you. Swearing a dress had never fit someone so perfectly. Cleavage reveal just enough for him to take a peak, reverting to his gentlemanly nature and looking past them. His cheeks grew pink for a moment.

Neither of you had outright said how you felt. That made this exchange a little more awkward. Yes, you spent time together. Having movie marathons and cooking for each other. Swearing you had never had a more delectable Chicken Parmesan than John’s. And he was kind to you. Holding doors and offering you his arm as an escort. Glances in crowded rooms lasting longer than they normally would. Neither of you wanting to seem desperate.

But it just made things… difficult.

A game of cat and mouse to see who would crack first. Finding yourselves doing things to make the other mildly jealous. Wearing far too short shorts when walking around the tower, even into the crowded screening room with the other three males of your team. And John would always make sure you saw after a particularly sweaty workout. Muscles toned and throbbing, glistening with perspiration. Towel absentmindedly tossed around his neck.

“You’re kinda a slut,” John would say with his arms bulging across his chest. Joking, of course. This was how you joked back and forth. Watching you bend over to pick something up. Making sure to arch your back and stand even slower so that he could get his fill.

“Yeah? You’re kinda standing there watching like a whore,” you shrugged. Throwing the towel that you had picked up straight at him. Catching it in his large palm like it was nothing. Hooded eyes watching you walk over to him. Head tilted ever slightly.

“I’m not the one letting my ass hang out of my shorts,” John cocked a brow.

“Hmmm,” you tapped your chin, “You should though. Get you some tight, slutty camp counselor shorts. Have it say ‘U.S.A.’ across the ass cheeks. It would be a good show.”

Not letting him win. Only playing further into his game. Causing his face to flush and brows to contort when he could not come up with a clever come back.

“Shut up,” John would roll his eyes.

You would blow him a kiss as you kept walking. Unable to see his eyes lasering into you from behind. Making sure to sway your hips because you knew he was watching. Tongue wetting his bottom lip, trying not to let the way his cock throbbed be too obvious.

“Wow,” John said.

You gave him a closed mouth smile. Folding your hands over in front of yourself. Pushing up on your tiptoes and widening your eyes, “Hi, Walker.”

“You look beautiful,” he smiled.

“Thank you,” you tugged at the sides of the dress, “That suit really makes your eyes pop.”

“O-Oh, yeah? Val sent me to come get you,” he deviated, putting a fake laugh over his words.

“Limou already here?”

John nodded. Still taking in every detail of you. Wanting to make sure he kept the memory forever. You looked so good. So stunning.

You walked to the elevator together. Meeting the rest of the Team along the way. Bucky, Yelena, and Alexei. Valentina could not even begin to force Ava to attend. Not good with crowds, plus it was difficult to get an outfit that would hide her suit. And, well, Bob. Not exactly liked by the public. And she did not want to leave him alone, just in case he began spiraling. It was better to have someone stay behind just in case he needed anything.

Alexei wore a crimson red suit. Freshly shaved head glistening in the lights and jewelry decorating every finger. Sunglasses adorning the New Avengers logo on the side resting on his nose. Yelena wore a white dress. Off shoulder, hair braided along the sides. A stunning full face of makeup, complete with a glittery eye. And Bucky wore a black suit. White undershirt with a black tie. Looking very professional. Classic.

The five of you stepped into the elevator together. John, Alexei, and Yelena ended up against the back side. You and Bucky standing in front of them. Catching his sideways glances at you. Looking over at him with a smile.

Bucky leaned over, lips almost touching your ear, “You look nice.”

Your cheeks heated up at the compliment. Eyes scanning his face, catching his oceanic stare. The corner of his mouth curved upward. Brows sitting heavy on his eyes. One of them barely arching like he was challenging you.

“Thank you. So do you,” you leaned and whispered back to him.

As if everyone else in the elevator could not hear you. Yelena and Alexei exchanged a knowing glance, both of them having to hide their laughter. Yelena peered over to John. His jaw locked. Chest puffed up as his lip twitched. Vein along his temple bulging as his eyes shot through Bucky’s chest.

Yelena pinched at her father’s coat, discreetly pointing to Walker. Alexei’s eyes widened as his jaw hung slacked. Looking back to his daughter with shock. Looking like there was about to be a war tonight.

John tried to steady his breathing. Hating the little giggle that laced your response to Bucky. Becoming enraged by the way Bucky’s eyes ravaged your entire body. Knowing Bucky’s intention, and not liking it. His fists balled at his sides. Curling his fingers in and out as he tried to calm down. It would have been easier if Bucky would stop looking over at you with that shiteating grin of his.

Quickly, Yelena got her phone out to send a text updating Ava on the possible drama of the night. Ava responding almost immediately, ‘KEEP ME UPDATED.’

This was going to be fun.

Ding of the elevator door told you you had reached the ground floor. Bucky’s hand meeting the small of your back as he guided you out. His other hand casually tucked into his pocket. Rest of the team following tightly behind.

John was seeing red.

Watching how nonchalantly you followed his lead. Acting as if you did this often. The words the two of you shared were drowned out by the ringing of John’s ears. Only able to watch how you talked with one of your hands, and how Bucky kept smiling at you. It was so easy for him to hate any man who kept his eyes on you.

The sun had set. Glow of the street lamps the only thing that allowed your eyes to adjust outside. All of you stepping onto the sidewalk, greeted by a limou and Valentina in a sparkling red dress.

“What a good looking bunch!” she clapped her hands and squatted a little in excitement. Showing off her pearly whites with her chuckle. Eyes fixating on how closely you and Bucky stood. Pointing between the two of you with a grin. Widening her gaze with a bounce of her brows.

You rolled your eyes at her. Blowing your breath out hard as you crossed your arms over your chest. An over exaggerated wink was given to you.

“Alright, New Avengers, let’s get to it!” Valentina gestured towards the opened door of the limousine. None of you moved. Awkward silence only broken up by the distant sounds of the streets. Honking and buzzing of lights.

“Okay…” Valentina’s voice trailed off as she put her hands in the prayer position to her lips, “Yelena— in first!”

Yelena shrugged. Encouraging her father to join her. The two of them taking turns getting in, Alexei gave Valentina a dirty look before entering. “I can drive limousine,” Alexei gritted his teeth, words laced with anger.

“I know, big guy,” Valentina patted him on the shoulder. Nodding with her head low in defeat. Eyes widening at the remaining three of you.

“Come on,” Val encouraged.

Bucky stepped forward first, turning to offer you his hand. Accepting it graciously. Giggling softly as he led you forward. Turning to reach your free hand out of John. Grabbing him by the wrist and tugging him behind you. Stumbling at first, quick to correct his mistake. You smiled widely back at him, no longer looking at Bucky. John could not stop the way the corner of his mouth upturned in response.

The three of you taking the seats across from Yelena and Alexei. You sat in the middle of the two super soldiers. Hands folded neatly in your lap.

“Alright, Super Troopers, I’ll see you there,” Valentina waved from outside the door.

“You’re not coming with us?” Yelena questioned.

Valentina laughed, “Showing up with you ragtag bunch? Absolutely not. Keep on your best behavior, remember how many cameras will be there. I’ll find you all later. Don’t say or do anything damning!”

She slammed the door as a punctuation. All of you looking at each other with hints of confusion and bit of aggravation. For someone so invested in this New Avengers thing, Valentina sure did not dedicate herself to the group aspect as she should have. Easier for her to put the blame on all of you when things went wrong this way.

“Of course,” Yelena said unimpressed.

“Devil woman,” Alexei growled.

You chuckled. Pushing your body into John’s, looking up at him with a wide smile. “Honestly, I don’t know why I’m surprised,” you admitted looking across to Yelena. Giving her a closed mouth smile and a shrug.

All of you shared in your soft laughter. Allowing yourself to be as calm as possible before the storm that awaited you. Your hand mindlessly rested on John’s thigh for a moment. It consumed his mind. Just how easy it was for you to touch him. The way your body instinctively leaned into his. Almost like a couple. Deciding to relax his own arm across the back of the shared seat. Like it was around your shoulders, just without the blatant physical touch. Fingertips nearly touching Bucky’s metal shoulder. Reminding him of what had him angry to begin with.

Bucky peered over at John. Blue eyes telling him he was aware of the game the two of them were playing. Confirming the suspicions he had been festering on. The two boys had never gotten along. From the moment they met, there was an animosity between them. Steve Rogers’, our original Captain America’s, best friend versus the man the U.S. Government had decided to give the mantel to. There was no world in which they saw eye-to-eye. Especially after John had so distastefully disgraced Steve’s legacy. A legacy that Bucky was all too intertwined in.

You were unaware of the war waging over you. Discussing all the possible public figures you would be seeing tonight with Yelena and Alexei. Recalling some of the events of the battle against Thanos, explaining how severe everything had been leading up to the Blip. Able to vividly see all your old teammates dissipating on the battle field in Wakanda. All their dust simply floating away like they had never existed. The sound of the purple alien’s gauntlet snapping haunted your memory. Distant. Yet still the most powerful noise you had ever heard.

“You can ask Bucky. He got blipped on the battlefield,” you gestured towards him.

Pulling his attention away from his newfound rival. Oceanic eyes looking at you with contorted brows. A little confused. Only having been half listening to your conversation. You widened your eyes at him realizing that he had not been paying attention.

“The Blip..? In Wakanda,” you whispered with a smile that tried to hide your laugh.

“OH! Right, sorry,” Bucky ran his hand over his hair, “It was like one minute you were here then you were gone. Returning five years later was difficult. The world had changed, almost moved on from all of us. Everyone I knew had… changed.”

“That’s why this Gala is so important. Half our population disappeared and reappeared. Coming back to their homes being taken over. All their stuff discarded somewhere that they were forced to find, if it hadn’t been thrown away. We’re raising money so these people can get back to normal,” you said patting your hand on Bucky’s leg. Smiling at him.

John coughed trying to hide his anger. Unknowingly pulling all eight eyes on him. Causing all of you to think he was interjecting in some way. You raised a brow questioning him.

“Got something you wanna add, Walker?” Bucky challenged him.

“Uh— no. Nope. Blip was bad. You guys saved the world from a giant purple alien-guy and his army. We’re all impressed,” jealousy spat from him like venom.

Tension returned between you. The air growing tight in the small back of the limousine. John’s unbothered attitude making your stomach churn a little. Aware there had to be something else going on with him. Normally, he would not act this way when such a serious topic was brought up. You stared at him blankly. Causing the realization of what he said to wash over him. Repositioning himself so that his hands were folded in his lap, leaning himself forward a bit.

“Jesus,” Yelena whispered to Alexei. Looking to you and bouncing her eyes wide for a moment.

It was hard for you to look at John now. Awkwardness building a wall between you. Focusing your attention back to Bucky, voice hardly above a whisper. Quizzing him on statistics about the Blip. He was a Congressman after all, he needed to be able to answer any and all questions they could possibly ask him. Growing a little smug as he continued to remember each number down to the decimal. Smiling as the two of you laughed about an old joke from the days of the Avengers.

Flexing of metal fingers caught your attention.

“Your arm bothering you?” you looked down to his palm.

Fingers expanding and retracting repeatedly. Soft hum of mechanical noises meeting your ears. The black and gold digits ceased their movements at your question.

“Yeah. It’s all good. Just sometimes like to move ‘em,” Bucky’s skin between his eyebrows creased. Offering his hand to you, “Wanna feel?”

Of course you were not going to pass up an opportunity to take a closer look at some foreign tech. Gifted to him from the late Prince of Wakanda. His sister, the new Black Panther, being the tech whizz of the two of them. Shuri was gifted beyond your comprehension, so any chance to check out her work was like a gift to you. Your fingers traced the cool vibranium. Amazed by how similar it was to a real arm.

John swore he could have pulled a gun on the former Winter Soldier. Your words bleeding into a muffled hum. Only able to watch how you leaned over his lap, guiding his arm in each and every direction. Touching him. Over and over again. Each tap of nails or soft rub of fingertips had his teeth grinding.

All of you casually chatted the rest of the ride. John sat with his eyes closed. Eyebrows upturned as he tried to steady his breathing. His leg bouncing up and down as an outlet for everything he was feeling. Replaying the moment prior. Punishing himself for how he acted. It was what he deserved.

The bounce of his leg caught your attention. Eyes quickly looking to his face. The outline of his locked jaw and furrowed brows met you. Deep in thought. He was isolating himself. This was how he dealt with his emotions. Pushing everyone and everything away. Dwelling on all the bad.

You softly flattened your hand on his knee. Your thumb rubbing circles into the expensive fabric. His eyes shot open, looking at your manicured nails splayed across him. Peeking over to see your side profile. Smiling as you talked to Alexei about Steve Rogers. Your other hand wildly gesturing to emphasize your point. Not even giving John a sideways glance.

It annoyed him slightly. The casualty in which you knew how to calm him down. Ground him when he needed it. The way you smiled and it showed off your beautiful teeth. Gracing the others with the pleasure of seeing it in its entirety. Not even letting him get a look. Yet it was him who you rested your hand on. His body you had previously pressed your weight into. It was all a little confusing, which is what got under John’s skin.

The limousine halted to a stop. Caught in a line of traffic, every other vehicle seemingly arrived at the same time. You looked over your shoulder at the paparazzi outside. Clicking and flashing of far too large cameras was drowned out by the talking of everyone. Thankful for the tinted windows that hid you from their view.

Alexei chuckled in anticipation, “The Avengers will be on every cover story tomorrow!”

“That might not be a good thing,” John said as he rested his chin against his knuckles. Peering out the window at everyone dressed in their finest attire. Praying that you all would not stand out like a sore thumb. Each of your public images still on thin ice with the press.

You cringed at the thought, meeting John’s eyes and giving him a closed mouth smile. Both of you turned inward towards one another. His shoulders rose in a soft shrug. Taking a deep breath before looking back out the window.

“Not all of us publicly executed someone, Walker,” Yelena said with a mischievous grin.

John’s head quickly whipped back to look at her. Scrunching his nose up as he faked a laugh. Nodding at her, then rolling his eyes. “Yeah? Well, you have more blood on your hands than I could ever manage. So,” he scoffed, waving at her.

“Don’t start,” Bucky groaned already annoyed with this.

You lovingly rolled your eyes at the bickering. Yelena loved to get under John’s skin. Easily riling him up with a mention of his family or his time as Captain America. It usually ended with him letting all his anger out on a punching bag in the training room. Or coming to your room to vent about it all.

A thick silence filled the space. All of you waiting for the door to open. Your freedom barely a few feet away. Stuck in the tin-can with everyone holding knives at each other’s throats. You continued to watch elegant women and men strut up the stairs of the venue. Posing for pictures with their designer purses and shoes. Almost feeling inferior to the rich upper crusts.

“I’m nervous,” you closed the small gap between you and John so you could whisper into his ear.

“Yeah?” cerulean eyes looked into yours, voice low so the others could not hear.

You sighed as you nodded. Lips piercing together as you tried not to let yourself get overwhelmed. Being thrown into the spotlight was one of the most difficult adjustments of your life. Having to ignore every headline and article.

“You know how they like to talk about me in the news,” you fidgeted with one of the bangles on your wrist.

And he did know. Every chance they got, there was a new article about your personal life. Spotted at a coffee shop, walking in the park, getting lunch with an old friend. It all somehow circled back to you being, what they would call, a ‘temptress.’ You were never allowed to have casual relations with anyone. Platonic luncheons being misconstrued as another blossoming romance for you. Or worse, you sleeping around. That was the stories they liked to run most.

It all overshadowed your abilities as a hero. You could usually ignore it. But when you would walk down the streets and see magazine covers and newspaper headlines all covering where you had went to dinner the night before, it made you sick. Unsure why you had been their target so often. You were a competent fighter. Trained by S.H.I.E.L.D. and having spent some time in Wakanda learning their battle methods. Not including your intellect for building suits and weapons.

Yet somehow it was always about the newest person you were spotted with.

John hated the way your frown would tug your lips down after another story broke. People were not exactly supportive of the New Avengers. Memes and blogs dedicated to how big of a joke you all were. Forcing you all to grow tough skin. It did not change the way John’s heart would break when he saw you teary eyed sitting on one of the couches. Phone held in your hand as you scrolled through another article. Reminding him of how he had been. Falling down the rabbit hole of self hatred. He would do whatever he could to make you feel better. Sitting down beside you to show you some old video that he had found funny in his first years of basic training. Or asking if you had seen some movie or heard a new song. Anything to distract you from wallowing. Loving the way you would try and hide your laugh. Tucking your face into his shoulder as you leaned into him.

John’s hand patted your thigh. Igniting your flesh as your heart skipped a beat. Doeing your eyes up at him inquisitively. A knowing look behind his eyes accompanying the soft curve of his lip, “I also know that they’re a bunch of assholes.”

Your cheeks beamed. Smiling at him widely. This was the John you knew. Kind, knowing exactly how to make you smile. Butterflies fluttered around your stomach.

The door opened with a loud click. The loud sound of the press and attendees met your ears. Shuttering of cameras, loud questions from news reporters, all wrapped in a bow of smooth jazz blaring from some speakers.

Your chest tightened. Caging you in with your anxieties. Watching as your teammates all began out like this was a normal experience. All of them standing from their seats. It was like your feet were glued to the floor. Hands locked together as you watched Alexei and Yelena exit first. The Red Guardian shouting loudly in excitement as he waved to each camera. Yelena keeping a cool head as she always did. Waving nonchalantly to the paparazzi as they called her name.

Your time with the Avengers had not been like this. Flaunting around, feeling like celebrities on a red carpet. You were a behind the scenes type. Able to stay in the shadows unless needed out in the field. Never being the one they sent to talk to news outlets. Only tagging along to big headline events on rare occasion.

Your breath was teetering. Blinking over and over trying to will yourself to get up. The lights shining in through the door blurred. Your ears rang. Able to see the dark outline of someone offering a hand out to you. Taking it before your eyes fully refocused. Dazed as you were led out onto the steps of the venue. Able to switch into a smile as fast as your feet hit the ground. Waving with your free hand to the press as the hand remained in yours. Finally looking to see whose name would be next to yours on the newspaper tomorrow.

Navy blue suit jacket spanning across a wide back. Confidence exuding from the Super Soldier who helped you out. A smile that gleamed in the reflection of spotlights. Strawberry blonde locks and beard adorning his head.

John Walker.

It was like time slowed down when he looked over his shoulder at you. Everything around you disappeared. Cerulean eyes sparkling as they met yours. Pearly whites on display. The softest shade of pink washed over his cheeks. Swearing he had never looked so handsome. For a moment it was like he was your knight in shining armor. Like Cinderella running away from the ball, except in the hands of her suitor.

The feeling of a hand on your other wrist distracted you. Pulling you out of John’s grasp. Contorting your brows as you turned to see who had interrupted you.

Valentina.

Dragging you over to be standing with Bucky. He was already being questioned by several reporters. Microphones shoved in his face. Stern exterior never cracking for a minute. Practically being shoved into his shoulder, deep blue eyes looking over to you with a smile and soft ‘hi.’ Your hand flattened against his bicep trying to not fall in front of so many people. Bucky instinctively wrapped an arm around your waist, helping you stand. Metal fingers hugged the curve of your hip. Returning his smile with a giggle to hide how truly embarrassed you were.

Every set of eyes on you widened. For the first time, it was like all the chatter subsided. Looking around you to see all the attention on you. Feeling like you could retreat into a shell and hide forever. Your face heated up as you looked to Bucky for an answer.

“Like I was saying,” Bucky redirected to the previous question he had been asked, “Homelessness in the case of citizens who were blipped is a serious epidemic. We are working on finding solutions to this longstanding issue.”

A spark of pride shot through you. You had quizzed him well, he really did know how to handle himself. Even if he was conventionally not a good public speaker.

“And what about you, Miss Y/N?”

You took a deep breath, “The Blip really left us in a confusing state. Not only socially but economically. We are striving towards solutions that work for all parties involved.”

The reporters thanked you both as Bucky raised a hand to excuse you both. Walking along the roped in section. Posing for a handful of pictures. Waving to some people who were holding New Avengers signs. Surprised to see any kind of positive outlook on your team.

“You didn’t have to throw yourself at me to get my attention,” Bucky smirked keeping his facade steady for the cameras.

You snorted, “I didn’t. Valentina dragged me over to you.”

“That’s what I’d say too,” he leaned to whisper in your ear.

You laughed, swatting at his chest. Unfortunately aware of the photo opportunities you were giving the crowd. Stiffening your posture to try and not seem so comfortable with the Congressman. Knowing that laugh you have would haunt you for the next few weeks. Scanning the area for any sign of John. Unable to find his slicked back hair anywhere in the crowd. Able to see the entrance finally. Relief allowed your shoulders to sag. He had to be inside.

You were flagged down by a young, male reporter. Excusing yourself from Bucky, who was being pulled to a reporter on the opposite side. You smiled and greeted the man. Shocked by the lack of video camera in his partner’s hands. Only a photography camera. Snapping pictures of you as you walked over.

“Miss Y/N,” he began, cockiness dripping from his demeanor, “May I say, you look absolutely stunning tonight.”

You nodded, fisting your dress in your hands, “Thank you.”

“Must be hard to be the most attractive girl on your team.”

Your stomach churned. Brows pushing together for only a second, not allowing his cameraman to capture that expression on you.

“I’m not sure I understand—“

“Well, you get out of the limousine with our former Captain America. Just to be seen in the arms of Congressman Barnes. Do you plan on leaving the event with the Red Guardian?”

What a fucking prick.

Looking down at the pin on his lapel. Dawning on you where you had seen the name before. A podcast. Ran by the two men in front of you. The name being some shitty misogynistic ‘joke’ about female heroes. Exclusively discussing female heroes and their personal lives. Shaming and harassing women for years.

You bit the inside of your cheek, not allowing your expression to change. Realizing he had a microphone next to the pin. Must have been live streaming an episode.

“Thanks for the question,” you waved him off, walking away faster than you had approached.

“Oh, come on! Smile a little, honey!”

You scoffed, not turning to give him a second glance. Holding your dress up as you cascaded up the stairs. Reaching the top and seeing Yelena. She was leaned back against one of the pillars, talking to someone you could not see. You rushed over to her. Your hand resting on her shoulder as you greeted her. Introducing yourself to the woman she was talking to. Young, had to be new to college. She was writing a paper on the struggles of female heroes in todays society.

“Thank God I found you,” you sighed, hands resting on your hips with wide eyes. Cupping your hand around Yelena’s ear so you could whisper, “Podcast bro is here.”

Yelena gagged with a laugh. It made you feel a thousand pounds lighter. Laughing right alongside her. She was someone who understood your struggles the way other’s could not always. A certain level of understanding between girls.

“You should send Alexei down to him,” Yelena grinned.

“Oh my God,” you smirked, covering your mouth with your hand as you leaned to laugh.

“I saw all the boys go inside,” Yelena gestured with her pointer finger, “I’ll be in shortly.”

You nodded, shaking the young girl’s hand before waving goodbye to Yelena. Wishing her good luck with the paper. Heading inside to watch over the crowd below. Shocked by the sheer amount of people inside. Shoulder to shoulder. Glasses of champagne pinched between every set of fingers. Soft ballroom music played, some people danced in the center. A stylized number that had them all moving together perfectly.

A man with a tray passed by you, offering a glass to you. Accepting it with a ‘thank you’. Still feeling so out of place with the suits. An echoing belly laugh caught your attention, able to recognize it anywhere. Walking up to the old porcelain railing. Finding Alexei’s crimson suit standing alongside several other men. Recognizing Bucky’s dark hair from the balcony you stood upon. Smiling when Alexei grabbed one of the men by their shoulder harder than he probably should have.

Bucky stood with his hands in his pockets. Stiff posture and cautious eyes scanning the room. Looking up catching you, doing a double take to make sure he was seeing you correctly. Waving up at you. Catching Alexei’s attention. Pointing at you and shouting your name. It made your face flush, embarrassing you as if he was your own father. You waved with a bright smile down at the group who now all were looking at you.

While it was nice to get your eyes on most of your teammates, there was still one missing. You began to circle the upper floor, no sign of the blonde soldier. Growing a bit flustered. Making sure to hide it behind a smile. Sharing pleasantries with each person you made eye contact with.

Preparing to give up. Assuming he must have snuck off somewhere so that he did not have to be seen. Deciding you would just head down and join Bucky and Alexei.

Until a breathy voice said your name. Turning on your heel to see John, hair a little disheveled and breathing a little heavy. Like he had been running. You immediately smiled widely. Almost giddy to see him. You walked to meet him halfway.

“Hi,” you said unable to wipe the smile off your face.

“Hey,” he tried to catch his breath.

John flexed his fist. Stretching out his fingers. Looking around for your other teammates. Surprised he did not find Bucky riding your coattail. "Where is everybody?"

"Yelena's outside. Alexei and Bucky are making friends on the dance floor," you grinned, motioning behind you with your thumb.

"And you're..?"

"Hiding from paparazzi," you joked.

He nodded, hands resting on his hips, "Guess I'm doing the same."

Truly, John felt relieved that you were alone. Expecting Bucky to be making the moves on you. After the look he gave him when his hand wrapped on your waist, all bets were off. Chivalry being the last thing on his mind from that moment onward. He had to get some air. Storming off to the side of the building. Pushing past each and every reporter that questioned him. Hands tethering through his hair as he squatted against the cold exterior. Needing to calm down before he made a fool of himself and the entire team. Putting himself back to the moment you got out of the limousine together. The way your eyes sparkled when you looked at him. Like he was the hero in your own personal fairytale. No one had looked at him like that in so long.

Finally able to take a real breath. Standing up and composing himself. Flattening down his coat and pants. Starting to round the corner when he heard your voice. Peeking around the corner to see you being questioned by a young man. Admiring the way you composed yourself, until he heard that stupid fucking question come from the boy. Not fully convinced he had heard him correctly. Watching the way you tensed up and your face flushed. Stammering out a question before he continued. Insinuating things about you that simply were not true. The look in your eyes as you all but ran from the idiots set John off.

Waiting until the two boys stepped away snickering to act. The two of them taking hits of their small vapes before John grabbed them by their collars. Shrieking like their entire lives flashed before their eyes. Confused and scared. John made sure to rip the two small microphones off their lapels and smash them into the concrete. The boys not recognizing the man whose hands were pinning them up against the wall at first. Curses falling from their mouths over and over. John's eyes lasered into them. Ready to strike.

"You guys like picking on pretty girls?"

The two boys choked, hands clawing and prying at John's arms. Holding them firmly up in the air.

"H-Holy shit. Bro, it's John Walker," the camera boy strained and swatted at his partner.

John looked between them, pulling forward to slam them back once more, "Answer the fucking question!"

"Jesus Christ, dude! You're, like, the exact type of guy we do the show for!"

That only enraged him more. His public image really had gone completely down the drain. Losing all credibility he had as the residential good boy on the block. Painted a monster and complete asshole to the public. If they were going to see him that way, he might as well give them a reason to.

"You don't know a thing about me," John all but growled.

"Oh, I get it," the cocky main man started, "Your little girlfriend send you over here? Thought she was plenty capable to fight her own fights. Poor Y/N, needing her junior varsity boy-toy to come save her from the mean men on the internet," he mocked John.

John stared at them. His head falling forward as he released his grip slowly on the two of them. Their feet met the ground, but they were frozen. John's shoulders bounced as he laughed. Confusing them further. Giving them a moment to really think they had won.

"Um, dude—"

John reared back and punched the main boy in the mouth. Knocking him to the ground. Swiftly repeating the action on the camera man. The two boys laid unconscious on the ground. John shook his fist before straightening his coat. Fixing his appearance before returning to the event.

" 'm just happy I finally caught up with you," John smiled.

"Me too. I'm feeling a little out of my element here," you tried to hide your nerves.

"And about earlier—"

"Y/N, I'd like you to meet Congressman Gary," Bucky's voice interrupted.

Quick to plaster on your most convincing smile. Extending your hand out to him, "It's a pleasure, Congressman."

"Please, the pleasure is mine," he smiled.

"John F. Walker," he stepped forward offering his hand to the politician, "Former Captain America."

"Oh, I know who you are, son," his tone reeked of disdain.

It was like a shot directly through John's chest. Overtly aware of the way everyone here perceived him. Not expecting such blatant disrespect, especially from a member of Congress. In the country he gave everything to defend. Just for them to kick him to the curb when he did something they did not approve of. Moreso something that made their public image look bad.

You tapped your fingers discreetly along John's palm to let him know that what the man had said was not okay. At least he would always have you on his side.

"Congressman Gary has invited the two of us down to his table," Bucky explained, "Care to join us?"

"Oh! Uh—" you looked to John whose brows were upturned slightly, "Well, I... What about—"

"She'd love to, Buck," John answered for you, his hand splaying along your lower back. Urging you forward into the arms of his enemy. Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head as you looked up at John. Silently questioning why he would do this.

John knew it was important to you to get your name and reputation cleared. Conversing with a Congressman certainly had to give you some form of credibility that outshined the tabloids. Even if it meant he was practically waving a white flag to Bucky.

"I think she can answer for herself, Walker," Bucky quipped monotonous.

John glared at him. Anger coursing through his veins. Ready to settle things with the older soldier outside.

"John—"

He leaned down so he could whisper in your ear, "It's okay. I know this is important for you. Make the most of it. We can catch up later, sweetheart."

Addition of the pet name caused your face to flush. Reluctantly being pulled away by Bucky. Looking back at John. He resembled an abandoned puppy. Blue eyes wide and pleading with you to come running back into his arms. Tucking his hands into his pockets as the forced smile faded from his face. Walking away from where you were being led. Losing sight of him in the crowds of people.

Refocusing your view forward. Bucky led you through the crowds of people effortlessly. Offering you his hand to assist you down the stairs. Smiling as you mumbled to yourself with each step. Coaching yourself through keeping balance.

The table full of bureaucrats narrowed in your vision. All their eyes looking to you and Bucky. He introduced you, leading to an abundance of handshakes and pleasantries. Pulling the vacant chair out for you, pushing you in. Taking the seat directly beside you.

It felt like a million years. Answering question after question. Discussion after discussion. The Adamantium Conflict. The Housing Crisis. Dimensional Rifts. Reminding yourself that you were representing all your fellow Thunderbolts*. Making sure you answered with dignity and grace. Catching Bucky’s eyes throughout the conversations. A soft smile tugged at his lips as he intently listened to you.

Eventually, the conversation fizzled out. Politicians discussing their vacation homes and house boats. Completely out of touch with the issues at hand. Unsurprising to you.

You scanned the room for your other teammates. Alexei was sharing war stories with a group of elderly veterans. Sharing how different things seemed from his point of view. Idealizing the States in a way. Yelena was off speaking highly of her late sister. Making sure to keep her legacy alive, she saved the world after all. And, of course, Bucky beside you.

John was no where to be found. It crossed your mind that he may have left. Everyone had been rather cruel to him tonight, you could not blame him if he did not want to stay around.

You clicked your nails on the table. Lost completely in thought, finally able to attempt at a clear head. Looking around at all the bright lights and dazzling decor. Bucky’s hand rested on yours, pulling your attention to him.

“I could listen to you talk for hours,” Bucky admitted.

Your face flushed, “Thank you.”

You had known Bucky longer than your other Teammates. Flirtatious nature was nothing new to him; he was a playboy back before he got sent off to war. Causing you to assume it was just how he played with you. Never considering his advances were legitimate. Because who didn’t he flirt with?

Hooded blue eyes stared into yours. Like looking into the ocean during a storm. Dark hair and beard accenting his lighter features perfectly. Years of trauma and experience highlighting his forehead and eyes with their roadmap. He was gorgeous.

But something was not right to you.

Scooting of chairs behind you caught your attention. Turning to see all the congressmen extending hands out to their dates and escorting them to the dance floor. Each of them taking a waltz position and gracefully stepping to the music.

So you watched as elegant attendees danced together. Long dresses cascading atop of the porcelain. Heels clicking on the polished floor. Slow strum of the live band calmed you. One of the blue suits causing you to day dream. Imagining you and John centered on the floor. His hand on your hip as you danced together. Losing yourself in his skyline eyes. Everyone around you fading away. Soft smile painting his face as he held eye contact with you. Dipping you and finally—

“Care to join me?”

Bucky had rose from his chair with a hand extended out to you. You blinked.

Cameras shuttered.

Your public image.

“Of course,” you happily accepted. Walking hand and hand out to the middle of the dance floor. One of your hands on his shoulder and the other held in his. His other hand rested on your waist. All eyes were on the two Avengers. Sharing a formal dance so publicly.

Bucky led you. Stepping perfectly in time with the slow, loving music. You analyzed his face. Soft scars decorating his forehead and cheeks. Clearly from his years as the Winter Soldier. The mix of greying hairs in his beard made you grin. Sometimes you forgot just how old he truly was.

“Lots of people watching us tonight,” Bucky’s voice was low. Speaking through his teeth so no lingering eyes could decipher his words.

“I know,” you looked around to see almost every table staring and whispering. Unable to hear their words due to the speakers next to your ears. Able to read their expressions, knowing these journalists would have a heyday.

“Does it make you nervous?”

You whipped your head back to him. Eyebrows knitting for a moment, “Nothing makes me nervous.”

Your guard was up suddenly. Not wanting to show any sign of weakness to your team leader. Easier to lie than be vulnerable.

Bucky chuckled. Eyes squinting up as he smiled.

You glared at him.

He leaned in so that his lips ghosted against your ear, “Do I make you nervous?”

Your bodies were pressed perfectly together. The hand that had been on his shoulder now splayed along his broad back. Heat radiated off your face. Close proximity and the way his breath fanned along your neck had your head fuzzy. His fingertips dug into your lower back with his question. Awaiting some form of a response. Satisfied when you gasped lowly.

“Of course not,” you whispered back.

Bucky pulled back grinning. Spinning you when the music kicked up. You tried to understand him. His intentions were not clear. Unsure if this was longing or lust. Not liking the conclusion you had jumped to.

“What’s your game here, Congressman Barnes?” your voice was low and sultry. Teasing trying to get his facade to break.

Suddenly, he dipped you backwards. Your eyes widened as you looked up at him. Eyes sparkling with the chandelier above.

“Whatever you want it to be,” he barely said.

There was an eruption of clapping when the song ending. Making you abundantly aware of the spectacle you had been giving. Not even noticing that the dance floor was empty other than the two of you. Encased in a circle of Bucky’s fellow politicians.

Your throat tightened. The room closing in around you as you caught the eyes of each individual person. Some confused, some awestruck, some disgusted. It was all so overwhelming.

Bucky pulled your hand up to his mouth. Featherlight lips planted themselves there. Your eyes widened as you stared at him. Ears slowly beginning to ring from embarrassment. Cameras flashes. A pit formed in your stomach.

This was all wrong.

Valentina finally met the two of you on the floor. Applauding and laughing. Smile spanning from ear to ear as she spoke to the press before either of you got the chance. You looked around the room as Val smiled for the camera. Shoulders heaving with each deep breath you took. Sweat beaming along your neck and down your back.

Catching a familiar set of eyes.

Everything around you slowed. All air being punched out of your lungs. His face was scalding red. Standing out harshly against his navy blue suit. Brows laying harshly across his eyes as he stared at you. Cold. Distant. Alarming.

John had witnessed the whole thing. Down to the finer details. The way Bucky’s hands held onto you like you belonged to him. How you followed his every move and your bodies looked so perfect pressed together. A hole forming in his chest. Stomach knotting.

This was wrong.

Your eyes welled up immediately. How could you let this all happen? You started over to him when Valentina grabbed you by the wrist. You shook your head as you watched John disappear out a side door. The slam causing all the sound to return to you. Bombarded with questions and microphones. Bucky’s arm wrapped loosely around you like before. It was all too much for you to fake happiness. Only able to fight back tears and a broken voice.

How did this happen?

John stormed into a far too tall corridor a few halls down from the main floor. Screaming louder than he had in some time. Punching out a piece of a concrete pillar. Every inch of his body was shaking. Veins on his neck bulging as he strained. He was a fool. Practically handing you over to Bucky just for such a grand spectacle to be made.

Things used to be easy for him. High School Sweethearts with Olivia. A beautiful son he loved dearly. High ranking in the military. Being given the honor of becoming the new Captain America.

It was all ripped from him. Claw marks left in his wake. Achievements. Accolades. Friends. Family. Respect. All gone. His name was a blotch on any and every headline. Causing more people disgust than faith.

He was unsure how much more he could handle. Ready to give it all up until the Thunderbolts* saved him. Finally finding people who saw him as a normal, breathing human being. Flaws and past mistakes not damning to everyone. Only a small part of what made him John Walker. Able to find comfort and validation from the New Avengers. Befriending Bob Reynolds, who he lovingly called ‘Bobby’, bonding with Alexei over shared recipes and cooking tips, razzing back and forth with Ava and Yelena; it had became a family to him.

Especially with you.

Knowing he could fall into your arms at any moment. You were like the warm light from inside when he had been locked out in the cold. Welcoming him with a warm embrace. There was no sign of uncertainty or judgement from you. Even when he would lie and puff his chest to seem bigger and tougher than he was emotionally. Or when you two would get agitated and begin name calling. Slowly beginning to laugh as the you came up with a stupid sounding insult. Unable to remain angry at each other for too long. You liked him for him. When he looked at you, he knew where his home was. Even if neither of you were ever willing to admit it.

And maybe it was all one sided. He was coming to terms with that. Accepting a life where he had to watch from afar as Bucky got the girl of his dreams. Got to hold you every night. Wake up next to you each morning. Simply getting the privilege to be yours.

No.

He could not accept this. Not like this. Forehead pressed into the column, an arm rested above his head. Teeth grinding together as he tried to regain composure. Faint and distant voices alerted him from above. Steadying his breathing as to not give away his cover. Focusing his ears to understand them.

"Didn't you hear? Barnes and Y/L/N are an item," one woman gossiped to her friend. A labored gasp escaping the other woman. Giggling together.

"No!"

"Saw the headline the other day. Guess tonight confirms it," she sipped her drink.

"Sure does like to get around, doesn't she? Thought she had settled down with one of those older Avengers."

John's jaw locked. Fists bruising at his sides. Nails almost breaking the skin in his palm. Blood boiling below the surface. Nostrils flaring with his concentrated breaths. Like a bull having a red flag waved before him. If he had to hear one more stranger utter your name he swore he would lose his mind. Lip twitching as the two women walked off somewhere, voices carrying with them.

You were the topic of all discussion tonight.

Rage was overflowing from him. All these strangers discussing his girl. Acting as if they knew you at all. Painting you as some villain amongst heroes. His teeth were clamped so tight that it was shocking one had not busted yet. Huffing like a bull about to charge. His chest ached. Molten hot blood pumped through his veins as he spiraled with each new thought that entered his mind.

Your hands on Bucky’s chest. Sultry smiles on both your faces. Everyone around you approving and celebrating. Bucky’s hands on your waist and back. Lips nearing in—

“FUCK—“ John punched the same pillar. Losing himself to his anger. Hands scraping against his scalp as he ruffled his own hair. Palm slamming repeatedly against his temple trying to stop the thoughts that intruded him.

This was not going to happen.

Luckily, the crowd around you had died down. Your hands folded neatly in front of you as you stood off to the side. Leaned against a wall as you watched your teammates discuss things with politicians and news outlets. Maybe they would say something that got this target off your back. Sick and tired of being the center of attention.

Your opportunity was here. You could sneak off, even if it was just for a moment. Fresh air calling your name like a siren to a sailor. Taking one final look around the room before slowing backing to meet the door. Discretely escaping into the big empty corridor. Fingers flexing at your sides as you took multiple deep breaths. Looking up at the windows and how the moon shined down on you.

Silence.

Peaceful.

You closed your eyes and flattened a hand over your chest. Feeling the low thump of your heartbeat. Clearing your mind of all the struggles of the evening.

Except one.

John. The pain on his face when the paparazzi and crowds flooded you and Bucky. How quickly he fled from you. It made you nauseous.

Regretting not confessing your feelings to him before tonight. Maybe then all of this would not have been so misconstrued. At the end of the day, you had no interest in a relationship with Bucky. He was charming and would make a wonderful husband… for someone other than you.

John was all you wanted.

And you wish you had told him before now.

The door beside you creaked. Composing yourself so that whoever was going to enter would not see how you were breaking.

A firm grasp pulled you into the vacant hallway. Your back scuffing against the cold porcelain wall. Air escaping your lungs as you grunted from the sheer force. Opening your eyes to see cerulean bulbs staring at you. Brows knitted so tightly together they could have been one.

Sound of your heartbeat thumped against your eardrums. Only able to take small quick breaths, lungs never refilling. Bruising fingertips dug into your shoulders. Keeping you still.

“J-John…?”

Predatory eyes glued into yours. Feeling like a bunny trapped in the jaws of a coyote. Teeth sinking further until you were paralyzed. Knowing any second it would all be over. Fear pumped through your veins in the meantime.

John’s head cocked slowly to the side. Scanning trained eyes down your figure. Soft twitch of his upper lip barely noticeable. Sweat began to form along your brow. Swallowing your dry mouth. Bottom lip quivering as you tried to speak.

His hand came up to caress your jaw. Fingers splaying softly against the side of your jugular. Burning from his touch. Thumb padding at your lip. Dragging it down with his digit. Gently rubbing circles into your jaw with it afterward.

“Everyone’s favorite girl tonight,” his voice was raspy and low.

“Wh-what?”

“All these eyes. All over you. Little Miss Popular,” he smiled, more so resembling a snarl.

You rested your head against the wall behind you, angling your chin so that you could hold eye contact. His pupils were like black holes. Sucking you in, and there was no getting away from him.

"I've been trying to be with you all night," you admitted coyly.

"Barnes keeps taking you from me," he breathed. Jealousy spitting from him like venom. His stern eyes analyzed your reaction. Slight twitch of your eyebrow irritating him.

“You liked it, didn’t you?”

Your stomach flipped, “John—“

“Liked having two guys fight over you,” his hand outlined your side, leading down to your hip, “Getting to be the center of attention tonight. Able to make two super soldiers crumble with a simple flutter of your lashes. Makes you feel real powerful, doesn’t it?”

This was a side of him you had never seen. Overtaken by jealousy for your colleague. Interrogating you like you were a foreign enemy. Intimidating glare locked onto your face.

And you would be lying if you said it did not have every inch of you tingling. Your head was spinning. Musky cologne overwhelming your nostrils. Wanting to touch him. To pull him flush against your body, just to say you could feel him. You mouthed words that could not form. Not sure exactly what he wanted from you like this.

His nose was narrowing in on yours. Lips barely separated as you breathed the same air. Trying to stay as quiet as possible. Almost too afraid to speak and run the other off. The silence was thick. Suffocating you. John’s fingertips dug into your hip, the other hand resting against the wall next to your head.

“Want me to give you back to him?”

You shook your head immediately, “I want you…”

John groaned, eyes squinting shut for a moment. His forehead falling against yours as his lip quivered. Labored breaths rolling throughout his torso.

“Say it again,” John grumbled, fingers bruising your skin.

“I don’t want Bucky. John… I want you,” you said a little more confident. Hands finally mustering the courage to touch him. Flattening against his chest, roaming every inch of his upper half. Fingertips dancing against his chest hair peaking out of his collar.

John’s hand cupped your cheek. Instinctively leaning into his touch and closing your eyes. A low whimper bubbling in the back of your throat. Driving John mad. The feeling of your hands all over him, the way you gave in so easily to his touch, how your voice was lined with desperation; he needed you more than ever.

His head tilted slightly. Slowly and gently pressing his lips to yours. Sparks ignited deep within your guts. Lips locking into yours like they were made for one another. Your arms snaked around his shoulders, folding hands over the back of his neck. His tongue prodded at your lips, testing the waters. You allowed him access as you shifted to meet his lips. Lapping into your mouth as if you were his last meal. Trying to get every last taste on his tongue.

His hands roamed down your back, splaying along your spine and pushing you against his front. Able to feel the stiffening outline at his groin. It heated up your skin, face flushing entirely at the idea. Lips ventured down your throat. Kissing and experimenting with teeth along your pulse. You gasped softly when one of his canines grazed you. Wanting to mark you as his. Leave hickeys and bite marks all where anyone and everyone could see. Especially Congressman Barnes. Teach him to stay away from you.

But he knew better. Knew that would only cause more rumors to spiral, something he could not put on you. He supposed he could wait until he got you alone. Leave some serious marking on your chest. A secret only the two of you would know.

Tapping of shoes against linoleum causes you both to jump. They were above you. Two pairs. Heavier than the ones John had previously heard. Their deeper voices echoed throughout the vacant room. John quickly planted his hand over your mouth. Raising his other finger to his mouth to make sure you would stay quiet. Taking control of the situation. It made your core pulse. His eyes looked upward like it helped him focus on their voices.

“Barnes and Y/L/N. Who would have thought,” one of the men muttered.

“I don’t care. I’m just relieved this is going to take all the heat off the Gala’s back. We’ll be lucky if those two boys don’t make this event the joke of the year,” the other replied.

John’s eyes peered to yours. Jealousy brewing behind his irises. You widened your eyes at him, shrugging.

“It’s probably a good thing someone finally kicked their asses. I don’t even know why they would give those two bozos a media pass. All they do is sexually harass women,” the first man sighed.

John blinked rapidly. His head lowering for a moment. Almost like he was trying to come up with a cover.

You arched your eyebrows at him. Guilt clear on his face.

“Yeah, yeah. Woman haters and all that. Who isn’t?” their voices carried away. Remaining in the position John had you held in waiting until they were completely gone. No more footsteps. No more chattering.

John pulled his hand away from your mouth. Taking a deep breath as he looked at you. You smirked knowingly, “John…”

He gritted his teeth as he scoffed. Rolling his eyes over exaggerated. Palming against his hair as he rolled his shoulders. Blown pupils looking into yours. Quickly tucking his face back against your neck.

“I heard what they said to you. Had to teach them a lesson,” he grumbled finishing his sentence with a kiss.

Heat bloomed in your chest. The fact he had taken care of those shitty podcast bros just because they disrespected you. Almost like an ownership over you. As badly as you needed to scold him in this moment, you were flattered. Your protector.

John hooked one of his hands around the back of your thigh. Arching it around his waist as he inhaled deeply. Taking in the smell of you like he would possibly forget it one day. Stiffened member rested against your core. Layers of clothing making it a little more difficult to feel, but he was there. One of your hands tangled in the back of his hair. Whispering sweet little moans into his ear.

You were driving him absolutely insane. His restraint was slipping with each breathless sigh in his ear. Each swipe of his tongue against your collar. How perfectly your bodies felt pressed together. He had waited so long for you, longer than he was ever willing to wait before. It was all about to crumble.

His hand roamed under your dress. Skillful fingertips finding the band of your panties, tugging at it. Rimming the waistline, barely dipping his fingers beneath. Hungry lips traveled up your throat, resting open on the sensitive spot right below your ear. Huffing loudly like all the air had been punched out of him.

“Need you,” was all he could force out. Rolling his hips against your core. Chasing the feeling of your warmth. You cracked out a moan. Gingerly, he pressed kisses along your jawline, “Tell me you need me too.”

It was almost desperate. His insecurities showing for barely a moment. Wanting validation. Needing to hear you say how badly you needed him. Vindicating all his actions tonight. His anger. Jealousy. Loss of control.

“I need you, but… we can’t… not here,” you sighed, one hand clawing against his back muscles.

“I’ll run back to that goddamn tower with you in my arms if it means I can have you,” John admitted.

“We can catch a cab,” you suggested instead. The implication that he was this wound up had your head fuzzy. John pulled back to meet your gaze. Smiling widely.

In a flash, you were being dragged out the side exit. John helped you down the stairs, making sure to keep a pretty image for any wandering eyes. Walking a little funny to hide the tent that was pitching in his slacks. Walking a short distance down the street to get away from the glitz and glam of the Gala. Catching a standard yellow cab. John let you in first.

John instructed the driver of the address. Leaning back and planting his hands firmly in his lap. Something shifted when you left the highly tense environment of the banquet. Almost like neither of you would dare look at the other. Lines of streetlights would pass over each of your faces. Staring out the windows on either side of the cab. Your heart was racing. Pulse thudding against your eardrums. Your entire body was hot to the touch. It all seemed fake, maybe that was why you did not dare make eye contact. Too afraid of pushing the other away. It was intimate.

John rested his hand on the small space between your seats. Catching your attention, almost like an invitation. You grazed your fingertips over the top of his hand. Watching how he tried to look over at you without moving his head. His cheeks were red. Leg bouncing with anticipation. Your fingers wrapped around his palm, makeshift hand holding.

Goosebumps traced down his arms. Swallowing the large lump that had swollen in his throat. After harboring all these feelings for you for so long in secret, it felt fake. Never could he have believed you would reciprocate.

You shifted in the back of the cab. Scooting and closing the distance between you. John barely dared to turn his head, soft eyes meeting yours. You flattened a hand on his thigh, pushing yourself against him. Your lips trailed up his neck to his ear. Barely leaving kisses in your wake. His lip quivered. Arm snaking around you to grip onto your hip. His tongue darted out to wet his drying lips.

“Your room or mine?” you traced a finger up his thigh, landing on the place he longed for you most. Palming him slowly overtop his zipper.

His head fell backwards as he sighed. Trying to catch his breath and form a cognitive thought. His lips were parted as he attempted to think. Digits bruising into your side.

“Come on, Cap. Give me an answer,” you teased, kissing up his jaw and resting your mouth directly next to his.

John shivered.

“Keep it up and we won’t make it inside,” his voice had dropped an octave. Eyes completely black and hungry. Capturing your lips in his. His other hand coming up to grasp your face, holding you in place as he shifted. Guiding you onto his lap, straddling his thigh. You gasped. Friction feeling obscenely good against your core. Rolling your hips slowly. Breaking the kiss to press your forehead into his. Panting the same air between you. Trying your hardest to stay quiet. Until he bucked his leg up forcing you to rut against his strong muscle. You whined as you fell into him.

You were like two wild animals. Not caring about your driver. Not caring how desperate you seemed. Just needed friction and warmth. Wanting to be as close together as possible.

You held your breath as the vehicle stopped. Looking out the window to the front of the New Avenger’s Tower. Relieved to not see any lingering cameramen. John thanked the driver and paid before practically yanking you out.

Swiftly retreating into what would now be your safe haven. His hand was firm on your wrist. Tugging you into the elevator. His hands were on your face before he could even think. Kissing you again. Both of you giggling and smiling as he pushed you back into the wall.

“Mine,” he muttered barely audible, “All mine.”

It had you trembling. The elevator stalled and you both stiffened up. Having to prepare just in case the two remaining members of your team just so happened to be in the hallway. The doors slid open and John peeked his head out. Able to hear the speakers of the television from behind Bob’s door. Ava was no where in sight. Given, she could be basically anywhere she wanted in an instant.

He reached his hand back to you, pushing his finger to his lips as he guided you out. Both your far too fancy shoes clicked against the waxed floor. Traversing the dark hall, your end goal basically in your grasp. You both held your breath when you reached his door. Binging of the keypad made him cringe, like someone was blaring an airhorn in this silence.

The door breathed open. Giddily, John allowed you to step inside first. Making sure to lock the door behind you both. It was dark. Moonlight beaming through the far too tall transom window above his bedside. Stars barely visual from the light pollution of the city. His room was well kept. Bed made perfectly. Not a single piece of discarded clothing to be found. Not surprising for the veteran, that boot camp spirit still resided in his chest.

“Finally alone,” his voice echoed off the heightened walls. Hands outlining the curves of your figure. Coming up to grope at your breast, your back pressed perfectly against him. Greedy lips kissed up the back of your neck. You shivered.

“I’ve wanted to tear this dress off you since I first saw you today,” John growled in your ear as his hands crinkled the fabric between them. You leaned further into him, arching your ass so that it pressed firmly into his groin. His hands began to pull the zipper down your back. Exposing your bare skin to the chill of his room. Starting to push it off your shoulder when you spun around to stop him.

“Eager, eager,” you chastised with a grin.

John’s brows bounced up his forehead as he stared at your chest. Loose dress slipping to reveal more of your breast, barely teasing at your nipples.

“Can you blame me? I’ve had to watch you flaunt around all night. Rubbing your hands all over me in the limou then flirting with Bucky right in front of me? You’re a goddamn tease,” John snickered, hint of jealousy spitting with his words.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you squeezed your arms together at your front so that your breasts pressed together, faming ignorance. The fabric of your dress was barely holding on at the curve of your chest. John’s eyes could not leave the temptation. Swearing that if he stared hard enough all your clothes would fly off.

You stepped and grabbed at his suit jacket. Trailing gentle digits up it and beginning to edge it off his shoulders, “How can you call me a tease when you’re dressed like… this.”

John’s head fell to the side, sizing you up. Expression flat and eyes analytical. Shining in the reflection of the moon. Lips sealed fighting off the smile that wanted to creep across his face. Cocky eyes urging you to continued.

“Shirt unbuttoned showing off your chest,” you opened his jacket, “Stupid fucking dog tags that you knew I’d see.”

You had made an offhand comment once about them dangling in your face as he fucked you… a joke, or atleast at the time what you thought was a joke.

John shedded the overcoat into the floor. Muscles bulging against the size-too-small black button down. Plush bit of his tummy pressing against the bottom buttons. Still fit, just more of a dad bod than his active days in the military. Slow and sensually, he undid his buttons. One by one. Painstakingly slow and taunting. Revealing his chest that was decorated in unkempt hair. Freckles and scars. Chain dangling along his clavicle. He looked fucking delicious.

You gawked at him. Eyes raking down and landing on the bulge in his dress pants. John snapped his fingers, pointing them to his eyes, “Your turn.”

Rushing to your core. His demanding side turning you on more than you ever thought it would. You needed him. Desire to please him filling every bit of your being. You slowly began rolling your dress off your shoulders. Just before your bare breasts were revealed, you turned your back to him. Sliding it off so that your entire back was visible. Fancy fabric pooling around your ankles, revealing the lace thong you wore.

John grunted in disapproval and arousal. Eyes raking down the curve of your ass. Beautifully accented by the lace. You looked over your shoulder at him, lip pulled between your teeth. Grin pulling at the corners of your lips. Darkened pupils locked harshly on the sides of your rear spilling out the sides of your panties. Jumping up to meet yours, eyebrow arched.

His shoes clicked against the floor as he walked over to you. Harsh hands pushed you forward. Your front slamming into the mattress. Back arching off it. Soft linens adorned its top. You were shocked at the sheer force he used against you. Calloused digits ghosted down your sides, digging firmly into the dips of your hips. A growl escaping his throat as he massaged the tender and plump flesh, “Always a fucking tease with you.”

You gasped when he planted a firm smack to your skin. The crack echoes across the walls reverberating in your core. You whined. Arching yourself further into his touch. Hands became kind suddenly when he rubbed them against the red forming mark. Outlining the whale tail at your lower back. Stretching the lace with one finger, hooking around to begin pulling it down. Losing patience and ripping them effortlessly.

Cold air fanned over your core. Causing your throbbing cunt to pulse around nothing for a moment. Needing his touch more than you realized when you felt how slick your folds were. You squirmed trying to urge him into touching you, earning yourself a click of his tongue. Your breasts pressed into the soft duvet, nipples hardening as you rubbed against it.

“What is it, baby? Wanting me to touch you? Huh?” one of his hands turned and cascaded down the curve of your cheek. Fingertips nearly touching your puffy lips. His hint of mockery had you gasping for air. Needing him.

“Please John,” you practically whimpered.

“Pretty when you’re this desperate,” he slid one finger through your lips. Coating himself in your juices as it coaxed up to your nub. Circling it slow with hardly any pressure. It was nearly painful. Your hips bucked and your lungs tightened.

You felt him lean over your back. His bare front tickling your now sweat ridden skin as he planted a kiss on your shoulder blade. Then the middle of your spine. Then your lower back. Then your ass cheek. Creeping his way down to where he wanted to devour you. Imagining you would taste like heaven wrapped in a beautiful little bow. Gifted to him like he had finally earned it. A break of some kind. His leg up on his fellow super soldier. It was finally his chance to be happy.

Abruptly, a finger pushed between your folds. Sinking itself halfway into your hole. You called out. His name a prayer that had been withheld from you for so long. It made him gleam.

His other hand flattened against your stomach, pushing you into a more angled arch. Ass in the air and pussy lips directly in front of his foaming mouth. He was drooling at the sight. Pretty and needy, just how he imagined you would be. He cooed your name before lapping into you.

Relentless assault of his tongue had you shifting and almost crying from how good he felt. His finger circled your clit as he pistoned his tongue in and out of your hole. Tasting as sweet as honey. The finest delicacy he had ever had the honor of feasting on.

And he was good. Almost too good. Like he already knew the ins-and-outs of your body. The way the slow drag of his finger made you tense and near your orgasm. It had been some time since you were able to find release. Too busy to even begin to think of touching yourself.

John was panting as he continued to work you. Groaning and huffing, sounds growing sloppy as you coated his face. Chasing your high. Walls beginning to tense up.

“You gonna cum on my tongue?”

“Uh-huh—“ you called out with a cry.

“Think Bucky could ever make you feel this good?” John growled between your legs.

You shook your head profusely. Tears welling at the corners of your eyes.

“Say it,” his deep voice boomed through your body.

“No, John. Only you,” you whined. Grinding against his mouth to get closer and closer to sweet bliss. Repeating yourself half coherently as you squinted your eyes.

“That’s it,” John praised, “Give it all to me.”

Air was a faltering force. White lights flashed behind your eyes as you came on his face. Pushing yourself back against his mouth. His beard scraping along you perfectly as he forced his tongue as deep as possible. Mumbling and groaning as you contorted around him. Thighs and calves shaking uncontrollably.

You fell forward. Huffing desperately. Difficult to control your body as it started to come down from its high. “So fucking good, John,” you whispered breathlessly.

It flowed straight to his cock. His mouth wet from devouring you. Wiping himself off on the back of his hand. Wicked grin behind you hidden. You were already drunk in ecstasy. It made him excited. The way his finger was slick with your remnant. The way his name barely mixed with your labored breaths. The way your body tingled and twitched. He was losing himself to it all.

After cleaning his finger off with his tongue, he tenderly patted your side. Understanding your brain was mush by now. Helping you flip onto your back. Hooded eyes stared up at him. Teetering on the line of slumber simply from how good it all felt.

John looked like a man who had just won a race. Shoulders rising and falling rapidly. A glint in his eyes like he was being handed over the grand prize.

You were his trophy.

How you spread your legs to welcome his body between them. Your arms barely reaching out to him, begging for his weight on yours. He snickered at your limp body. “One orgasm and you’re already begging for more?”

You puckered your bottom lip at him. Doeing your eyes up at him with a slight tilt of your head. His stomach twisted. Knowing you were one of the strongest people he knew. Knowing you took shit from no one. He had seen you kick the asses of enemies more times than he could count, just for you to smile at him right after. So to see you so small and needy below him… it awoke something inside him.

John rose to his full height. Finally throwing his dress shirt off his body. Quick to whip his belt from his hips and throw it onto the floor. His pants following suite. Cock straining against the thin elastic fabric of his boxer-briefs. Thick. Curved into his thigh. No other distinguishable features… yet.

He was fit. Thighs and stomach bulging with strong muscles. Arms an obvious muscular asset. Gorgeous. Handsome. Knowing he must have been crowned the Prom King his Senior Year. Every girl would’ve had a crush on him.

“John,” you swooned, “You are so pretty.”

His face flushed at the blunt compliment. All your previous cryptic comments and personality gone. Throwing everything on the table, damn the consequences.

He grinned as he crawled between your legs. Arms framing beside your ribcage, lips falling against your collar. “Yeah? That’s something coming from the Gala’s Favorite Avenger,” he kissed up your neck.

You were growing antsy. Needing to see, and feel, his cock. You had danced around each other for too long. Your patience was gone.

“I need it,” you whined rolling your hips upward.

John’s eyes sparkled as he looked up at you. Cockiness on his brow as he showed off perfect teeth. “Hmmm,” he started, “I don’t know what you mean, sweetheart. Need what exactly?”

“Fuck you,” you spit.

John laughed at your break. Frustration building up inside you like pressure inside a slow cooker. Kissing you once more as he crawled higher, his nose hovering above yours.

You clawed up at him. Nails scratching down his hairy chest. His eyes fell closed, savoring the nice sting. He was enamored by any and everything you did. You were his.

“Is that what you want?”

You suddenly became embarrassed under his strong gaze. Turning your head to avoid his eyes. John chuckled, hand coming up to pinch your chin between tight fingers. Forcing you to look up at him. Smug, and ungodly handsome.

“Don’t act like you have a problem talking,” he smirked.

“I hate you,” you scowled.

“I know, I know. That’s why you’re cumming on my face, right? Why you think I’m so pretty?”

Your hands framed his face, trying to force an intimidating expression. Losing it when his eyes softened as they looked into yours. Smiling like you were the love of his life. Like there was nothing else in the world but you. And it made you shift.

Pulling his lips down to meet yours, “Please. I want to feel you, John.”

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this,” John smiled, breath fanning down your face at the confession. He was quick to force his underwear off his body. Cock lewdly smacking against his stomach. Tip flushed red and swollen, a thick vein running around it. Gorgeous. Every fucking inch of him was.

He framed his cock with his hand, hooking one of your legs around his hip. Lining up with your entrance. Looking up at your face once more, “You… want this, right?”

“More than anything,” you knocked away his insecurity.

The corner of his mouth curved for only a moment. Pushing only the head in. Steadying himself. Eyes squinting shut as his brows knitted in thought. Concentration. He would not last long inside you.

Slowly, he pulled back and pushed back in. Taking a few thrusts for you to adjust to him. His hips laid against yours. Heavy balls cradled against your ass. His jaw twitched as he stared in your eyes. You both were breathing with your mouths open.

He began a slow paced rhythm. Not long until his more aggressive urges took over. Slamming into you over and over again. His head craned to watch how your hole welcomed him over and over. Perfect. Designed by God just for him.

He lowered himself, arching an arm around you and pulling you to his chest. Hitting inside you with a new angle. Grunting in your ear with every move of hips. Kissing the side of your face, “Perfect. Fits me perfectly, Y/N.”

You whined his name. Nails close to breaking the skin of his hard back. A secondary wave approaching you, “J-John— I’m gonna cum.”

“I can feel it, baby. Me too,” he admitted. Hips growing erratic and messy. Just chasing that sweet spot inside you. The tip of his cock would bump your cervix occasionally. Sending electrical shocks throughout you. You dug your heels into his back, kissing him with a loud moan.

You came unraveled around him once more. Walls tightening around his cock, pushing him over his own edge. He groaned as he forced his hips flush with yours. Shooting white hot seed as deep into your womb as you would allow it. Almost like finally claiming you as his and his alone. Swearing there was an admission of something more that escaped under his breath. Not that you would acknowledge it.

John slumped against you. Sweat sticking your bodies together. Cock slowly softening inside your walls. The occasional aftershock causing him to want to stay inside you forever. He rolled over, pulling you with him. You both winced as he slipped out.

Comforting, familiar silence filled the space. You nuzzled up beside him, your chin resting on his shoulder as you circled a nail around his bare chest. Tickling the hair that decorated along it. Watching how his chest rapidly rose and fell. Stamina higher than a standard man, but still he got winded.

“Did you… really knock those guys out just for me?”

John’s muscles tensed up. Leaning to look at you. Your eyes were dewy and wide. Convincing yourself there had to be another reason for his actions. Maybe they said something about his ex-wife. Maybe they were dogging him for being an absent father. Maybe—

“Of course I did,” John breathed out.

Your face heated up. Eyebrows rising at his admission. Lips parting as you looked at him in awe. He smiled softly, hooded eyes gazing longingly into yours.

John leaned and placed a kiss against your head, “No one talks to my girl like that.”

You pushed yourself up to kiss his cheek.

Your knight in shining armor.

~~~

*Bonus*

Ava smirked as she watched you and John stumble into his bedroom. Trying to stay quiet, but it did not matter for her. She was able to keep quieter than anyone else. Which was how she hid at the end of the hallway where neither of you noticed her. Perks of her rather painful powers.

She grabbed her phone from her pocket, quickly texting Yelena, ‘Romeo and Juliet just got back.’

Yelena only responded with several question marks.

‘Paris still there with you?’ referring to the Shakespearean tragedy.

Yelena looked around. Realizing you had vanished after becoming the star of the dance floor. Noting how Bucky was still here, but John was not. Quickly putting the pieces of Ava’s cryptic joke together.

‘Y/N AND JOHN?!?!’ Yelena typed out with wide eyes.

Ava simply responded with a thumbs up. Giggling to herself as she phased back into the living room to text her friend until she returned. She would be lying if she said she had not been Team Walker for you.

~~~

[END]

// Thank you so much for reading! I know I went heavy into detail with this one, but I just love the idea of two guys fighter over Reader when she only has feelings for one of them. I think John and Bucky are two of the most complex characters we have, so I enjoy writing for them both. I look forward to writing more. As always, my inbox is always open. Send me requests, questions, or anything else you wanna! Comments and Reblogs are appreciated! Love ya //

{tags}

@puppygar ~ @somemadart ~ @person-005 ~ @witchygagirl ~ @illyrianbrat ~ @fire-joestar ~ @imtherain ~

[bisexual-spiderling]

under my skin

john walker x reader

word count: 7.2k

summary: what first begins as a series of bad luck shows you a different side of the man who normally drives you crazy.

warnings/tags: a lot of banter, jealous walker, no use of y/n, forced close proximity trope, sprinkle of hurt/comfort, minor injury, kissing and suggestiveness, not explicit but mdni

author's note: if someone had told me a few years ago that i would be writing for john walker, i would have laughed in their face. but god, he was fun to write.

“We can take a break. If you need to.”

Walker snorts. He doesn’t even look down at you – just keeps trekking through the dense woods at the same brisk pace that he has been since he picked you up and carried out you of the old military base the two of you had been tasked with surveilling before you were ambushed and everything went to shit.

You've lost track of time at this point, but you know it's getting late by the way the golden hour sun filters through the trees.

“Thanks,” he huffs sarcastically. “But I don't need to take a break.”

He readjusts you in his arms, tightening his hold under your thighs and back. You wince at the movement, a sharp pain radiating from your injured knee. He glances down when you hiss, a brief flicker of concern in his eyes before his gaze is back on the trail ahead of you.

He's been carrying you bridal style for miles and has yet to break a sweat. Saying you’re uncomfortable would be putting it mildly – your busted knee is throbbing and your neck is aching from nonstop effort to resist resting your face against his chest. But you don’t dare complain – not when you know he’s likely still irritated with you for being a fuckin’ klutz and getting yourself injured.

You're on thin ice as it is. One more smart-ass remark and it wouldn’t surprise you if he sits you on a tree stump and leaves you to hobble back to the car on your one good leg.

“Besides,” he continues as he looks up to the sky. “We need to keep going. It’s going to start raining soon.”

“Rain?” You follow his gaze up to the sky. It’s mostly blocked by tree branches, but from what you can see, it’s perfectly sunny. “The weather report didn’t say anything about rain this morning.”

“Can't always trust the weather report,” he sighs, shaking his head. “I trust my senses. And I can smell that it's going to rain.”

You roll your eyes with exaggerated annoyance. “And what exactly, Mr. Military Man, does rain smell like?”

You’re just testing him. He makes it too fucking easy sometimes. Plus, you need some entertainment for the last portion of this walk. Why did he have to park so far away?

“It’s… you know, earthy. Musky,” he shrugs, jostling you in his arms again. “The smell is produced by a chemical reaction with plant oils and bacteria when there’s an increase in humidity and moisture. There’s a name for it. It’s called, uh...”

“Petrichor.” You finish his sentence, and then purse your lips to resist smirking as you look up at him in amusement.

He looks down at you, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Yeah. That’s it. Petrichor.”

You find yourself staring at him for a split-second too long. “Maybe you’re smarter than you look, Walker,” you jab, trying to ignore the fact that you’d been thinking about how blue his eyes are in this lighting.

As soon as he opens his mouth to retort, a low clap of thunder rolls in the distance. You hear the pitter-patter of rain colliding against the canopy of branches above you a second before you feel the drops hit your skin.

“Shit!” you exclaim, futilely wiping the water off of your face with your arm that isn’t wrapped around his neck.

“Told you,” Walker grunts as he begins to increase his pace to a jog.

Despite the trees surrounding you acting as an umbrella, you’re both sopping wet within minutes. The rain starts as a drizzle and quickly turns into a downpour, soaking through your tactical suit. After what feels like an eternity, the red Jeep that you’d driven comes into view from where he had parked on a roadside pull-off at the edge of the woods.

He seamlessly opens the passenger side door and maneuvers you into your seat before running to the driver's side and hopping in.

“Jesus Christ,” you huff, as if you’re the one who just carried another human being through miles of woods during a thunderstorm. Walker turns the key in the ignition, violently shaking his head to rid his hair of some of the water dripping from his blond locks. The drops fly all over the leather interior of the rental car, and hit you in the face.

“What are you? A dog?” you groan, retrieving your cell phone from the glove box to call Yelena with an update.

“It’s not like you aren’t already sopping wet,” he snaps. “Now buckle up.”

You roll your eyes, only halfway paying attention to him as you scroll through your recent calls to find Yelena’s name. Just as you’re about to call her, he curses under his breath and leans over, reaching across you to yank your seat belt over your chest and lap, clicking it into the buckle.

You narrow your eyes at him, momentarily surprised. “That was unnecessary. All you had to do was say please.”

“Please stop making my job more difficult. How about that?”

“Good boy. Now, will you please drive?”

He stares at you, jaw clenched, and shifts into drive.

The two of you exchange only necessary words for the duration of the drive. You fill Yelena in on your current predicament – fucked up knee, drenched clothes, and a thunderstorm that is bordering on dangerous to drive in. She suggests getting motel rooms for the night and waiting until morning to catch a flight back to New York instead of traveling in such inclement conditions. Exhausted and uncomfortable, even you and Walker aren’t stubborn enough to put up much of an argument.

You're in a small town in northern Georgia – the kind of town that no one has heard of except for the thousand or so people that live there. One bank, one drugstore, a couple mom and pop diners, and yep, you guessed it – a singular small inn with a vacancy sign glowing in neon letters.

Walker parks as close as he can to the entrance, and then opens the door for you as you limp inside before going back out into the rain to get both his and your bags.

“Hi,” you greet the small, elderly woman behind the front desk. She looks up from her computer screen, eyes wide and brows raised when she takes in your wet, disheveled state. “I need to get two rooms for the night, please.”

She gives you a polite smile and nod before she starts clicking around the computer screen. Walker walks through the door a second later, a duffel bag on each arm.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman apologizes, looking between the two of you. “We actually only have one room available right now.”

You dig your teeth into your bottom lip to resist the urge to curse out loud. Could one more thing go wrong today? What have you done to deserve such a string of bad luck?

There’s no other hotels within a ten mile radius, and this heavy rain isn’t safe to keep driving in. You’re wet, and tired, and your knee is screaming at you to lay the fuck down and ice it.

“Does the room have – is it – are there two beds?” You stutter out. Sharing a room with Walker isn’t ideal, but you figure you can cope if you have your own beds. He is uncharacteristically quiet beside you.

The woman, whose name tag reads Arlene, glances back down at the screen in front of her for a brief moment before looking back up at you with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, dear. It’s only one bed. But it is a king…” she trails off, eyeing Walker up and down. “So there should be plenty of room.”

You exhale, brainstorming a solution to this predicament. One of you could take the room, and the other could sleep in the Jeep, you suppose. The backseat is pretty roomy…

“We’ll take it,” Walker tells her when you start to open your mouth. You look at him with furrowed brows. “What? I’m not driving anymore tonight. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

You don’t have the energy to protest. You pay for the room before you have the chance to overthink it.

It’s not like you haven’t shared rooms with your teammates before. Hell, you technically have shared a room with Walker before – Walker, and Yelena, and Ava. But never just Walker.

While you're relieved to have someplace dry and comfortable to sleep for the night, there’s a small part of you – a part deep in the pit of your stomach – that feels nervous. When it comes down to it, you trust John Walker with your life. But when faced with the realization that you're going to be sharing a bedroom with him, your thoughts flash back to being cradled against his chest for well over an hour.

You hate to admit it to yourself, but you didn’t exactly mind it. It felt secure. A little awkward at first, sure. But also safe.

And then there was the moment in the car when he took it upon himself to buckle your seatbelt. It should have pissed you off – he’s so damn bossy and impatient. It normally takes little to nothing for him to get under your skin.

Should have and normally being the key words.

You don’t know how to come to terms with the fact that it sent a rush of adrenaline through you. All you could think to do in that moment was deflect with sarcasm so that he wouldn’t pick up on the way you held your breath and your heart rate spiked at the small act of dominance.

You had every intention of catching a flight to New York and pushing those thoughts to the very back of your mind until you’re back home, where he will inevitably piss you off by leaving his dirty dishes in the sink or eating the last of your yogurts without asking you.

Instead, you’ll be spending the next twelve hours with him in a three hundred square foot room with only one bed while you attempt to not dwell on these sudden, unwelcome thoughts.

“I’m gonna go get some ice for your knee,” he announces as soon as you enter the room. He drops the duffel bags and his shield at the bottom of the bed as you begin to take off your combat boots. “There’s a diner right across the road. What do you want to eat?”

You shrug, slightly taken aback by the thoughtfulness. It dawns on you that the two of you haven’t eaten since before your flight this morning. “Oh, uh – just a burger and fries is fine. Or a salad. Or chicken sandwich. Thanks.”

He nods, not phased by your indecisiveness. “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” you tell him as he starts to exit the room. “I’m just going to shower off really quick while you’re out.”

He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, turning to look at you like you’ve grown a second head. “No, you're not.”

“What?” you snap. “What’s the problem?”

“You have a bum leg,” he retorts like it’s obvious. “You can barely walk. The last thing I need is you falling in the shower and cracking your head open while I’m not here. Just wait until I get back.”

So fucking bossy. But for some reason, it doesn’t annoy you as much as it typically would.

“Fine,” you huff. “Don’t get washed away by the storm. I’m starving and can't fend for myself right now, after all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighs, opening the door and rolling his eyes as he walks back into the motel hallway.

After the door clicks shut behind him, you take several deep, calming breaths. How dare you let yourself be flustered over Walker, of all people?

It’s a stretch to even call him your friend. Sure, the two of you technically live together. Go on morning runs together, and train together, and work together. Eat breakfast and dinner together most days, and spend a decent amount of free time together on your days off.

But you do all of those things with all of your teammates, too. None of them make you want to throttle their necks on a regular basis. So why is it that Walker has you so worked up?

All you know is that you need to get these wet clothes off of your body so that you can lay down without drenching the bed.

With your knee now swollen to the size of a softball, this proves to be a task that is easier said than done. You'd never admit it to him, but Walker is right – it’s probably smart that you don’t risk showering while he’s gone. You can’t put any pressure on your left leg and your balance is fucked.

Once you’re out of the wet tactical suit and changed into a pair of shorts and a crewneck sweatshirt, you finally plop down onto the bed and turn on the Roku television to find something to watch to pass the time. You prop an extra pillow beneath your knee to elevate it a bit, and silently wish that you had told Walker to stop by the Walgreens down the road to get you some ibuprofen.

You’re sure that he would if you’d just call or text him and ask, but you’ve already been quite an inconvenience today, and you don’t want to ask anything else of him right now. Maybe he has some in his duffel bag – though you highly doubt it, since super soldiers rarely have the need for over the counter pain relievers.

After losing track of time scrolling through movie titles on the TV, you select some generic looking action-comedy that you think is right up Walker’s alley. Checking the time on your phone, you realize that he’s been gone for quite a while. The diner is directly across the road from the motel, so you expected him to be back fairly quickly.

Maybe the diner is just busy? Sure, it's storming like crazy, but it is a Friday night and it’s one of the only restaurants in town.

Just when you open your and Walker’s message thread to send him a text and make sure he’s okay, you hear the beeping of a key card as it’s inserted and removed from the door lock. A second later, Walker enters the room with a few plastic bags, somehow even wetter than he was after your stroll through the forest just a little while ago.

You put your phone on the nightstand beside you, choosing to keep it to yourself that you were about to send him a message to check in on him.

Of course he’s okay. He’s a fucking super soldier. He can handle going across the road in a thunderstorm to get some food.

“Oh, hey,” he exclaims, looking at the movie playing on the TV. “I’ve been wanting to watch this.”

You can’t help but grin at the fact that you’d been right.

“Some schmuck forgot to log out of their Netflix account before they checked out.”

He passes one of the take-out bags to you. “One burger with fries and a side salad.”

You happily take the bag from him, your stomach growling at the smell of the greasy diner food.

“And,” he continues, reaching into a bag that you hadn’t noticed. “Some extra strength Tylenol.” He retrieves a small bottle from the bag and tosses it to you from where he stands at the foot of the bed.

“Oh,” you quip, catching the bottle. “Uh – thanks, Walker. I appreciate it.”

He gives an awkward shrug. “Can’t say I never did anything for you. Grabbed a few water bottles, too.”

You dig into your food in hopes that it will distract you from the way your stomach fluttered when you realized he had gone out of his way to get you the medicine – without you even asking.

It really isn’t a big deal. It’s a five dollar bottle of over the counter pills. But Walker doesn’t exactly go around anticipating the needs of others – especially not at the expense of his own convenience. Still, you know better than to read into it. You’re just tired and the events of today are clouding your judgment.

Clearly. That’s the only explanation for why you’re experiencing what can only be described as butterflies over John Walker.

Once you finish scarfing down your food, you cram the garbage back inside the take-out bag and force yourself into a standing position despite your body's protests. You desperately want to shower, even just to have a few minutes kind of alone with your thoughts.

Walker, still in the middle of eating his own burger at the small desk in front of the bed, turns his attention away from the movie and to you.

“I’m going to take a shower now,” you explain simply, grabbing your duffel bag before limping towards the bathroom on the other side of the small room. You pause at the door when you hear footsteps behind you, turning to face him.

“Are you wanting to join me? Or…?” You ask sarcastically.

“Jesus,” he huffs, taking a step back and throwing his hands up. His face flushes pink. “No. I'm just going to wait behind the door and make sure you get into the shower okay.”

You roll your eyes. “I promise I’m capable of getting in the shower.” You can tell by the hesitant look on his face that he isn’t convinced. “I’ll yell if I need anything. Okay? Sit down and finish your food.”

You step into the bathroom, shutting the door in his face as he tells you to be careful in an annoyed tone.

Holy hell. Has he always been such a mother hen?

No, there’s no way. You would have noticed it on any of the other dozen or so jobs that you’ve worked with him in the last few months. He’s being uncharacteristically protective and considerate, and despite the fact that there’s a small part of you that almost likes it, you don’t understand the sudden shift in behavior.

Once you’ve managed to get into the shower without any further injury, you stand beneath the scalding hot stream of water until your thoughts stop racing and your skin feels blistered.

••••••

By the time you finish your shower and post-shower routines, it’s just after eight o’clock. Walker retrieves some ice from the motel lobby and assembles a makeshift ice pack for your knee before going to take a shower himself.

You’re halfway paying attention to the fight sequence unfolding on the screen in front of you when he exits the bathroom in only a pair of black sweatpants. No shirt, hair dripping, and skin flushed pink from the heat of the shower.

Taken by surprise, your eyes freeze on him as he walks by you. Luckily, he doesn’t notice your gaze and you snap out of it before he turns to face you as he pulls a t-shirt from his bag and then yanks it over his head.

Six foot two and well over two hundred pounds of pure muscle – you’re not blind. He looks damn good, but you’re not about to let him know that you think so.

Fucker. There’s no way that was an accident. How does someone remember to take a pair of pants with them into the bathroom but somehow forget their shirt?

You bite your tongue, holding back the smart-ass comments that threaten to spill from your mouth. Something in your gut tells you that’s exactly how he’s hoping you’ll react, and you aren’t going to give him that satisfaction so easily.

“Are you ready to go to sleep? Or do you want to keep watching the movie?” You ask instead.

You’re ready to turn the lights off and pass the fuck out, but he'd been a good partner today, and only a fraction as annoying as he normally is, so you figure it won’t kill you to show a little consideration for his wants, too.

Maybe it's the tone of your voice or the look on your face, but he seems to pick up on the fact that you have no real desire to continue watching this movie.

“I’m beat.” He yawns dramatically, stretching for emphasis. “Carrying you for miles really wore me out.”

You grab the closest pillow to you and chuck it towards his head. “You know, I was going to offer to let you take the bed, but after that comment, I think I’ll stay right where I’m at.”

He catches it with ease and laughs as he tosses it to the ground, in between the bed and the motel door – directly beside you. He grabs a spare blanket that's folded at the bottom of the mattress and then sinks to his knees.

“I promise, I've had far worse sleeping conditions than this.”

You know he's just joking around, but something about the comment gets to you more than it should. All of the far worse places that he had to sleep during his time in the Army flash through your mind and make you feel a pang of guilt for hogging an entire king sized bed to yourself.

“What?” He asks, kneeling on the floor next to you. It hits you that you're just staring at him.

Before you can overthink it, the words are pouring from your mouth.

“Just get in the bed.”

“What?” He repeats, this time in bewilderment. He looks at you like he isn’t sure if he heard you correctly – or like you’re pulling a prank on him.

“You heard me,” you sigh, pressing the power button on the TV remote and turning it off. “This bed is huge. There's no sense in you sleeping on the cold, hard floor when you don't have to.”

His eyes flicker between you and the empty space on the bed beside you. “Are you sure? It's not that big of a deal. I can sleep on the flo—”

“John, get in the fucking bed.”

He closes his mouth, an indecipherable expression on his face. He hesitates for a second longer, and then stands up with the pillow that you'd thrown at him.

“Okay. Scoot over.”

“What?” you chuckle. “Why do I need to scoot over? Just take the other side.”

“Because I want to be closest to the door,” he says like it’s obvious. “In case someone tries to break in or something.”

You roll your eyes, reluctantly moving over to the empty space on the other side of the bed. You’re too tired to fight him on this one.

“How noble of you.”

He takes your place, slipping under the scratchy motel comforter and flipping the bedside table lamp off. The two of you are now encased in darkness – the only noise coming from a television playing in the neighboring room due to paper thin walls.

It’s silent for a moment, and you assume that you’re both going to drift to sleep without saying anything else, when he speaks into the darkness.

“You know, you called me John.”

You glance over your shoulder at him, though it’s too dark to see anything other than his silhouette. “Well, that is your name.”

“Yeah,” he replies after a loaded pause. “But you never call me John. You’ve only ever called me Walker.”

You purse your lips. He’s right – you don’t remember ever calling him by his first name in all the time that you’ve known him. Sometimes, it’s easy for you to forget that Walker isn’t actually his first name.

You exhale through your nose – something between a sigh and a laugh. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“No.” His voice rises an octave. The response comes quickly, like he didn’t think before speaking. “I didn’t… I didn’t mind it,” he murmurs, his voice returning to its normal cadence.

“Oh,” you whisper.

The silence that follows feels heavy. You’re both completely still. A loud clap of thunder booms, shaking the building and breaking whatever tension was lingering between you. You exhale a shaky breath, ignoring the way your heart is beating in your chest.

“Goodnight, John.”

••••••

When you open your eyes, the room is dark except for white flashes of lightning that creep through the cracks of the motel room’s curtains.

You feel groggy and disorientated, so you know that you couldn’t have been asleep for very long. With the way that the storm is raging outside, you quickly piece together that it was a loud clap of thunder or the violent screeching of wind that must have startled you awake.

Goosebumps decorate the exposed skin of your legs and you shiver, wrapping the cheap, thin comforter tighter around your frame.

There's movement from your left and you’re reminded that you aren’t alone in this bed.

“Storm knocked the power out,” he mutters, his voice raspy with sleep.

“It’s fucking freezing in here,” you groan. Your teeth chatter involuntarily.

He snorts. “It’s not that cold.”

“Easy for you to say,” you huff. “Not everyone has super soldier serum turning them into a human space heater.”

You can practically feel the warmth radiating off of his body despite the good foot or so of space in between you. In your half-awake state, you fight the urge to move closer to the only heat source in the room.

“Well, if I’m a human space heater…” He trails off. The bed creaks as he readjusts his position, turning on his side to face you. “I could, uh.. I could help warm you up. Just until the power comes back on,” he adds quickly.

The offer takes you by surprise. If you weren’t so cold, you’d probably burst into laughter. But you’re shivering too much to find anything funny right now. Why the hell did you only pack shorts to sleep in?

Oh, yeah. Because it's spring time, and you’re in Georgia. It shouldn’t be this cold right now. But thanks to the heavy rain and the motel’s lack of proper insulation, it feels like the middle of a New York winter night.

“Really?” you ask lamely. You feel dumb for even considering the offer.

“I mean…” You feel him shrug. “Yeah, why not? You’re cold, I’m warm. You did me a favor by letting me sleep in the bed, so…”

Cuddling with Walker. If your teammates found out, they’d never let either of you hear the end of it. You can hear Alexei’s teasing now.

“Or you can just be cold. I’m fine either way,” he adds when you’re quiet for a moment too long. He starts to turn in the opposite direction when you grab him by the shoulder.

“No, wait,” you mutter, embarrassment creeping over you at the realization of what you’re about to do. “Okay.”

He settles back down, this time laying with his back against the mattress. He extends his arm closest to you, a silent offer for you to tuck yourself between it and his side. Before you can overthink it any further, you close the distance between your bodies and press yourself against him.

Your head rests against his chest, and you throw your arm over his stomach. He wraps his arms around you without any hesitation, and you have to remind yourself to breathe. When you do, you let out a noise that can best be described as a sigh of contentment.

He’s even warmer than you'd imagined. You instantly stop caring about how weird this is and focus on the relief that his body heat provides.

“Jesus, you’re shaking like a leaf,” he murmurs. He runs a large hand up and down the side of your arm, warming you further with the friction.

You snort. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t lying about being cold just to snuggle you.”

“Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

You pinch him just below his ribcage in response to his teasing. His chest vibrates with silent laughter, but he doesn’t say anything else.

You're both fast asleep within minutes. The power comes back on at some point during the night, but you’re still entangled with each other when the sun pours through the curtains come morning time.

••••••

Neither of you mention your night in the small Georgia inn after checking out the next morning.

Not on the drive to the airport, or the flight back to New York, or at any point since returning home almost a month ago.

For the most part, things go back to normal between the two of you. You continue to work together, and train together, and banter persists as it usually does when your other teammates are present.

But more and more often you’re noticing that as soon as you find yourselves alone for more than a few minutes, John suddenly has every excuse to be elsewhere.

It’s not as if you used to spend all of your free time together – but the fact that he suddenly wants to take the stairs up to the twentieth floor of the Watchtower instead of taking the elevator with you is a little odd.

It doesn’t bother you at first. You think it’s weird, but why should you let it get to you? You weren’t exactly the best of friends to begin with.

Then, there starts to be moments that you find your thoughts drifting to him when they shouldn’t. When you get caught in the rain and you think back to how he looked with raindrops dripping from his hair and beard, and when you wake in the middle of the night and it’s a little too chilly and you remember how it felt to be pressed against him in the freezing motel room.

You’ll lie awake at night, wondering if he’s in his bed, directly across the hallway, thinking about the same thing as you.

It's fucking stupid.

Like right now – you’re all at a lavish gala, thrown in celebration of Sam Wilson’s Avengers and The New Avengers(z) coming together to form one big, happy super team.

There’s a full service bar, unlimited hors d’oeuvres, and good music – you should be having a good time.

Instead, you’re staring across the room at the back of a dumb blond super soldier’s head while a reporter attempts to ask you questions about who designed the dress you’re wearing.

“I’m so sorry,” you interrupt her. “I just remembered I have to… go to the bathroom. Will you please excuse me?”

You don’t wait for her to answer before you begin walking across the dance floor without a concrete idea as to what you’re going to say or do when you reach him.

“Hey,” you greet him casually. He turns to you at the sound of your voice, a look of mild surprise on his face. There’s a sudden, undeniable fluttering of butterflies in your stomach. He looks too handsome with his suit and tousled hair.

“Did you try the goat cheese and salami stuffed dates?”

Why that’s the question you decide to start off with, you don’t know.

“Uh – no,” he shakes his head, confusion taking over his features. “No, I guess I must have missed those.”

“That's too bad. They’re fucking delicious.”

He cocks a brow at you. “That’s good to know.”

Well, there goes your ice breaker.

It’s the longest conversation the two of you have had by yourselves in weeks, but there’s a level of awkward tension that you just don’t know how to shake – and it obviously isn’t going to go away on its own.

You toss the rest of your drink back before biting the bullet. “Can we, uh – do you mind if we go somewhere a little more quiet so that we can talk?”

As soon as you get the last word out, Valentina walks up and grabs you by the arm.

“There you are,” she says through gritted teeth. There’s a smile plastered across her face, but her voice gives away her irritation – at what, you never really know or care. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”

You sigh, unable to hide your irritation at her timing. “What is it, Val?”

She fake laughs, waving to someone off in the distance. “John, would you be a dear and get me another drink while her and I have a short chat? Thanks so much.”

John's annoyance is palpable. He glares at Valentina with daggers, clenching his jaw as he storms off in the direction of the bar.

As soon as he’s out of ear shot, she turns to you. “I need a favor.”

You resist rolling your eyes in case there’s any cameras pointed in your direction at the moment. “I’m here, aren’t I? Is that not enough of a favor?”

She ignores your quip, pointing to where Sam, Joaquín Torres, and Bucky are mingling with a few random attendees.

“I need you to dance with him.”

“Dance? With Bucky? Why?” You sputter the words out, not expecting that to be her request.

“Not Bucky,” she shushes you, plucking your empty martini glass out of your hand. “The young, cute one in the middle.”

“Joaquín?” You exclaim. “I barely know him.”

You can count on one hand the number of conversations you’ve had with Joaquín. You have no problem with him – he's good at his job, a team player, and he’s enjoyable enough to be around. But the last thing on your mind right now is dancing with a man you hardly know.

“That’s the entire point of this whole thing.” She gestures dramatically to all of the people around you. “Bringing the two teams together. It’ll show people how well everyone is getting along. Ava has already agreed to have a dance with Sam.”

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble beneath your breath.

“I’ll give you an extra week of paid vacation days,” she offers before you can argue any further.

You know she isn’t going to let up. Valentina is nothing if not persistent. Truthfully, you just want her to leave you alone so that you can get on with your night – the extra paid time off is just a bonus.

“One dance and one dance only.”

You walk away from her before she can give you any half-assed words of gratitude.

On your way over to where Joaquín is talking to Bucky and the others, you glance around the crowded room for John. You don’t see him anywhere, and you can’t help but feel the slightest inkling of disappointment.

What would you say to him even if you did happen to run into him right now, anyway? Valentina is making me dance with Joaquín and I really hate dancing but for some reason I don’t think I’d mind it nearly as much if I was dancing with you?

Yeah, right. You’d probably just make awkward small talk about the fucking appetizers again.

You do your best to pretend that there's nothing else on your mind for the few minutes that you talk to Sam, Bucky, and Joaquín, but you can’t stop yourself from glancing around the room every other minute.

“Are you ready to give all of the reporters something super exciting to take pictures of?” You ask Joaquín as he guides you to the middle of the dance floor.

There’s a few other couples slow dancing to the live, classical piano music that fills the venue, so you shouldn’t stick out too much, but of course reporters start flocking around with their cameras when they see a member of the New Avengers(z) and the new Falcon slow dancing.

“Don’t be nervous,” he tells you as he takes one of your hands in his, placing the other on the small of your back. You lift your arm to his neck and begin following his slow, rhythmic steps to the music. “Sam and Ava are going to dance any minute now, and then all eyes will be on Captain America and the infamous Ghost.”

“Me? Nervous?” you scoff playfully. “I’m not nervous.”

“Could have fooled me,” he shrugs. “You looked like you might puke when Valentina first asked you.”

He guides you into a gentle spin, clearly far more experienced with all of this than you. When he does, you catch a brief glimpse on John. He’s standing several yards away with his hands in his pockets and a stoic expression on his face – looking right at you and Joaquín.

You nearly trip over your own foot, but Joaquín catches you and quickly gets you back on rhythm.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I hope you don't take it personally, because it's nothing against you. At all. Dancing just isn't my forte, and I've kind of… had a lot on my mind.”

He looks behind you for a moment before meeting your eyes with a curious smirk. “Would that happen to have something to do with why Walker is looking at me like he wants to bash my head in with his shield?”

“What?” you exclaim, nearly stumbling again. You have to resist the urge to look over your shoulder where John is standing. “Don’t be crazy. He… wouldn't do something like that again.”

Joaquín throws his head back in laughter. “I don’t know about that. I think he just might over you.”

You roll your eyes. “I think you just might be exaggerating.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. At that exact moment, Sam and Ava begin dancing just a few feet away from you and Joaquín. All of the reporters suddenly lose interest in the two of you.

“Or maybe not. Only way for you to find out is to chase him down and ask him, I guess.”

“Chase him down?” you repeat, looking over your shoulder to see John walking directly towards an exit.

Shit.

“Go on,” Joaquín encourages. “I think it’s safe to say we have given Val the photo op that she was hoping for.”

You give his hand a grateful squeeze before letting go. “Thanks, Joaquín.”

You really fucking wish you weren’t wearing heels right now. As fast as you can without twisting an ankle, you make your way across the dance floor, heading straight towards the hallway that you saw John enter just a few seconds prior.

There's a voice in the back of your mind screaming that you don't even know what you’re going to say when you manage to catch up to him, but that doesn’t stop you from putting one foot in front of the other until his large frame comes into view.

“John!” You call. He stops right away, though he hesitates for a moment before turning to face you. His face is relatively expressionless, but there's tension in his jaw.

“You okay..?” You ask. “Where are you going?”

“I’m fine,” he snaps. “I just need some fresh air. Is that okay?” He starts to walk away again, but you reach out and grab him by the hand.

“Is it okay if I come with you? I could use some fresh air, too.”

He pulls his hand out of your grasp – not violently, not harshly, but yet it still stings.

“You sure about that? I would hate to keep you from Torres for too long.” There’s a hint of venom in both his stare and tone. He starts to walk away again, and it takes you a moment to react.

Maybe Joaquín was right, after all.

His strides are long and quick. By the time you start walking after him, he’s already turning the corner of the hallway and out of your sight.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you mutter. You pause long enough to yank off the obnoxious stiletto heels that had been killing your feet since you’d taken your first steps in them tonight. With your shoes in hand, you all but sprint down the hallway after him.

The second that you turn the corner of the hallway, it feels as if you have collided with a brick wall.

A brick wall that smells like sandalwood and cedar.

“Jesus!” John exclaims, barely even stumbling when the front of your body slams into his back. “What the hell are you—”

“I like you,” you interrupt him. His mouth snaps shut, and his eyes go wide. The martini that you you’d finished earlier threatens to come back up, but you swallow and force yourself to continue.

“I like you, John,” you repeat, softer. “I was only dancing with Joaquín because Valentina told me to. I know things have been… weird, ever since Georgia. You can go back to avoiding me like the plague, if that’s what you want. I just needed you to hear—”

The next thing you know, his large, calloused hands are cradling your face and his lips are on yours.

It takes you a second to realize what is happening, but when you do, you're kissing him back like there’s no chance of an unsuspecting stranger walking down this hallway at any moment. You drop your shoes to the floor so that your hands are free to trail up his chest. You grip fistfuls of the satin material of his suit in your hands and pull him closer to you.

Without ever taking his lips off of yours, he backs you against the wall of the corridor. His tongue dances along your bottom lip and you open up for him, your brain turning to static white noise as he slips inside your mouth.

He tilts your head, deepening the kiss. He’s all you feel, smell, and taste – the two of you may as well be the only two people in this entire building right now. It's too easy to forget that you’re at a very public gala, and that any person with a camera could snap a picture of him pinning you against the wall and kissing you senseless.

You let out an involuntarily whimper into his mouth, and he pulls away as if it physically pains him to do so.

“The only reason I’ve been avoiding you like the plague,” he quotes your words, using the pad of his thumb to trace the swell of your bottom lip. “Is because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about doing that for the last month. Ever since you fell asleep with your head on my chest. Ever since I carried you through those woods…”

He trails off, leaning down to bring his lips to yours once more.

This kiss is slower – delicate and intentional in a way that the first one was not. As if he's trying to commit it all to memory. His hands rest on your hips, and yours in the short tufts of his hair.

“This is all I have wanted to do.”

“So…” you start with a nervous laugh. You smooth the fabric of his suit that you had bunched in your fists back to its original state. “You like me too, then..?”

He laughs, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry, did I not make that obvious?”

“Nah. I think I need to hear you say it,” you hum.

He sighs, and then places another gentle, soft peck to your lips that ends sooner than you’d like. “I like you. You drive me crazy, but I like you so much that it hurts.”

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thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated 💕🫶🏻

[bisexual-spiderling]

“Who the hell is Walker?”

Can’t get enough of this idea and I had to sketch out a concept for this outfit. Plus an excuse to draw SentryAgent angst <3

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