crownofdecitreadingrespectfully - Tumblr blog

crownofdecitreadingrespectfully · 5 days ago

Text

From “It’s not about her. It’s just about affection” to “it’s not about affection. It’s about her”

somebODY SEDATE MEEEEEE

And her speaking his language without even knowing herself

SOBBING

A Touch Of You

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!thunderbolts!reader

Contains: Angst, touch-starved Bucky, fluff, slow-burn, platonic Bob-reader, your hair is described to be long enough to braid and it's also descibed as silk once

Sum: Physical affection and touch comes easy for you, and it's making Bucky wish for the ability to be more like you

10k+ words (I went overboard with this shit)

I have a serious obsession with slow-burns and platonic Bobxreader being clingy besties, sue me.

(I cannot find who created the divider, if you know please tag them so they get credit)

NOT PROOFREAD

Enjoy :)

The Thunderbolts Tower was rarely quiet.

Not because of the chaos; although Alexei belting out 80s Russian rock in the kitchen or Yelena wrestling John over breakfast cereal certainly didn't help - but because it was full of life. People laughing, living, healing. A kind of noise Bucky didn't mind.

He sat in his usual chair on the far end of the room, worn leather, tucked into the shadows like a spectator watching a play where everyone else knew their lines.

And there you were again. Center stage. Sunshine incarnate.

You were cross-legged on the couch, giggling so hard your nose scrunched and your eyes nearly disappeared in the crinkles of happiness. Bob was beside you and you were leaning up against him without a second thought; arms wrapped loosely around one of his, your cheek resting on his bicep.

Bucky watched. He always watched.

It wasn't creepy, he told himself. Not in a leering way. It was just... fascination. You moved through the world like the rules didn't apply to you. You touched people like they were meant to be touched - casually, kindly freely. No tension or hesitation. No fear.

You tousled John's hair like he was your annoying little brother, clung to Ava's arm when you were bored, made faces at Alexei during movie nights, and once kissed Yelena on the cheek for winning at Uno. You were always smiling, always glowing, always warm.

But never him. Not out of avoidance. No, you were never unkind to Bucky. You greeted him with the same energy as everyone else, your laugh just as sincere, your banter just as quick. But it always stopped just short of a touch. A hand wave instead of a hug, a wink instead of a squeeze to the shoulder.

And now, as he sat in his quiet corner, watching Bob shift a little so you could get even more comfortable against his side, something hollow twisted behind Bucky's ribs.

It wasn't jealousy. Not really. Bob was a friend, a soft-spoken powerhouse who loved puzzles and kittens. And it wasn't like Bucky wanted you to lean on him like that. Except...maybe he did.

What he wanted- no, what he missed, was that kind of affection without expectation. Touch that wasn't calculated or careful. No mission, no seduction, no pity. Just... closeness.

He blinked. You were laughing again, eyes shining, and Bob had just placed a hand on your head in that absent-minded, affectionate way people pet their dog without even realizing it. And you leaned into it. Let it happen like touch was a language you spoke fluently and everyone else just stuttered through.

Bucky hadn't been touched like that in... He didn't know. He really didn't.

The realization hit like a whisper, cruel in its softness. It wasn't that you hadn't touched him like that. It was that no one had, not in a long, long time. He could still remember how it felt, though. A hand through his hair, a lazy cuddle on a rainy afternoon. Arms slung around his shoulders, not for protection, but for comfort. But now people touched him like he was either a weapon or a wound.

He shifted in his seat, the leather creaking softly. Ava glanced over at the sound but didn't say anything. She was on the floor, legs stretched out, balancing a tablet on her knees. Your laughter trailed off slowly, and you looked up just in time to catch his eyes across the room.

You smiled. He didn't. Not because he didn't want to, but because he wasn't sure how. You had a thousand-watt smile, the kind that could make flowers grow in winter. His was more... dusty. Like an old light switch that hadn't been flipped in years.

But you didn't flinch, didn't falter. You just gave him that same warm look you gave everyone else. Like he belonged in this room, in this team, in this strange, patchwork little family. And then you turned back to Bob, reaching for a blanket and tossing it over both your legs. Cozy and casual, like touch was no more complicated than breathing.

God, he wanted that. Not even you, not like that. He just wanted someone to lean against him like that. Wanted to be touched without flinching. Wanted to relax against another body without wondering if it would be the last time he ever did.

Later, when most of the team had filtered out, Bucky was still sitting there. Alone in his corner. You passed by with a yawn, blanket still draped over your shoulders.

''You should sleep,' you murmured as you walked past. ''Or at least stop brooding. You'll get forehead wrinkles.''

He didn't answer. Just raised an eyebrow in response.

You paused at that, eyes flickering to his. Something unreadable danced across your face for a second. Concern, maybe? Or understanding? But then, with the gentlest flick of your fingers, you reached out with just a brush of knuckles on his vibranium arm, Barely there. Like asking a question without saying a word.

''Goodnight, Bucky.''

And just like that, you were gone. He stared at the spot where your hand had been, no more than a ghost of contact, and felt something tight and quiet unfurl inside him.

Bucky was a student of war. Tactics. Movement. Survival. But lately, he'd started studying something entirely different: affection.

More specifically - how people touched you.

It started small. A passing observation. The way Ava brushed your arm when she walked by, Yelena leaned into you on the couch like it was second nature, how Alexei let you play with the ends of his beard while he grumbled but never pulled away.

But mostly it was Bob. Always Bob. It was effortless how you two fit together. How you moved around him like you were in your own orbit. How his hand would rest lightly on your shoulder during conversations, how you'd slide under his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. He gave you piggyback rides in the hall, and you played with his fingers absentmindedly while reading on the couch. You were close in a way that made Bucky ache.

Because he wanted that. And he didn't know how to ask. So, he watched. He watched the patterns, the rhythm, the openings.

He noticed that Bob always smiled first, open and unguarded, and you responded like it was an invitation. He noticed the pauses too, the way you always gave people the space to say no, the flick of your eyes that asked ''is this okay?'' before leaning in.

Bucky started mentally rehearsing those small things. Little touches. A guiding hand to the lower back, a light graze on the wrist when handing you a mug. Not big things, not all at once. Just something.

But he couldn't do it. He'd get close. He'd raise his hand, and then his brain would flood with every warning it had ever learned. Not you. Not yet. Not like this. You'll mess it up. You don't know how. So he'd shove his hands back in his pockets and let the moment pass. Because you deserved better than someone who needed to rehearse basic closeness like a goddamn speech.

So he watched some more.

You first noticed being watched when Bob teased you at dinner. Something about the way Bucky looked up from his plate. Not irritated, not amused, just watchful. Your elbow had been pressed into Bob's side as you leaned over his tablet, your laughter easy and loud. And when you leaned back again, a flash of something flickered in Bucky's eyes. A breath too long, a blink too slow.

He looked like someone trying to memorize the moment. Just... what it looked like. What it felt like, to see it.

You weren't oblivious. You just didn't push. Didn't ask. Bucky wasn't the kind of man you cornered with feelings he hadn't invited yet. He operated like a tide - pulling away before he let anything close.

So you waited. And you watched, just like he did.

The mission was rough. Nothing catastrophic, just... messy.

Bucky took the brunt of it, as he usually did. No complaints, no calls for backup, just relentless movement until the job was done. You admired him for it. Always had. But you also hated it - how he treated his body like it was still someone else's to throw into war zones.

He slipped away afterward, as expected. No one really noticed. John was patching up his arm with Ava's help, Alexei was bragging about his kill count, and Yelena was already raiding the fridge. But you noticed. So, you gave it a few minutes, just enough time for him to think he'd gotten away with, before you padded into the lounge, barefoot and quiet.

And there he was. Facing away from you, shirt off, arms raised as he tried to stretch the tension from his back and shoulders. You could see it - all of it. The stiffness, the tightness, the way his body moved like an old machine that hadn't been oiled in years. He didn't hear you right away.

You stood in the doorway for a second longer than you meant to. Not staring, not quite. Just... seeing. The way he rolled his shoulder with a grimace, the muscles twitching under scarred skin, the metal arm glinting in the low light like something out of mythology. He was strong, yes, but he looked so tired.

''Bucky.''

He turned a little too fast, like he thought you'd caught him doing something shameful. You saw the flicker in his expression - the mask dropping into place. That same unreadable look he wore like armor. You didn't comment on it.

''You okay?'' you asked softly, stepping further in.

He gave a grunt that wasn't quite a yes.

You tilted your head, arms crossed loosely over your chest. ''You look like you lost a wrestling match with a garbage truck.''

''I won,'' he said, deadpan.

Your lips twitched. ''Barely.''

He huffed. Maybe a laugh, maybe just air. You moved a little closer, enough to notice the fine sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. The tension in his shoulders was visible, like tight ropes drawn too hard.

''Sit,'' you said.

He blinked at you. ''What?''

''Sit,'' you repeated, nudging the back of the couch with your foot. ''I'm giving you a shoulder massage.''

He hesitated. A long beat of silence passed. You could practically hear the war happening in his mind. The part that didn't trust comfort, the part that didn't know how to accept it.

''I'm not gonna charge you for it,'' you teased gently. ''And it's not a trap. I'm just not a monster and I hate seeing you look like you've been folded in half and left in the sun to dry.''

That got the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. And he sat. Stiffly, cautiously. Like the couch might bite him.

You stepped behind him, already rubbing your hands together for warmth. But you didn't start right away, gave him that last window to change his mind. He didn't move. Just exhaled slowly, like he'd decided to let the tide roll in. Your hands touched his shoulders and God. You felt the jolt before he even reacted. Like the contact itself was something he hadn't expected to feel. Not like that. Not innocent. Not kind.

You didn't speak. Just worked quietly. Gently. Your fingers kneading into muscle and scar tissue, slow and careful, no agenda, no teasing. Just... touch.

Bucky's jaw clenched. His eyes were closed now, head tilted ever so slightly forward. You could still feel the effort it took him to stay still, to not flinch. Like every cell in his body was trying to not run away.

But you kept going. You worked over one knot at a time. One shoulder. Then the other. Your thumbs dug into the curve of his traps and you felt the smallest, tiniest exhale escaped his lips. Relief, or surrender, or maybe both.

''You don't have to be made of steel all the time,'' you whispered. Still not pushing. Just offering.

His voice, when it came, was rough. ''It's not about being steel. It's just...hard.''

''I know.''

He shifted slightly, just enough to lean a little more into your hands, and it felt like trust. It felt like an entire chapter unwritten. And you didn't need him to explain it. You already understood. And even though he hadn't said a word, it was all there.

You pressed your palm flat against his shoulder blades, heat seeping into him. ''You're allowed to want this, you know,'' you murmured. ''To be held. Even without reason.''

He didn't answer. But his hands unclenched in his lap. And that was enough.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe more. When you finally stepped away, you did it slowly. Gave him space to rise again, if he needed to. But he didn't move. Just sat there, like the couch had claimed him.

You didn't ask if he was okay. Didn't need to.

''Get some sleep,'' you said gently.

He nodded. Still quiet.

You turned to leave, but just before you crossed the threshold, his voice caught you.

''Thank you.''

And when you looked back, his eyes met yours; unguarded. Just for a second. The door cracking open and the warmth finally starting to seep in.

Movie night was always a disaster. Loud, chaotic, half the team arguing about genre and popcorn flavors, and Bucky stuck in the corner, pretending to mind the noise when secretly he didn't. Not at all.

Tonight was no different. You were already curled up on the couch, head in Bob's lap, your legs stretched across Yelena's. Ava was on the floor beside you, leaning back against the couch. Alexei was dramatically recounting the story of the time you once braided his beard into a Viking pattern, and Bucky had to bite back a smile when you proudly confirmed it, already digging through a box of hair ties and clips.

And that was how it started. First, Alexei. You pulled him in front of you, knees to your chest, and with your tongue poking out in concentration, you began weaving his beard with surprising speed. He looked like a grumpy Norse god by the time you were done.

Then Bob. ''Ohhh it's your turn, you big beautiful labradoodle,'' you sang, tugging him down by the hand.

He didn't protest. Just sat cross-legged in front of you with the dopey smile of someone being completely adored. You started working small braids into his hair, murmuring nonsense as your fingers moved expertly, occasionally swatting his shoulder when he moved too much.

Bucky watched from his usual spot. Quiet, still, fascinated. You weren't just touching, you were focusing. You were being deliberate. This wasn't just casual affection - this was attention. Care. The kind that said: I want to do something just for you. He wanted that. Badly. Desperately. Not even for what it would lead to, but just for that. To be someone you focused on. Someone you chose, even just for five minutes, to pour softness into.

You finished with a flourish, tied off the last braid in Bob's hair, sat back with a pleased grin, and then - without fanfare - you pointed across the room. Right at him.

''Your turn, Barnes.''

The room went dead silent. All eyes turned to him.

You didn't flinch. Your smile didn't even waver. You just tilted your head and gave him that same sunlit warmth you always carried, like it had never once occurred to you that he'd say no.

Bucky blinked. What. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He gestured vaguely to himself like he didn't understand the language you were speaking.

''You've got hair,'' you said, as if it was obvious. ''You've got a good head for braids. Longish, soft, a little tragic. I can work with that.''

''Tragic?'' he muttered before he could stop himself.

''Emotionally,'' you replied, already patting the floor in front of you. ''Now come on, don't make me beg. I'm on a roll.''

Bucky hesitated again. Not because he didn't want it But because the moment was so fragile. So bizarrely, heartbreakingly normal. Like if he moved wrong, it would shatter and you'd realize what you were asking. For him, not just some teammate, not just a body in the room, and you'd take it back.

But you didn't. You just kept smiling. So slowly, he stood up. Crossed the room, sat down, back straight and stiff as a board.

''Relax,'' you whispered behind him. ''I won't break you.''

You ran your fingers through his hair once, and he nearly forgot how to breathe. It wasn't just the sensation. It was the care, the softness, the quiet focus. You smoothed his hair gently, like it was worth something. Like he was worth something. And then your fingers started moving. Slow, practiced, weaving warmth into every inch of him.

The room around him faded. It was just your touch. Your hum under your breath, the warmth of your knees and either side of his back, the way you occasionally brushed a thumb over his scalp to settle a strand.

You didn't tease, you didn't rush, you just touched.

And Bucky sat perfectly still, his eyes closed, letting the door inside him creak open just a little more.

He wasn't in love with you. But in that moment, with your hands in his hair and his heart so soft it almost hurt, he thought: maybe I could be.

Bucky wasn't a man who touched first. He could take a punch without blinking, disarm a bomb with minutes to spare, and walk into a firefight like it was a coffee run. But reaching out to you? Terrifying.

Especially now that you'd touched him. Really touched him. Not on a battlefield, not in passing. But on purpose. With care.

You'd braided his hair like he was something worth decorating, worth sitting with, worth smiling at. And for the first time in years, he hadn't wanted to move. Hadn't wanted to retreat. He'd just wanted... more.

He thought about that moment for days. The warmth of your fingers, the way your voice softened near his ear, the lack of expectation. You hadn't asked for anything. You hadn't tried to pull him out of himself. You'd just sat with him, and for Bucky, that was almost more intimate than anything else.

So now he watched you even closer. Not just to learn - though, yes, he was still studying you like he might someday earn a master's in ''How To Be Near You Without Dying'', but because now... he was looking for openings. Tiny ones. Like the way you greeted Bob with a forehead bump and a grin, or how you'd slip your fingers into Yelena's sleeve when she was anxious. You didn't cling to people. You anchored them, And God, did Bucky want to be anchored.

So he tried. Tiny experiments. He started holding the door for you. At first, it was mechanical, just something to do, but you'd always smile and touch his shoulder on the way past. Every time. Like a thank you, like a secret handshake.

Next, he started handing you things. If you were sitting and someone tossed you a water bottle or remote or snack, Bucky would intercept it. And instead of just tossing it to you, he'd hand it. Palms brushing a second too long. Once, your fingers lingered. Just a beat. It nearly leveled him.

He started sitting on the couch instead of in his corner. Not next to you, not yet, but closer. Close enough to hear your breathing change when you laughed. Close enough to hand you the blanket when you curled up.

But what really broke him, what cracked something clean open, was when you fell asleep on Bob's chest again.

Movie night, a lazy rom-com. You'd started upright and within fifteen minutes had curled up under Bob's arm, your cheek pressed against his chest like you belonged there.

And Bucky? He didn't even feel jealous. He just felt cold. Not bitter or angry. Just... cold. Because now he knew what that felt like; your hands in his hair, your voice at his back, and he was starving for more.

He decided to try after the next mission.

Something low-risk. A simple retrieval, in and and out. You were paired with him this, which was rare, and he tried not to let it mean anything, but it felt like the universe had handed him a cheat code.

The mission went fine. A couple of close calls. You handled yourself like usual - confident, lethal, laughing through it all. And he admired the hell out of you for it. On the way back to the jet, you reached out instinctively and grabbed his wrist to yank him behind cover.

That one moment. That touch. He felt it in his teeth.

Once back in the tower, you peeled off first, stretching and yawning, calling goodnight over your shoulder with a lazy smile.

Bucky stood there in the hallway, still half-armored, heart thundering. Try now.

He walked to the kitchen and found the snack you always reached for after missions - those weird, spicy chips you claimed tasted like ''victory and regret''. You never bought them for yourself, said they were a ''reward food'', but you always lit up when someone remembered. So he took a bag. Bribery. Weak, but a start. Then he walked to your room.

He stood outside the door for at least a full minute. What am I doing? What if she's asleep? What if I look insane? But he made himself knock. Softly.

''...Come in!''

He stepped in like he was walking into a temple.

You were on the floor, stretching, dressed in soft shorts and an oversized hoodie he tried not to notice was Bob's. You grinned when you saw him.

''Well, hey Barnes. What's up?''

He held up the chip bag like it was evidence. You blinked, then beamed.

''Holy crap, you got the good ones!''

He nodded. ''Figured you earned it.''

You sat back, crossing your legs, tearing the bag open with a happy hum. ''You wanna stay?''

His brain short-circuited. ''If- yeah. If that's okay.''

''Duh,'' you said, patting the carpet next to you. ''I don't offer this floor to just anyone.''

So he sat, and you shared and talked. Then finally, he decided: now.

You were laughing at something he said. Your hand was on the floor beside you, his was a few inches away. Just do it. He slowly, carefully, let the side of his hand brush yours. And then... rested it there. Just barely touching.

You didn't look down, didn't call it out. But you did move your pinky until it hooked his. And Bucky forgot how to exist. You didn't say anything about it. Just kept talking, like nothing had changed. But your fingers stayed. Light, soft, reassuring.

And Bucky sat there beside you, pinky to pinky, the contact small enough to be missed by anyone else, but monumental to him. Because he'd finally done it. He'd reached out, and you'd reached back.

Bucky had a plan. Sort of. He'd been replaying that pinky-touch moment for days now. The smallness of it. The deliberate sweetness. How you didn't tease him or pull away. You just let it happen, and he didn't have to explain why it meant so much.

Now, he wanted to try something more. Not huge. Just... bolder. A tiny step forward. He wanted to initiate something. Not because it meant love or romance, but because his body was beginning to crave it. Crave that soft connection. Crave you, in the most innocent, desperately human way. He wanted to know what it felt like to hold you, even for a second.

So he planned for it. Not out loud, not with words, but with a thousand little hypotheticals in his head.

After a mission, maybe. Or in the hallway when you weren't looking. You'd be laughing, or tired, or just there, and he'd go for it - a simple hug. Arms around you. Quick, no pressure. But every time the moment came? He choked.

He was so close tonight.

Mission done. Exhausting but not dangerous. Everyone was filtering into the tower one by one, and you were the last to come in; suit half-zipped, hair stuck to your cheek, laughing at something John said before he peeled off down the hall.

And there you were. Worn out, but happy. Still glowing like you always did. You turned to him, smile softening, and said, ''You did good today, Barnes.''

That's all it took. The moment presented itself like a gift. Do it. Just reach out. He took a breath, stepped forward, his hands hovered awkwardly at his sides. Just a hug. Just a hug. But his body locked. What if she pulls away? What if it's weird? What if it ruins everything? His hands jerked back down.

Too late. You saw. Your eyes flickered to his. Quick and quiet. Understanding dawned across your face like a sunrise. You didn't make it a thing. Didn't joke or ask or tilt your head like are you okay? You just took a small step forward and opened your arms.

''C'mere, tough guy,'' you said.

You stepped in and wrapped your arms around him. A real hug. Chest to chest, face to shoulder. Warm, present, soft.

Bucky stopped breathing. He didn't move. Didn't know how to move. His hands hovered behind your back, unsure, trembling slightly like they'd forgotten what to do. And then you gave the smallest squeeze. Gentle. Safe. That did it, his arms came around you. Slow, careful. And then... all at once. They locked behind you, strong and tight and desperate, like he'd finally given up the fight and was clinging on for dear life.

He didn't mean to hold you so hard. He didn't mean to breathe you in like that. But he couldn't stop. Because your body was real. Warm, solid. And you weren't backing away, you weren't treating him like glass. You were just... holding him.

You shifted slightly to lean into the hug more, and he swore he could feel your smile against his neck. ''See?'' you murmured. ''Easy.''

He could've laughed at that. It wasn't easy, not for him. It was terrifying, dizzying, earth-shaking. But it was also the first time in years that someone had wrapped him up like this without blood or death or adrenaline. No life-or-death panic. Just arms, just warmth. And for the first time, he let himself sink into it. His heart was pounding - slamming, really, and he was sure you could feel it. He didn't care.

You didn't let go until he did. And when he finally eased back - slowly, reluctantly, like his arms had been superglued in place - your eyes met his, steady and bright. No teasing, no awkward silence.

Just, ''Anytime, Bucky.'' And a little smile. The kind that wrapped around his ribs and pulled tight.

He nodded. Couldn't speak even if he tried to. Could barely breathe. And as you turned and padded away down the hall, humming softly under your breath, Bucky stood alone in the hallway like he'd just come back from war. Except this time, someone had brought him home.

Bucky didn't sleep after that hug. He laid in bed, eyes wide in the dark, heart still thundering against his ribs like it hadn't gotten the memo that the moment was over.

You had held him. No flinching or pulling back, you let him cling like he needed it. Because he did, and you made it feel like it was okay. Like it was normal. You never said another word about it. And Bucky walked around the tower for the next few days like someone had filled his veins with warm honey and static electricity.

But with every inch you have him - every smile, every brush of a hand, every shoulder lean or passing touch - Bucky found himself wanting to give something back. He wanted you to know what that hug meant to him. Not in words. He wasn't there yet. And not in touch, his body still rebelled at the idea of starting something again. So instead, he watched again. Carefully, obsessively. And started to notice things about you. Little things.

You hummed when you were nervous, you always pulled your sleeves over your hands when you were cold even though you owned about sixteen hoodies, you liked your tea with honey instead of sugar, and you made up nicknames for everyone. He still wasn't sure if ''Ice Cream Soldier'' was supposed to be a compliment.

But most of all? You loved weird little things. Knickknacks, trinkets, gimmicks - stuff that made everyone else roll their eyes. You kept a plastic dinosaur on your nightstand, and you used pens with flitter ink. And you once got into a thirty-minute debate with Alexei about whether a wind-up chicken toy should be considered ''practical combat gear''. Somehow, you won that debate.

So Bucky made a decision. He couldn't hug you back. Not yet. But he could give you something.

A little mission in Eastern Europe. A side errand in Dubai. A stakeout with nothing to do but sit and watch. And right there, buried in a dusty antique shop next to a faded deck of Soviet playing cards and a pair of rusted brass knuckles, he found it.

A tiny, worn metal figurine. A cat. Its tail curled into a spiral, its ear too big, one eye slightly chipped. It looked hand-forged. Utterly ridiculous and useless. Perfect.

He bought it without hesitation. No one saw, no one knew. He brought it home and sat with it for an hour in his room. Just turning it over in his hands, wondering if this was stupid. If it made him look childish. If you'd even like it.

But then he remembered the way you looked when someone gave you something with no strings attached. He remembered your smile. And that settled it.

He didn't give it to you directly. He couldn't. So, he waited until the next movie night. Same couch, same usual crew. Everyone loud and sprawled and tangled up in a pile of popcorn and dumb banter.

You were curled up in your usual spot with Bob, your legs across his lap, a bowl balanced on your knees, laughing so hard you snorted. And Bucky sat one cushion away. Close enough to hear your laughter, far enough to not panic.

You got up halfway through to refill drinks, and Bucky slipped the little metal cat into the space you'd just left. Just where you'd see it. Not wrapped, not labeled... just there. And when you came back, you saw it immediately. You blinked. Picked it up. Held it up in the light with the kind of gentle curiosity that made Bucky want to crawl under the couch.

''Hey,'' you said aloud, holding it up, ''who left this little guy?''

Bob shrugged, Ava didn't even look, and John made some joke about it being cursed. Yelena grabbed it from your hand and examined it.

''It's ugly. I like it.''

You laughed and took it back, fingers closing around it protectively. ''Well, whoever left it - it's mine now.'' And then you smiled. That kind of soft, knowing smile, and your eyes flicked to Bucky. Just a second. Just long enough.

He didn't say a word. Didn't have to. You tucked the cat into your hoodie pocked and curled up again. And Bucky let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

The next morning, you passe him in the hallway. No one else was around. You didn't stop him. Just walked by, slow and casual, and bumped your shoulder into his with a quiet, ''Thanks, Barnes.'' And kept walking like it was no big deal.

But he stood there in the hallway for a full minute, stunned stupid by how good that felt Not the thanks. The shoulder bump. Small, warm, and his.

From then on, it became a thing. You never asked for more, but Bucky... he started giving it anyway.

A protein bar slid across the table on mornings you looked too tired to grab one yourself, a spare set of hand warmers in your tac vest before cold missions, and a weird sticker he peeled off a vending machine that said ''KICK BUTT, GLITTER GIRL'' that he knew you'd absolutely slap on your laptop.

All of it anonymous, none of it subtle. And every time, your eyes would flick toward him with that soft little grin. You'd touch his arm when you passed, or lean your head briefly against his shoulder, or bump hips when no one was looking.

And Bucky... he thrived on it. Still unsure, still hesitant. But opening, inch by precious inch.

The team didn't mention it aloud. Not once. Not to him, not to you. But they noticed. They noticed that Bucky stopped bracing when someone walked behind him on the couch. That he started answering more questions with actual words instead of shrugs. That he let you rest your head on his shoulder once and didn't move a muscle the whole time.

They noticed how he watched you when you weren't looking. With that quiet awe of someone who's been in the dark so long that the sunlight still hurts, even as it heals.

And on a quiet afternoon when rain still misted against the windows everyone was off doing their own thing - Bob reading a fantasy novel upside down on the couch, Alexei asleep with a magazine over his face, and the rest scattered through the tower. You sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, twirling the end of your braid between your fingers, frowning.

''It's coming undone,'' you muttered.

Bucky was seated on the end of the couch with a cup of tea he didn't remember making, and glanced over. ''Want help?''

You blinked. Then your eyes lit up, slow and warm. ''Yeah. Will you braid it for me?''

Silence. Utter, world-shattering silence. Bob looked up from his book like he'd just heard a hun go off and Bucky froze mid-sip.

Your tone had been casual, like asking someone to hand you the remote. But Bucky felt his spine lock up like a snapped wire, his pulse suddenly very loud in his ears. His brain full-on short-circuited.

You tilted your head back to look at him, smiling. ''You don't have to if you don't want to-''

''No- I mean-yeah-no, I'll-sure,'' he stammered. ''I can try.''

You turned back around, still grinning like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. Bucky set his tea down, his hand was already sweating. What the hell did he just agree to.

The moment your back was to him, Bucky realized how close you were. Your bare shoulders peeked out from the loose neckline of your oversized shirt, and the soft scent of your shampoo drifted up to him like a punch to the senses. He reached toward your hair, paused, and immediately pulled his hands back.

''I-uh-I don't know how to braid,'' he said, voice strangled.

''That's okay,'' you said easily, not turning around. ''Just do your best.''

That was not helpful.

Bob, mercifully, looked up from his book again and took pity. ''Hang on, Sergeant,'' he said, reaching for his phone. ''We're gonna get you through this.''

Bucky shot him a look.

Bob raised both eyebrows. ''You wanna bail now or impress the girl with your incredibly subpar braiding skills?''

''I'm not trying to impress-'' Bucky began, but Bob had already opened Youtube.

''There are hundreds of tutorials on this. Oh! Here's one: ''How to braid your girlfriend's hair without making her leave you for someone who owns a comb''. Seems fitting.''

''I hate you.''

''You love me.''

The video started playing - hosted by a chipper woman with perfectly braided hair and way too much optimism, and Bob propped the phone against his knee, narrating helpfully.

''Okay, part it into three sections. Three, Barnes. Not two. You're not tying shoelaces here.''

Bucky narrowed his eyes. ''I know what three is, Bob.''

''Do you, though? Because you're holding two and looking confused.''

''Shut up.''

You were definitely holding back laughter now, your shoulders trembled with it. He finally managed to divide your hair into three semi-even pieces.

''Now cross the right over the middle,'' Bob instructed. ''Wait. Your right. No, her right. Shit- that's the same right. Okay... look, follow the lady in the video.''

Bucky glared at the screen. The woman made it look so easy, the braid just formed like magic. Meanwhile, his hands felt like they were wearing boxing gloves. He tried once. Fumbled. You laughed under your breath.

''Sorry,'' he muttered, fingers clumsy against the silk of your hair.

''No, don't apologize,'' you said, voice light and warm. ''This is the most fun I've had all week.''

He tried again. And this time, the strands twisted more like a loose knot than a braid.

Bob squinted. ''That's... something.''

You snorted. ''It's fine. Just keep going.''

And somehow, despite the odds, the braid started to form. Wobbly and uneven. Your hair curled under his fingers like it belonged there. And Buckt didn't realize he'd started smiling. When he tied the braid off with a small elastic you handed him, you reached back and touched it, beaming.

''It's perfect,'' you said, even though it absolutely wasn't.

Bucky looked away, ears pink. ''Glad I could help,'' he said, voice a little hoarse.

You leaned back slightly, head resting against his shin now, looking up at him with bright, grateful eyes. And Bucky carefully, shyly, reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Not because it needed fixing. Just because he wanted to touch you again. And this time? He didn't panic.

Bob watched the whole thing from behind his book and just smiled. Didn't say a word. Didn't need to.

Gala nights were always chaos wrapped in satin. Everyone was too dressed up, the champagne was too expensive, and the music was more noise than melody. Somewhere between government posturing and forced socializing, it was easy to forget the mission was just to show up and look like you weren't going to level the place.

You, of course, were having the time of your life. Your gown, shimmering and slinky, dangerously backless, drew eyes across the room. But you didn't give them a second glance. You were too busy spinning in circles on the dance floor with Alexei, barefoot now, laughing so hard you nearly tripped over the hem of your dress.

''Is that-? Oh god, is that the cha-cha?'' Valentina muttered from the sidelines, looking scandalized. ''Tell me that's not the cha-cha. In front of the senators.''

''Mm,'' Ava hummed beside her. ''Technically, I think it's the drunk uncle version of the cha-cha. But yes.''

Valentina groaned, lifting her wine glass as if to drink away the embarrassment. ''She's going to give me a migraine.''

''She's not the one doing the shoulder shimmy,'' John said dryly, nodding toward Alexei.

And sure enough - there he was, twice your size and grinning like a man who had never known shame, twirling you dramatically and nearly taking out a waiter's tray in the process.

You didn't care. You threw your arms up, laughed like it was the only thing that mattered, and kept dancing.

Ava turned slightly, her gaze catching on the tall figure lingering near the edge of the ballroom. ''Barnes,'' she said, low enough that only he could hear. ''You gonna sit there forever?''

Bucky didn't look at her. He was too busy watching you. His tie felt too tight, his palm was clammy, and his heart was beating like he was in combat. He hadn't been able to look away from you all night. Your laugh, your touch, the way your eyes sparkled under the chandeliers like you belonged there more than anyone else in the room.

You'd already danced with Bob, who kept spinning you like he'd just watched Dirty Dancing. Then John, then Alexei. You flowed from one person to the next like it was nothing, like joy was just something that spilled out of you onto anyone willing to catch it.

And Bucky wanted to catch it. He almost stood. Almost let himself go to you like Ava was silently urging. But then the music changed. Soft strings. A slow waltz. Couples began to pair off, the lights dimmed slightly, warm gold flickering over crystal and silk. And Bucky panicked. Too intimate, too close. He sat back down, jaw tight.

Missed my chance, he thought bitterly. Typical. But then you were there.

Your voice gentle, like the music itself. ''Dance with me?''

His head jerked up. You were smiling. Hand out, hair a little wild from all your earlier chaos, eyes impossibly soft.

He blinked. ''Me?''

You tilted your head. ''Unless you know another hundred-year-old war criminal with a metal arm in this room?'' That started a laugh out of him, sharp and short. You stepped closer. ''Come on. One dance. I won't even try to spin you. Promise.''

His brain screamed run. But his heart? His heart stood.

Eyes drifted toward you and Bucky as you walked to the dance floor. He didn't look at them. He was too busy not tripping over his own thoughts.

You took his hands in yours and guided them to your waist with a warmth that had no edges. No agenda. Just you, radiant and calm, like you had all the time in the world to teach him what safety felt like.

''Just sway,'' you murmured. ''That''s all you have to do.''

So he did. You led, really. Kept the rhythm soft, let him find his footing. And Bucky was panicking. Because you were right there. So close. Too close.

Your cheek was nearly against his collarbone, your perfume was like summer and sugar and sunlight. Your hands were draped around his neck. And he was certain you could feel his heart pounding.

''Bucky?'' you whispered, barely audible. He grunted in acknowledgment, throat too tight for words. You looked up at him, the corner of your mouth tugging up. ''You're doing great.''

His breath stuttered. I'm not. Because it was too much. The warmth, the softness, the utter lack of fear in you. You danced with him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he hadn't spent years pushing people away. Like he hadn't built an entire life around silence and distance.

You didn't ask to be let in. You just walked through the door. And Bucky had no idea what to do with that. He kept waiting for the tension to snap. For someone to step in. For you to pull away. But you didn't.

The song ended slowly, fading into something else. And Bucky felt the loss of it like a pulled stitch.

You stepped back just slightly and smiled up at him. ''Thank you,'' you said, voice as soft as velvet. Then you leaned in and kissed his cheek. A brief press of the lips, barely a breath long.

But it dropped like a bomb in his chest. Your smile didn't fade. You just slipped away, walking off with Yelena toward some obviously doomed scheme involving the catering table and the rooftop.

And Bucky stood there. Absolutely still. A hand on his cheek like the world had just tilted sideways. He barely noticed Ava join him a minute later, champagne glass in hand.

She didn't speak at first, just stopped and looked where you'd gone. Then it came, ''So.'' She glanced at him. ''You okay?''

''No.''

Her mouth twitched. ''Realized it, didn't you.''

Bucky didn't answer. Didn't need to. Because holy fucking shit, he did. He didn't just want affection. He didn't just want safety. He wanted you.

He didn't sleep the night after the gala. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, fully clothes, jaw locked and heart loud, your kiss still pressed to his cheek like a brand. Because it had just been a thank you, right? Just a soft, casual thing. You did that with everyone.

You kissed Ava on the head when she gave you the last slice of pizza, you curled into Bob's side during movie nights like it was your assigned seat, you ruffled John's hair when he was being a sarcastic little shit, and you let Alexei carry you around like a sack of potatoes whenever he pleased. You gave affection like it cost nothing. And maybe it didn't. But to Bucky it cost everything. And now he wanted more. God help him, he wanted you.

It got worse the next day. You were still you - sunlight in human form, skipping around the tower in mismatched socks, humming a tune no one recognized.

You found Bucky in the kitchen, your hair a little damp from a shower, eyes sleepy. ''Hi, soldier,'' you said, bumping your shoulder gently into his arm. ''How are your feet after that dance? Did I bruise you?''

He blinked at you. Then blinked again. Because you were wearing his shirt. Not like, his shirt - but the same Henley brand he wore all the time, one of those oversized soft cotton ones in a color that made his brain hiccup. And he couldn't breathe.

''I-fine,'' he croaked. ''You didn't. I mean. It was fine.''

You beamed. ''Good. Then you can dance some more with me next time.''

He nodded dumbly.

You reached for the cereal box above him, your arm brushing across his chest. He flinched, but not away, from surprise. From the way even the most accidental contact with you lit him up from the inside. You poured a bowl, hummed again, and wandered off like you hadn't just leveled his entire nervous system with a smile.

Later he sat on the couch while you tangled yourself into a pile with Bob and Yelena. Legs over laps, arms slung around shoulders. Bob played with your fingers absentmindedly while Yelena used your stomach as a pillow. You were laughing at something stupid Bob said, glowing with ease, and Bucky watched.

Not like a creep. Just like a man trying not to fall apart. Because every time you touched someone else, something in his twisted. Not jealousy, not quite, just a raw aching hunger.

You're not mine to touch, he reminded himself. You weren't. But God, he wanted to be yours.

And the team noticed. Not loudly. Not with teasing. But they saw.

Yelena caught him watching you over the edge of his book. She didn't say anything, just raised an eyebrow when he looked away too fast and pretended to care about page 62. Bob lingered in the kitchen one morning and passed Bucky a mug of coffee with a quiet, ''You know, she really likes it when people play with her hair without asking first.'' Bucky nearly broke the mug. Alexei gave him a firm, understanding nod once when he caught him staring at you. Didn't say a word just nodded like a man who'd once been there and survived it. And Ava? She said it best.

''Don't rush him,'' she told John one afternoon when the he scoffed at Bucky choosing to sit beside you instead of his usual armchair.

''I'm not rushing him,'' John snapped, adjusting his sunglasses. ''I'm just saying - either kiss her or don't, Barnes. This isn't high school.''

Ava, who had been watching you patiently teach Alexei how to play Go Fish, shook her head. ''She doesn't know,'' she said softly.

John scoffed again. ''She's not blind. She kisses that man on the cheek like it's a Hallmark movie.''

''She kisses everyone. But she's patient with him. Slower. Gentler. More careful. And I don't think she even realizes it.''

John looked unconvinced. ''She's affectionate with everyone.''

''Yes,'' Ava said. ''But she waits for Bucky. She reads him. She's been loving him in a language he can understand.

That shut John up for a full three seconds. ''...Disgusting,'' he muttered. ''You should write poetry or something.''

Ava only smiled.

It was a rooftop night. Cool breeze, blankets, and pizza boxes spread out across mismatched furniture like a half-hearted picnic.

You were leaning over Bob's arm, laughing too hard at something Ava said, and Bucky was trying very hard not to be annihilated by it. You wore shorts and an old hoodie that definitely wasn't yours, hair pulled up with strands curling at your temples. Your bare legs were tangled over Bob's your hand casually resting on his chest while you picked a fight with Alexei about movie trivia.

No one else thought twice about it. They were used to you - your sunshine, your warmth, the way you radiated affection like a second skin. It was just you, untamed and fearless. But Bucky? You were shattering him. Every time you laughed at Bob's stupid joke, every time you reached over to adjust John's hoodie string, or brushed Yelena's hair behind her ear. Every time your eyes sparkled and your hand stayed just a second longer than strictly necessary... it burned.

And it wasn't jealousy. It was a need. Please look at me like that. Please lean your weight against me. Please laugh into my chest. Please, please, choose me, without even realizing it.

The ache was getting harder to hide. He'd tried. God, he'd tried. He still sat closer to you now. Still let you rest your head on his shoulder sometimes. Still awkwardly and terribly braided your hair when you asked. But there were limits he didn't know how to cross. Like now.

When you leaned over Bob and mock-whispered something into his ear, giggling when he gasped and dramatically clutched his heart, pretending to faint. It was nothing. A joke. But Bucky felt it like a sucker punch to the ribs. And you didn't even notice.

''You okay?'' Ava murmyred from beside him.

He didn't look at her. ''Fine.''

She didn't push. She never did. Just handed him a beer and let the silence fill in what he couldn't say.

I'm not okay. I want to be the one she teases like that. I want her hand on my chest. Her eyes on me like I'm the reason she's smiling. I want-

He swallowed he cracked the beer open.

When the wind picked up and everyone started packing up, you wandered over to him. Hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, cheeks rosy from the cold. ''Hey, soldier,'' you said softly.

He looked at you, and God help him - he melted. You gave him that smile. The one that made his lungs forget what to do. The one that used to feel like sunshine but now felt like the slow pull of a tide trying to drown him.

''You looked a little quiet tonight,'' you said, gentle, concerned. ''Everything okay?''

He nodded too quickly. ''Yeah. Just tired.''

Your hand reached up, brushing a leaf from his shoulder. He froze. ''Okay. Well, if you need to not be okay sometime, you know I'm here, right?''

Do you know what you're doing to me? He wanted to ask. Wanted to grab your hand and keep it. Just hold on to something warm for once. But instead, he just nodded. And watched you walk away.

The rooftop cleared, but he stayed behind. Alone, now. Just him and the wind and the echo of your laugh in his ears. And for the first time, the truth didn't whisper. It roared.

I don't just want touch. I don't just want softness. I want her.

In and out. Secure the intel. Light resistance. It was supposed to be simple. It wasn't. And when the explosion went off - too close, too sudden - it was your name that ripped out of Bucky's throat. He didn't see the flash. Just felt the shockwave. And then you were gone from his side.

You weren't dead. You weren't even seriously hurt. Just thrown, bruised, scraped up where you'd hit the wall, comm crackling as you cursed and coughed and told them you were fine.

But Bucky wasn't. He couldn't breathe. His fingers wouldn't stop trembling on the trigger of his rifle. He kept his body moving, eyes scanning, instincts in full soldier mode. But his heart was gone, back there, with you.

He didn't remember finishing the mission. Didn't remember getting on the jet. Didn't remember sitting beside you in the medbay while a nurse patched you up, your voice stubborn and playful as always. What he remembered was the sound of the blast. And the way his entire world collapsed for a second.

He didn't talk on the ride back. You kept glancing at him, frown between your brows, but he didn't look at you. Couldn't He just sat with his hands clenched between his knees, eyes blank, jaw locked like he was holding back a scream. The others noticed, but they knew better than to push.

You knocked on his door that night. Three soft raps. No answer, but you opened it anyway.

Bucky was sitting on the floor beside his bed, back against the wall, breathing hard. Still in his gear. Dog tags clenched in one hand, shaking. He looked up... and shattered.

''You shouldn't be in here,'' he rasped.

You stepped in anyway, gently closing the door behind you.

He shook his head, almost violently. His breath hitched and he pressed his palm to his chest, like he could physically hold something in. ''I thought you were gone.''

You paused. And then moved closer, sinking to your knees in front of him. ''I wasn't.''

''I thought you were.'' His voice cracked. ''I saw that explosion and I thought-I thought-'' He couldn't finish. Just closed his eyes, chest heaving. And then he reached. Arms out. Not confident or practiced, but desperate. Like he couldn't stand another second not touching you.

You moved into the hug without hesitation, and he broke. He held you like a drowning man. Like you were oxygen and he hadn't breathed in weeks. His arms crushed you to him, face buried in your shoulder, fingers twisting into your hoodie like they were terrified you'd slip away again. It wasn't soft, or gentle. It was fierce. A hug with everything he couldn't say.

''I'm here,'' you whispered, hand smoothing up his spine. ''I'm okay.''

His voice was low and hoarse, almost childlike. ''I can't lose you.''

You froze, just for a second. Then melted against him, curling into his lap like you belonged there. You didn't speak. Didn't need to. Because you felt it, now. The weight in his arms, the panic, the relief, the need. You'd hugged Bucky before, but he had never held you like this. And something changed inside you. Because suddenly all the times he'd flinched away, all the walls he kept up - it all made sense. He was afraid of it. Afraid of needing it. Afraid of losing it.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. ''I'm not going anywhere,'' you said softly.

And his eyes- God, his eyes. Like he wanted so badly to believe you, but didn't know how. You cupped his cheek and pressed your forehead to his.

You didn't say anything else. Didn't have to. Because the next day, Bucky sat a little closer on the couch. He lingered when you leaned into him. And when you rested your head on his shoulder? He leaned back.

And you started giving him more. More of your touch, more of your time, more of you. And the others noticed.

It was a quiet change. Not a thunderclap, not a confession, just... little shifts. Like how you still curled against Bob during movie nights, but now your feet somehow always ended up in Bucky's lap. Or how you'd still lean into Yelena's side, tug on John's sleeve, braid Ava's hair while teasing Alexei - but Bucky was the one whose hand you reached for when you needed comfort.

And Bucky... God, Bucky was changing. Subtle things. To anyone else, probably invisible. But not to the team. He never flinched now. Not when you brushed your knee against his, not when you tossed a blanket over both of your legs. Not when your head dropped to his shoulder and stayed there through an entire episode of Jeopardy.

He even initiated things, once or twice. A hand on your back, a squeeze to your arm. The kind of touch that was casual from anyone else, but from Bucky Barnes? It was a goddamn declaration.

Ava watched the way Bucky's eyes always found you first. Not just when you entered a room, but when you laughed, when you moved, when you fell quiet. She saw it like a pulse - how in tune he was with you now. Like he was always listening for your heartbeat.

Alexei didn't understand it in so many words, but he stopped teasing Bucky about being grumpy. Just gave him a single, hearty slap on the back one afternoon and said, ''You are less haunted now. Good. Keep petting her hair, it seems to be working.''

Bob never said a damn thing. He just started sitting a little farther away during movie night, with a small, knowing smile.

John was the only one brave enough to ask: ''So... is this a thing now?'' and got and simultaneous death glare from Yelena and you that promptly shut him up for a week.

And Bucky felt it all. Not just your hands, not just the way your affection lingered now - longer hugs, softer looks, quiet touches that felt like they meant something. No. He felt the way you chose him. You still loved everyone. That hadn't changed. You were still sunshine, still chaos, still a tangle of hugs and shoulder squeezes and kisses on the cheeks and tangled limbs. But when it came to him? You were gentler. Like you were holding something sacred. And it made his heart ache in the most beautiful, terrifying way.

You never talked about it. But one night, when everyone else had wandered off, you padded up to Bucky's room and knocked twice. When he opened the door, you were already stepping in, hoodie sleeves over your hands, bare feet quiet on the floor. You didn't say anything. You just curled up next to him on the bed, on top of the blanket, side pressed to his - cheek on his shoulder. And Bucky wrapped his arm around without hesitation. Like he'd been waiting. And maybe he had. Because something had shifted. You weren't just affection now, or just comfort. You were something that scared the hell out of him. Something he wanted.

You and Bucky were in the common room long after everyone had gone to sleep, arguing about which of you could win in a game of ''sneak tag'' - a stupid version of hide-and-seek Alexei had invented with suspiciously complex rules and the very real possibility of someone getting a concussion.

You were giddy with exhaustion, barefoot and wrapped in a blanket like a cape. Bucky was stretched out on the rug, shirt untucked, hair messy, smiling that quiet way he didn't even realize he was doing now.

''You forget I used to rob people,'' you'd said, gesturing dramatically with a Snickers bar. ''I'm a ghost in socks. A phantom.''

''You tripped over a chair yesterday.''

''That chair moved, Barnes.''

He chuckled, and you decided then and there that the sound was your new favorite thing.

Somehow, between laughter and whispered trash talk, the game actually began. You set the timer. Ten minutes to sneak from one end of the tower to the other, tagging your opponent before they reached the kitchen. Simple.

Except Bucky was fast. And quiet. And probably cheating.

You darted through darkened corridors, ducked behind furniture, and nearly screamed when he appeared out of nowhere beside the elevator. He didn't tag you, just grinned - wild and sharp and boyish - and ran. You chased him like a storm. By the time you skidded into the kitchen and cornered him, breathless and flushed, your laughter was nearly silent. So was his. You had him trapped against the counter, both of you panting, noses inches apart in the dark. He was smiling. But his eyes were wide. Almost awed.

''You lost,'' you whispered.

''I let you win.''

''Liar.''

He didn't argue.

You were both still catching your breath when you looked at him. Really looked at him. The way the moonlight hit his face, the way his hair stuck to his forehead, the way his chest rose and fell like he'd just run through something much more dangerous than a hallway. And it hit you. How much you wanted him. Not affection, not comfort. Him.

And before your brain could catch up to your body - you kissed him. Soft. Barely more than a breath. Your lips pressed to his like a secret. Like a question you didn't mean to ask. And for one perfect second - he kissed you back. Then he blinked, and he was gone.

No words. No anger. Just... retreat. Like he couldn't breathe. Like he had to escape before he shattered completely. And you were left in the quiet dark, your fingertips and lips still tingling from where you'd touched him.

You didn't sleep that night.

You knocked on his door at 7:04 a.m. No blanket, no jokes, just you.

The door opened slowly, and there he was. Hair wet from a shower, hoodie pulled on inside out, eyes tired - but calmer.

''I'm sorry,'' you said, voice small. He stared at you. ''I didn't mean to do that. I mean- I did, but I didn't think, and you panicked, and I get, I just-''

''Don't apologize.''

Your mouth snapped shut. Bucky stepped back, letting you in.

''I wasn't mad,'' he said softly. ''Just... scared.''

You nodded, stepping inside. ''I know.''

''I didn't want to run.''

''I know.''

''I've just never wanted something this much and not known how to have it.''

You looked up at him, something tender folding open in your chest. And Bucky didn't think this time. He just moved. Closed the distance, tilted his head, and kissed you. Not soft. Not unsure. But with all the weight of what he'd been trying to hold in. Days, weeks, months of trying to bury a feeling that refused to die.

You melted into it, hands finding the collar of his hoodie, lips curving into the kiss even as his hand cupped the back of your neck like he was still afraid you'd slip away. But you didn't. You stayed.

And when you finally pulled back, both of you breathless, foreheads pressed together in the quiet...

He whispered, ''You didn't steal that kiss.''

You smiled. ''Did I not?''

''No,'' he murmured. ''I gave it to you.''

And just like that... Bucky Barnes stopped running.

#not fucking fine #bucky barnes x reader #you are so talented #you deserve a full mouth kiss #or an air five. whatever what ur into

2K notes · View notes

crownofdecitreadingrespectfully · 6 days ago

Text

BITCH (affectionate) you managed to put into words how those scenes of John and Lucy made me feel. Like they didn’t even talk most the time but you could FEEL the love and you managed to put that into writing. This was so beautiful and literally has me like this in bed:

Both of them being the type of love they needed for each other. One who notices and one who stays. I’m fine. And the end scenes with them all domestic and comfy together I CRYYY

probably always

bucky barnes 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – friends to lovers, Emotional vulnerability and past relationship trauma, Discussion of grief (death of a parent, past heartbreak), Mild language, No smut; includes emotionally intimate cuddling and kissing, Slow burn tension, soft angst, mutual pining, Safe love, comfort after panic, mentions of therapy, Happy ending / soft resolution

word count: 10k

Summary: Bucky doesn’t believe in fate. You don’t believe in safe love. But somewhere between quiet coffee, post-mission silences, and a kiss that feels like peace—not passion—you start to believe in him.

notes – not proofread. Inspired by watching ‘The Materialists’ and loving some of the dialogue.

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.

Love isn’t magic. Not anymore.

Maybe once—when you were nineteen and naïve enough to believe chemistry could cure incompatibility. When glances across crowded rooms felt like fate, and red flags looked like ribbon.

You’ve had the breathless moments. The late-night phone calls. The slow unraveling of I love you from someone who meant it—until he didn’t.

And you’ve had the aftermath, too.

The kind where you don’t just lose a person. You lose the parts of yourself you gave away thinking it was safe to hand them over.

So no, you don’t date anymore. Not really.

You flirt when it’s easy. You let yourself be charmed. But when someone starts asking real questions—about your past, your plans, your heart—you shift. Shrink. Backpedal.

Because love isn’t magic. It’s maintenance. It’s presence. It’s choosing someone again and again after the adrenaline wears off. And most people… don’t. Not when it’s inconvenient. Not when it’s complicated. And God, are you complicated.

So when Sam Wilson introduces you to James Buchanan Barnes, you’re polite but distant. You know his story—or enough of it to tread carefully. You don’t need another man with trauma and charm and a quiet way of looking at you like he sees more than you’re ready to offer.

But he doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t push. He just… listens.

He brings you coffee when you forget to eat. Sits beside you in silence like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Laughs when you’re sarcastic. Notices things you didn’t know were visible.

And it terrifies you.

Because if you ever fall again, it won’t be a maybe. It won’t be casual. You’ve been broken already—and you don’t believe in shattering twice.

So when he looks at you like you hung the moon, you don’t swoon.

You steel yourself.

You convince yourself it doesn’t mean anything.

Because if it does… then you’re in trouble.

And you don’t survive another heartbreak. Not the kind that feels like home.

The room smells like burnt coffee and government funding.

You’re sitting in a folding chair with uneven legs, arms crossed, listening to Sam Wilson try to explain scheduling protocols to three different departments that absolutely do not want to work together.

It’s hour two of a “brief logistics sync.”

You stopped pretending to take notes thirty minutes ago. Now you’re just staring blankly at a laminated operations chart taped crookedly to the wall and wondering how the hell you let yourself get roped into this.

Sam catches your eye across the table and you narrow yours in response. He gives you that smile—half apology, half amusement. You resist the urge to throw your pen at his head.

This isn’t your job. Not anymore. You’re supposed to be consulting on intel, not babysitting these bureaucratic turf wars.

“—and Barnes will be joining the rotation on the ground for the community outreach detail,” Sam adds smoothly, glancing to his left.

You blink, startled.

Barnes?

As in James Buchanan Barnes?

You glance sideways.

And there he is.

Quiet. Broad-shouldered. Sitting like a man who knows how to disappear without moving an inch. His fingers are folded loosely in his lap, one leg stretched out like he’s already planning his escape.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t even really react.

Just nods once when his name is mentioned.

You’ve never met him before—not officially. You’ve heard stories, of course. Whispers from ops teams. One-liners from Sam. You know enough to keep your distance.

And yet…

When the meeting finally breaks, he stands and looks directly at you. Not with interest or arrogance.

Just… awareness.

Like he already knows something about you that you haven’t said aloud yet.

You expect him to vanish as soon as the chairs start scraping and the suits start filing out. But instead, he lingers. Follows Sam. Ends up walking beside you down the hall, slow and silent.

You don’t speak.

Not until you hit the lobby.

“I didn’t know you did outreach,” you say finally, without looking at him.

He shrugs. “Trying it out.”

That’s all he says. No elaboration. You huff softly. “Brave man.”

He glances over. “You don’t like people do you?”

“I like some people.”

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. You press the elevator button. “Sam voluntold me,” you add. “Said I’m too cynical to be left alone.”

“That checks out.”

You turn to look at him. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know the look,” he says simply. “That ‘please cancel on me so I don’t have to admit I didn’t want to come’ look.”

You scoff. “That’s not a look. That’s just my face.”

He grins—small, sharp, and just for a second.

The elevator dings.

The event that evening is… something.

It’s outdoors. There are food trucks and folding tables and painfully eager local officials trying to shake hands and talk policy while kids in face paint run screaming past.

You help Sam set up the AV table. Bucky shows up fifteen minutes late with two coffees and no excuse.

He hands you one wordlessly.

You take it.

Later, you’re both standing near the edge of the parking lot, watching Sam get wrangled into a bounce house demonstration by a six-year-old in glitter shoes.

“He’s too nice,” you mutter.

Bucky takes a sip of his coffee. “He’s Captain America.”

“He’s an idiot.”

He hums in agreement. For a long moment, you stand in silence. It’s easy. Comfortable. The kind of quiet that doesn’t beg to be filled.

You’re not sure what makes you say it.

Maybe it’s the caffeine. Maybe it’s the heat.

Or maybe it’s the way Bucky hasn’t once tried to charm you—but still feels like gravity.

“Some people say soulmates can read each other’s minds,” you offer dryly.

Bucky doesn’t flinch. “That so?”

“Yeah. Like they’ll know what the other person is thinking before they say it.”

He nods once, thoughtful. Then—without missing a beat—he says, “You’re gonna say something cynical next.”

You blink, then huff a laugh. “That’s cheating. I always say something cynical next.”

“Still counts.”

You glance up at him.

He’s already looking at you, brow raised. “That’s all it takes?” he asks, voice low. “Are we soulmates then?”

There’s a beat of stillness.

You don’t smile. You don’t blush.

You just sip your coffee and say, calmly— “Probably.”

The word hangs there—probably—as the streetlights flicker on.

You expect him to make a joke. Push the moment away. But he doesn’t.

Bucky just watches you, eyes steady. Not like he’s testing you. More like he’s filing the moment away for later, storing it somewhere behind those storm-colored eyes of his.

It’s not flirting. Not exactly.

It’s seeing.

And that’s somehow worse.

Later, you find yourself at the registration booth, watching him kneel to tie a balloon to a kid’s wrist. The boy grins like he just got handed a lifetime supply of candy. Bucky says something you can’t hear, and the kid laughs so hard he snorts.

You try not to stare but it’s disarming—how easy he makes it look. The careful way he crouches to their level. How he listens more than he speaks. The way he stays in the background unless someone needs something.

He isn’t trying to be charming. He just is.

Sam sidles up beside you at the table, sipping from a paper cup. “He’s different, huh?” he murmurs.

You blink. “From what?”

“From what people think.” Sam doesn’t look at you when he says it. Just nods toward Bucky. “They expect winter. But he’s quieter than that. More spring than ice.”

You shoot him a look. “Did you practice that one?”

“I live with poets,” Sam says, deadpan. “Sharon’s been making me watch those artsy slow-burn movies again.”

You hum. “Explains the metaphor. Not sure Bucky wants to be compared to a thaw.”

Sam smiles faintly. “No, but you noticed it. That’s the part that matters.”

Before you can respond, he pushes off the table, heading off to wrangle someone away from the mic. You’re left staring after him, coffee in hand, wondering when the hell this night started to feel different.

By the time cleanup begins, most of the volunteers have filtered out. The food trucks are packing up. The bounce house is half-deflated in the grass like a passed-out cartoon character.

You’re organizing folding chairs when Bucky appears beside you, holding a stack of them like they weigh nothing.

“You always volunteer for grunt work?” you ask.

“I don’t mind heavy lifting.”

You glance at him, giving an up and down. “Of course you don’t.”

He shrugs, smirking to himself. “Gives me something to do with my hands.”

The silence that follows is quiet, but charged. You clear your throat and move to grab another table.

He follows.

You work side by side like you’ve done it before. Like muscle memory. And maybe that’s what unsettles you most—how easy it is. You’ve known him for what, a day? Two? And yet your body doesn’t tense around him. Doesn’t brace.

It just… rests.

When the last chair clicks into place, you wipe your hands on your jeans and exhale.

“Need a ride?” Bucky asks, casual, like he’s offering gum.

You hesitate.

He notices. “No pressure. I’m heading that way anyway.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

The ride is quiet.

He drives a truck—dark, older, surprisingly well-kept. The kind of vehicle that feels like it belongs to someone who fixes things with his hands and prefers silence to radio noise.

You don’t speak for a while.

The windows are down. Summer air drifts through, warm and laced with cut grass and lingering fryer oil. You watch the streetlights pass through the windshield in bands of gold.

Then, softly—

“You don’t talk much,” you say.

He glances over. “Haven’t in a long time.”

You nod. “Doesn’t bother me.”

He smiles faintly. “Most people fill the quiet.”

You shrug. “Quiet’s honest. It doesn’t lie to keep you comfortable.”

He looks at you again. This time, longer. “You’ve been through it,” he says.

It’s not a question.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“Me too.”

You nod once. Then look out the window again. The city’s slowing down for the night, lights dimming block by block. In this soft hour, you both feel more like people than weapons.

And that feels… dangerous. And good.

He pulls up in front of your place. Doesn’t kill the engine right away.

You turn toward him. “Thanks for the ride.”

He nods. Then hesitates. “You want coffee tomorrow?” he asks. “Not as a date. Just… two cynical people staying caffeinated.”

You arch a brow. “Is this your way of flirting?”

“No.” His mouth tugs up. “If I were flirting, I’d say something about how you’re the only person I’ve ever met who could out-brood me in a staring contest.”

You laugh, startled.

He grins, and it’s boyish. Almost shy.

“Coffee sounds fine,” you say, hand already on the door. “But I’m not a morning person.”

“I figured.”

You pause halfway out of the truck. Glance back. “You really think soulmates are just people who finish each other’s thoughts?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know what I think. But I know I don’t believe in accidents anymore.”

You step out onto the curb, shut the door behind you. As he drives off, you feel your chest pull just a little—like something invisible still tethers you to the truck.

You shake it off.

Head inside.

But you don’t sleep right away.

You think about him.

You think about romance.

And for the first time in a long time, that thought doesn’t end with a warning bell.

It ends with a maybe.

And maybe is already more than you meant to give.

Weeks pass. And he keeps showing up. Not in loud, sweeping gestures. Not with declarations or flowers or grand plans.

No—James Barnes appears in the quiet ways.

Your coffee order waiting for you at your desk at HQ. Your favorite granola bar tucked into your mission satchel.

A text at 11:47 PM that just says: You get home okay?

At first, you assume it’s Sam’s doing—some half-assed attempt at matchmaking via caffeine and proximity, but Sam doesn’t know your preferred ratio of cream to sugar. Sam doesn’t sit in comfortable silence with you on rooftops after surveillance runs. And Sam definitely doesn’t look at you like you’re a secret he’s not sure he’s allowed to keep.

But Bucky does.

Bucky does all of it.

And you… you let him.

You don’t lean in, but you stop pulling back. That’s something.

It becomes a rhythm.

He trains with you. Spars without going easy. Picks up on your tells. He knows when you’re tired, even when you hide it. Knows when you’re lying, even when you do it kindly. Knows when to say nothing, and when to say exactly the right thing at exactly the right time.

You try not to think about how rare that is. How terrifying it feels.

Because you’ve had attention before. Interest. Lust.

But this?

This is something else. This is someone noticing all the things you don’t say and staying anyway.

It’s a Tuesday when you realize you’re in trouble.

You’re sitting in the Tower’s rec lounge, sipping bad tea after a frustrating intel brief. You’re snarky and tired, and your hair’s still damp from your post-run shower. Bucky walks in, sees you across the room—and something in his expression softens like muscle memory.

He doesn’t flirt, doesn’t smile, just walks over and hands you the donut you didn’t know you were craving.

“I was gonna go to the vending machine,” you mutter, taking it.

“I know,” he says, sitting beside you.

And that—the knowing—makes you go still.

You take one bite and then another, chewing slowly, trying to convince yourself this is still casual.

It’s not.

You know it. He knows it. Neither of you say a word.

That Friday, there’s a field op in Queens. A simple perimeter check that goes sideways thanks to a runaway dog, a collapsed scaffold, and a pipe that nearly nails Bucky in the ribs.

He’s fine, of course.

But by the time you get back, the adrenaline’s burned off, and your hands are still shaking.

“You good?” he asks you quietly in the locker room hall.

You nod too fast. “Yeah. Fine. It was nothing.”

He doesn’t argue. Just walks beside you, not touching but close.

Later, when you’re waiting for your rideshare out front, he stands with you under the awning as the sky threatens rain.

“Let me walk you home.”

You blink. “I’m not far.”

“I know.”

You should say no. But you don’t.

The city is quieter than usual. Fog hangs low, streetlights glinting off wet pavement. Your boots scuff the concrete with soft, steady rhythm. He walks beside you, hands in his jacket pockets, head slightly tilted toward yours like he wants to catch everything you aren’t saying.

You don’t speak at first. You’re not sure you can.

Because this feels like a line.

Because your heart is beating too loud.

Because if he says one kind thing tonight, you might fall.

And you’ve already decided—you won’t fall unless you’re certain.

You won’t fall unless it counts.

Finally, halfway down your block, you stop walking.

Bucky does too.

The air between you feels heavier than it should. You cross your arms. Not because you’re cold. Because you need the armor.

“I’m probably not the one you want to date.” The words come out flat. Unflinching.

Bucky’s brow lifts just slightly. But he doesn’t look away. “Why’s that?”

You exhale through your nose. You hate this part. Hate the truth of it. “Because the next one I date… I’m going to marry.”

There it is.

Naked. Honest. A little bitter. A little afraid.

He doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t flinch.

He just studies you like he’s turning the words over in his mind, weighing them like they’re heavier than they look. “Okay.”

Your stomach tightens. “Okay?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

You frown. “You’re not gonna… run screaming or say that’s intense or ask if I’ve ever heard of casual?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He gives the smallest smile—more wistful than amused. “Because I’m not scared of someone who knows what they want.”

Your throat goes tight. “And what if it’s not you?”

He tilts his head. “Then you’ll still be worth knowing.”

God.

You want to kiss him.

You want to bolt.

You do neither.

You just stand there under a flickering streetlight, your heart doing somersaults while he watches you like you hung the stars.

You part ways at your front door.

He doesn’t ask to come up.

Doesn’t try to kiss you.

He just says, “Goodnight,” and walks away like a man who’s willing to wait.

You shut the door behind you and slide down it slowly, exhaling like you’ve just survived something. Like you’ve passed a test you didn’t know you were taking.

Because he didn’t laugh.

Because he didn’t run.

Because “okay” felt like a vow.

And for the first time in a long time, your fear… doesn’t win.

You don’t sleep much that night. Not because anything happened. Not really.

It was just a walk. A few words. A flickering streetlight.

But now you can’t stop thinking about the way he said okay. Not a challenge. Not a joke. Just… agreement. Like he understood the weight of what you said and didn’t flinch from it.

Like he’d been waiting for someone to say it out loud.

You’ve dated people who ran from seriousness like it had teeth. Men who told you they weren’t “in a place” for anything real, right before getting married six months later to someone else. You’ve had flings. You’ve had companionship. You’ve had chemistry.

But Bucky?

Bucky sees through you. And that’s so much more dangerous.

Because what if he’s the right one at the wrong time? Or worse—what if this is the right time, and you’re the one who’s not ready?

The next morning, there’s a coffee on your doorstep. No note. Just your usual—strong, oat milk, one sugar.

You stand there for a long minute, holding it in both hands, trying to feel anything but what you’re feeling.

You failed to scare him off. And now the problem isn’t him—it’s you.

You don’t text. Not for a few days.

And he doesn’t push.

But he doesn’t disappear, either.

You hear about him from Sam. You catch glimpses of him at the Tower—training, reading in corners, laughing at something quietly when Torres says something ridiculous. He never hovers. Never crowds.

Just… watches.

Like he knows you’re pulling away, and he’s giving you space to do it.

But God, the way he looks at you—soft, patient, open.

You’ve never had patience like that before and you don’t know what to do with it.

A week later, you find yourself cleaning your apartment for no reason.

You vacuum a floor that doesn’t need vacuuming. You rearrange your bookshelf. You throw out a bottle of body wash that expired last year.

You open a drawer and find an old journal. Inside is a list you wrote after your last serious relationship—the one you swore would be the last mistake.

A list titled: What I Want Next Time.

You flip through it, fingers trembling.

Kind eyes

Doesn’t raise their voice when they’re angry

Listens without interrupting

Picks up on things without needing a manual

Loves quietly, steadily, without making it a performance

Makes me feel safe. Seen. Soft.

You shut the journal because it’s not a list.

It’s a description. Of Bucky.

And you suddenly don’t know how long you’ve been writing him into your life.

When you see him again, it’s raining.

You’re leaving HQ after a long debrief, arms full of folders, hood up, trying not to get soaked. He’s standing just outside, shaking water off his sleeves, no umbrella, hair damp and curling at the ends.

You hesitate.

Then walk toward him.

“Forgot to check the forecast,” you mutter, shifting your weight.

“You always forget.”

You glance up. “You keeping tabs?”

He shrugs. “Only on things that matter.”

And there it is again—the look. The softness. The steadiness. Like he knows you’ll bolt if he comes too close, so he stays just close enough.

You sigh, half-exasperated. “You’re not gonna say anything about the other night?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

He looks at you, head tilted slightly, eyes kind. “You said what you meant. I heard you. I don’t need to push.”

The wind picks up. You shiver.

He takes off his jacket and holds it out.

You don’t want to take it but you do anyway. You let him shrug it over your shoulders and pull it tight without disrupting the piles of documents in your arms.

The two of you pause for just a moment, then. His large jacket hanging off of you, his hands on your arms after tugging it tight and smoothing it down. His eyes hold yours and you feel your expression soften.

“Let me walk you.” He says, and it’s not a question. Wordlessly, you nod, feeling your heart squeeze as he moves away from touching you.

You walk to the corner together, close but not touching. “You know,” you say, after a while, “the idea of marriage used to feel like a fairytale. Now it feels like a cliff.”

Bucky hums. “Still looks like a future to me.”

You glance sideways. “Do you ever… wonder if you missed your chance?” you ask. “That maybe you already had the thing you were meant for, and now it’s just…” You trail off. “Gone?”

He’s quiet a moment before speaking softly, “I used to.”

You wait.

“But lately I’ve been thinking… maybe some people don’t get their beginning until they’ve lived through the ending.”

You swallow hard. “That sounds like therapy talk,” you whisper.

He smiles faintly. “It is. But it doesn’t make it wrong.”

By the time you part ways, the rain’s lighter. You’re still wearing his jacket, and he doesn’t ask for it back.

“You want to come up?” you ask without thinking.

He pauses. Not hesitant—just careful. “Not if it makes this real too fast.”

You blink.

And that’s the moment you know—he’s not afraid of commitment.

He’s afraid of breaking it.

You nod, stepping back. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

His smile is gentle. “Goodnight.”

You fall asleep with his jacket draped over the foot of your bed.

The scent of rain and him still clinging to it.

And this time, when you dream, it’s not of falling.

It’s of someone catching you.

There’s a reason you don’t believe in safe love anymore.

It didn’t happen all at once. There was no singular betrayal that shattered you, no cheating scandal, no dramatic, messy goodbye.

No—what broke you were the quiet exits.

The man who made promises and walked away before he had to keep them. The one who said forever right up until he realized forever wasn’t convenient. The one who loved you easily until it got real—and then looked at you like you’d become heavy. Like love was supposed to be light.

You don’t remember when it stopped being magic. But you remember when you stopped trying. When dates started feeling like job interviews. When compliments made your skin crawl. When you looked in the mirror and thought, I would rather be alone than start over.

And you were. For a long time.

Alone, not lonely. Just… still.

Still enough that when Bucky Barnes came along, the stillness didn’t feel like armor anymore.

It felt like glass. Thin. Brittle. Something waiting to be shattered.

He doesn’t push you. He never does. But something shifts.

You feel it in the way he stops texting first. Stops lingering after briefings. Stops waiting in doorways like he wants to say something but isn’t sure he’s allowed.

He’s not avoiding you. But he’s not orbiting you anymore either.

And it’s your fault. You know it is.

You laid out the boundary—the next one I date, I’m going to marry—and he took it seriously. He heard it. He respected it. And he’s giving you what you said you needed.

He kept showing up, kept understanding you and respecting your boundaries, but you didn’t give him an inch. You can’t blame him for pulling back, not really, not when you know this is partly your fault.

But the ache in your chest kept you up at night. The lack of his presence made you dizzy. And while you knew it wasn’t, you couldn’t help but think it—

Why does this feel like punishment?

You try to be normal. Casual. Professional.

You work your missions. You crack your jokes. But the soulmate banter that used to make you grin now sits heavy in your chest. The word “probably” doesn’t feel light anymore. It feels like a bruise.

Because it was a joke until it wasn’t.

And now, when you see him, you remember how it felt to be seen.

And it hurts.

One afternoon, you find yourself in the Tower kitchen long after you’re supposed to be gone. You’re not even sure why you’re still there.

Maybe you were waiting. Maybe you just didn’t want to walk past the empty hallway where he used to lean while you filled your mug.

You’re staring into your tea when Sam walks in.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just opens the fridge, grabs a drink, leans against the counter like he’s done this a thousand times.

He’s always been like this with you. Steady. Present. Like a lighthouse that doesn’t ask for gratitude.

After a while, he clears his throat.

“So.”

You glance up.

He doesn’t look at you. Just takes a sip and says, real soft— “He’s not the one you’re scared of.”

You freeze.

Sam doesn’t push. Never does. “You’re not scared he’ll leave,” he adds. “You’re scared he might stay.”

Your throat goes tight.

You look back down at your mug. “That obvious?”

“To me? Yeah.”

You smile without humor. “That’s annoying.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “So’s avoiding the person who clearly gives a damn about you.”

You nod. You don’t say anything else.

He doesn’t need you to.

He claps your shoulder on the way out, just once.

That night, you dream about the last person you loved.

The one who said he wanted something serious. Who used to cup your face and say things like you feel like home. The one who said he was ready—and then disappeared the moment you called him yours.

In the dream, he’s standing across the room, telling you it wasn’t that deep.

You wake up angry. Then sad. Then ashamed for still dreaming about someone who never earned it.

But when you open your phone, there’s a text.

[ 9:03 PM | BUCKY ]: Heard you got stuck in that briefing from hell. You okay?

You stare at the screen.

Then type, slowly:

Yeah. Just tired.

He replies a minute later.

Want me to bring you something? Or leave you alone?

You don’t answer.

Not because you don’t want him to come, but because you don’t trust yourself to let him stay.

For three days, you dodge him.

It’s pathetic, and you know it.

He extended another chance and you still can’t take it.

But your fear has always worn practical shoes. It walks with you. Lives in your lungs. Tells you he deserves better than someone waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Because you like him.

God, do you like him.

But liking him means risking the kind of love that wrecks you for anyone else.

And maybe you’re still too tired to be wrecked again.

It happens on a Thursday.

You’re in the weapons room, logging inventory. You think you’re alone—until he speaks behind you.

“Hey.”

You jolt, knocking over a clipboard. He bends to pick it up.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says quietly.

You take it from him without meeting his eyes. “It’s fine.”

Silence.

“You pulling away because of what I said?”

You hesitate. Then nod. Once.

“You meant it,” he says, not accusing. Just stating a fact. “About marrying the next one.”

You nod again.

“You think I can’t handle that?”

That makes your head snap up. You look at him, startled.

His face is calm. Not wounded. Just waiting. “I don’t know what you can handle,” you admit. “But I know what I can’t.”

He waits.

You grip the edge of the table. “I can’t fall for someone who’s going to change their mind. Not again. Not after all of it.”

His voice is soft. “I’m not them.”

“I know,” you whisper. “That’s what scares me.”

You leave before he can answer.

Because if he says the right thing, you won’t be able to resist.

And you’re not ready yet.

But maybe… you’re close.

You stay home the next day.

Not because you’re sick. Not even because of the mission schedule—which, technically, does give you the day off.

You stay home because you’re tired.

Tired of pretending the tension in your chest isn’t building like weather pressure.

Tired of pretending Bucky Barnes doesn’t occupy a little corner of your mind at all hours, whether or not he’s in the room.

You make tea and don’t drink it. You clean your kitchen and forget why you started. You try to journal—something grounding, something reflective—but all that comes out is his name.

Bucky.

You trace the letters once before scribbling them out like a schoolgirl. It’s ridiculous. You feel ridiculous.

Except… you don’t.

You feel scared.

Because it’s easier to imagine being alone than to imagine being loved correctly.

And if he loves you?

If he really stays?

What the hell will you do then?

You ignore a message from Sam. Something about sparring in the gym.

You mute your notifications from HQ.

But what you don’t do—what you can’t bring yourself to do—is delete the last text from Bucky. Sent shortly after your last talk.

“I’m serious. You think I can’t handle that?”

It replays in your mind. Over and over.

He wasn’t angry. He didn’t call you dramatic or difficult or broken.

He was just calm. Steady. Sure.

Like a person who might actually mean what he says.

Like someone who might actually be safe.

That night, you dream again.

But it isn’t your ex this time.

It’s Bucky.

You’re sitting at your kitchen table. The room is sunlit, quiet. There’s a coffee mug in front of you, chipped and familiar. He’s standing near the sink, sleeves pushed up, rinsing dishes while the radio hums low in the background.

It’s not a fantasy. It’s not even romantic.

It’s domestic.

That’s what makes it terrifying.

Because your mind didn’t conjure kisses or confessions.

It conjured the sound of him humming while he dries a plate. The sight of his dog tags resting quietly on your counter. The feeling of being known in small ways that no one else bothered to learn.

You wake up sweating.

And you don’t fall back asleep.

You go back to work the next day.

You think you’re ready. You tell yourself you’re fine.

You last an hour.

Then you see him.

He’s across the hallway, deep in a debrief with Sam and Torres. He looks good—hair tucked behind his ears, sleeves rolled, jaw tight with focus.

He doesn’t notice you right away. But when he does—his eyes find yours instantly.

You freeze.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave.

He just watches you. Still. Quiet. Unshaken.

And you remember what Sam said—

“You’re not scared he’ll leave. You’re scared he might stay.”

You can’t breathe.

You turn. Walk the other way. Lock yourself in the nearest conference room and grip the edge of the table until your fingers ache.

You don’t cry.

You just shake.

Hours later, you find yourself in the Tower’s garden, even though it’s drizzling and no one else is around. The plants are overwatered and the benches are damp, but you sit anyway—arms wrapped around yourself, jacket pulled tight.

You don’t expect him to find you.

But he does.

He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t speak.

He just stands a few feet away, waiting.

After a long stretch of silence, you finally say, “You’re still here.”

He nods.

“I didn’t mean to push you away, Bucky.”

“I know.”

“I just…” You shake your head. “I’ve never had someone mean it like this when they said they wanted to stay.”

Bucky shifts his weight, just slightly. His voice is low. “I’ve never said it to someone who made me want to.”

You look up.

And there he is.

Not a fantasy. Not a maybe. Just him.

Solid. Steady. Still here.

You don’t move toward him. He doesn’t reach for you.

But something in you settles for the first time in weeks.

And this time, when you whisper, “I’m scared,”

He says, simply—

“I know. Me too.”

And that’s enough.

Not a promise.

Not a beginning.

Just a shared truth in the middle of the storm.

It starts with a name on your phone screen you forgot was still saved.

You’re standing barefoot in your kitchen, sipping water and staring out the window when your phone lights up—just a soft buzz against the counter, innocuous.

But the second you see it, something drops in your stomach.

It’s him.

The one you loved like a fool. The one who said, I’m not going anywhere, and then left anyway. The one you convinced yourself you were over.

You shouldn’t answer.

But you do.

“Hey,” he says, casual like this isn’t the first time you’ve heard his voice in nearly a year. “Wasn’t sure if you’d pick up.”

You say nothing.

“I saw that bookstore you used to love. The one by the park. Thought of you.”

You grip the edge of the counter.

“It’s weird,” he says, “how things just… come back sometimes.”

You finally speak. “What do you want?”

He pauses. Laughs like it’s charming. “I don’t know. Just wanted to hear your voice, I guess.”

There’s nothing malicious in his tone. Nothing aggressive. But it guts you anyway. Because he always sounds like this—easy, warm, nostalgic. And you always forget, until it’s too late, that the comfort comes with consequences.

You hang up.

No goodbye. No explanation.

Just the sound of the call ending and the echo of your own heartbeat, suddenly too loud in the quiet.

You drop your phone on the table and back away like it bit you. And maybe it did.

Maybe it’s not the call that shakes you—it’s the fact that for half a second, your heart wanted to believe him again.

That you missed him. Or missed the version of yourself who believed she deserved to be chosen.

You sit on the floor. You don’t cry. But your chest aches, sharp and familiar. And before you can think better of it, you reach for your phone again.

You scroll.

You hover.

Then—against all logic—you hit Call.

It rings once.

Then again.

Then—

“Hey.” Bucky’s voice is low, warm, instantly alert. “What’s wrong? You okay?”

You exhale shakily. “No. I’m not.”

There’s no hesitation.

“Do you need me to come get you?”

Your eyes shut tight. You’re already home. The walls feel too loud. The floor too cold.

“No,” you say. “I’m at home. I’m okay.” Your voice breaks. “I mean—I’m not, but I don’t need… I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

A beat of silence.

Then, soft and certain—

“You can always talk to me.”

Your chest caves in.

Not from pain. From relief.

Because you didn’t even know you needed to hear it until it was already said.

You don’t say anything for a long time.

Neither does he.

He doesn’t press. Doesn’t fill the silence.

He just stays on the line—quiet, breathing, present.

Eventually, you whisper, “My ex called.”

Bucky’s voice doesn’t change. “Yeah?”

You nod before remembering he can’t see you. “Just to talk,” you say. “Just to remind me he still knows how to hurt me.”

“Did you let him?”

“I picked up.”

“That’s not the same.”

You go quiet again. “I hate that I let it get to me,” you admit. “I thought I was past this.”

“You are,” he says. “You just forgot for a second. That doesn’t mean you went backward. It means you’re human.”

You cover your face with one hand, biting back the sob in your throat. “I hate how small it makes me feel.”

“You’re not small,” Bucky says, gentle but firm. “You’ve never been small.”

You shift the phone against your cheek and slide down to sit on the floor again. “Do you ever feel like there’s something broken in you?” you murmur. “Like there’s a part of your heart that just… doesn’t work right anymore?”

He’s quiet, but not distant, when he speaks. “All the time.”

You blink. His voice is steady. “But then I remember broken doesn’t mean gone. It just means healing takes longer.”

“Is that another therapy line?”

He huffs softly. “Yeah. But it helps.”

You smile, even if it’s tired and crooked. “It does.”

Another stretch of silence. Then he says, “You want me to stay on the line?”

You nod. Whisper, “Please.”

He talks.

Not about you. Not about the call.

He tells you about something Sam said yesterday. About how Yelena’s been teaching Alexei how to use voice-to-text and it’s a full-blown war in the group chat.

He tells you about his cat, Alpine, and how she keeps stealing socks and hiding them under the bed like trophies.

He tells you he bought a plant.

You blink. “You? A plant?”

“I’m trying things.”

“Is it alive?”

“Barely.”

You laugh, softly. He does too.

“I should go to bed,” you say after a while. “I have work in the morning.”

“Okay.”

But neither of you hang up.

You fall asleep with the phone still pressed to your ear. You don’t remember drifting off. You don’t remember dreaming.

You just wake sometime before dawn, your phone warm in your hand, the call timer still ticking in the corner of the screen.

He stayed.

He always does.

When you open your door the next morning, there’s a brown paper bag on your stoop.

Inside: your favorite pastry.

Still warm.

A folded napkin tucked inside reads: You’re not alone. —B

You press your hand to your chest and lean against the doorframe.

No declarations. No pressure.

Just presence.

And for once, that’s enough.

It doesn’t fix everything. It doesn’t erase what came before.

But it softens the edges.

And soft is a start.

You wake up just before dawn, phone still pressed to your ear, the call timer blinking past the five-hour mark. You fell asleep that way again.

You pull it away slowly. The line is dead now—he must’ve hung up after you fell asleep—but something in you knows he waited longer than he should have. Stayed long enough to be sure you were breathing evenly. That your voice had gone soft. That you were safe.

Your chest aches in that quiet, terrible way it does after a breakdown.

Not a sharp pain. Not anymore.

Just… emptiness. Hollowed out. As if everything inside you cracked open and poured out into the dark.

You sit up slowly.

The room is still.

The clock says 5:12 AM.

You should sleep more. You don’t.

Instead, you go to the kitchen, barefoot and dazed. You make coffee. You forget to drink it. You replay everything in your mind, bit by bit—the call, your voice breaking, his voice steady, the way he never once made you feel like a burden.

There’s a difference between someone saving you and someone staying with you while you save yourself.

Bucky stayed.

And that truth hums beneath your skin like a second heartbeat.

You’re not used to this part.

The aftermath of being heard.

You’re used to apologizing for breaking down. Used to waking up and bracing yourself for the fallout—an unread message, a subtle shift in tone, a door gently closing in your face.

But Bucky didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t ask you to explain, didn’t ask you to stop, didn’t ask you to be better, neater, less messy.

He just stayed on the line.

Night after night.

Talked until your body remembered what safety sounded like.

And now he’s left you with nothing but the echo of it—and the ache of wanting him closer.

You stay home one morning.

Call it a personal day. You tell HQ it’s fatigue, but the truth is you need to exist without witnesses. You need to move through your apartment like a ghost and let the panic simmer out of your bloodstream.

Around 9:00, there’s a knock on the door.

You hesitate.

Then open it.

There he is.

Bucky Barnes, in a hoodie and dark jeans, holding a brown paper bag and two cups of coffee. His hair’s a little mussed, like he didn’t bother fixing it before walking out the door. His eyes are tired—but kind.

He holds out the bag. “Figured you didn’t want to be alone today.”

You swallow hard.

There’s no pity in his voice. Just care.

“Did you sleep?” you ask softly.

He shrugs. “Enough.”

You reach for the bag. Your fingers brush his. His hand is warm. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

He doesn’t smile. Not quite. “I told you. You can always talk to me.”

You eat breakfast on the floor of your apartment. Neither of you suggests sitting at the table. He takes the couch. You sit against the edge of it with your back to him, both of you in sweats and socks, watching the light change on the far wall.

He doesn’t ask about the call with your ex again. Doesn’t ask how you’re feeling.

He just exists near you, and somehow that feels like the first step forward.

You rest your head back against the cushion. He’s behind you, barely touching, knees bent, hands resting lightly on his thighs.

His voice is quiet when he finally says, “You know, I used to think the worst thing was being alone.”

You turn your head a little, just enough to hear him better.

“But it’s not,” he continues. “It’s being surrounded by people who don’t see you. People who only stay for the best parts and vanish when it gets dark.”

You close your eyes.

He’s not talking about you.

He’s talking about himself.

And maybe—somehow—both of you at once.

You whisper, “Is that why you keep staying on the phone?”

There’s a pause.

“No. I stay because I want to.”

At some point, he falls asleep.

You glance back to find his head tipped against the side of the couch, arms crossed loosely over his chest, breathing slow and even.

And you watch him for too long.

Because this isn’t someone waiting to be let in.

He’s already here.

He came quietly, gently. No fanfare.

And he didn’t ask to be let inside your heart. He just waited for you to stop locking the doors.

He leaves around two.

You walk him to the door, not sure what to say.

He glances down at you before he goes and says, “You don’t owe me anything for that first call. Or any of the ones after.”

You nod. “I know.”

“But I’ll still show up.”

Your throat tightens. “I know that too.”

He lifts a hand. Brushes his knuckles lightly across your shoulder. Barely there. But it lingers longer than it should.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says.

Not if you want me to. Not if you’re ready.

Just—I’ll see you.

Like it’s a fact.

Like it’s a promise.

And maybe it is.

Maybe love doesn’t always start with a lightning bolt or a kiss in the rain.

Maybe sometimes it starts with a voice on the other end of the line whispering, You can always talk to me.

And meaning it.

Things shift after the calls. Not all at once. Not in a dramatic, sweeping way. But in the subtle realignments that only you can feel. Like how you don’t reach for your armor as quickly when he’s around. How you start saying yes to things without rehearsing the refusal first.

You don’t define it.

He doesn’t name it.

But the space between you gets warmer.

And somehow—somehow—that’s scarier than when it was tense.

Because this? This feels like it could last.

And you’ve never been good at lasting.

It starts with coffee.

He brings it to you one morning—doesn’t text first, doesn’t knock.

Just leaves it on your desk with a note: “No one should start the day without caffeine or kindness. —B”

You laugh, quietly, the sound catching in your throat. Not because it’s romantic. Because it’s real. He doesn’t ask for thanks. He just gives.

Later that afternoon, you bring him a muffin. You don’t say it’s a thank-you. He doesn’t say anything when you leave it beside his gear.

But when you glance back, he’s already eating it.

You don’t know how it happens, but you start spending more time with him.

Little things.

You sit on the same bench during team meetings.

You send him weird memes. He sends you back links to music with no explanation.

You bicker in the way that makes people glance at each other with barely concealed curiosity.

But no one asks.

And neither of you volunteers an answer.

Some things are better left yours.

It’s a Wednesday when it happens.

You’re sitting on the Tower’s roof after a long training session—tired, sore, emotionally dulled. He’s beside you, sleeves pushed up, forearms resting on his knees.

The city stretches out below, twinkling and indifferent.

You don’t mean to tell him. You don’t plan to.

But the words slip out anyway.

“My dad died on a Wednesday.”

His head turns toward you, slowly.

You keep looking ahead. “He was sick for a while. The kind that makes everyone pretend longer than they should. I thought we’d have more time.”

You pause. Swallow. “I was the one who found him. Came home from work, dropped my bag, turned the corner, and just…”

You trail off.

Bucky doesn’t speak.

He just waits.

You breathe in sharply. “It was the worst day of my life. Not just because he was gone. But because no one told me how empty silence can sound.”

You expect pity. A touch on your hand. Some platitude about strength or time healing things.

But Bucky just says, quietly— “The best day I had after everything? Was the first day I woke up and didn’t feel guilty about surviving.”

Your eyes turn to him. His gaze is steady, but not hard. “You’re not broken,” he adds, voice barely more than a breath. “You just stopped hoping.”

The words crack something open in you.

Not pain.

Just… truth.

You blink fast. Your throat burns.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper.

“I know.”

Saturday morning, he shows up at your place with two coffees and a half-smile. “Want to come with me to the market?”

You lift a brow. “Are we out of ammunition?”

He huffs. “It’s not that kind of market.”

The park is small and cluttered, lined with chalk drawings and toddlers with juice-stained hands. There’s a stand that sells honey in glass jars and one with dried flowers wrapped in recycled paper.

You pretend it’s not a date.

You tell yourself this is what friends do.

You pick out peaches. He carries your bag. You watch him help an elderly woman load watermelons into her trunk and feel something sharp twist low in your stomach.

You want to reach for his hand.

You don’t.

He doesn’t offer it.

But when you sit on the bench with two cups of fresh lemonade, your knees touch.

He doesn’t move away.

Neither do you.

That night, he walks you home.

The summer air is warm. The city hums soft and low.

You reach your door and turn to say goodnight and something shifts again.

Not a lurch. Not a spark.

Just stillness.

That perfect, charged kind of quiet that always comes right before a first kiss.

He looks at your mouth.

You look at his.

And for a second—just one—you close your eyes and lean in.

Then stop.

Your breath catches as he exhales through his nose and smiles—barely. “Not yet,” he says, gentle.

You nod. “Okay.”

You open the door and he waits until you’re fully inside before he turns to go.

You didn’t kiss that night but the almost of it buzzes against your skin for hours. It lingers on your lips. It curls in your chest.

It settles in your bones.

You sleep better, not because anything is resolved, but because something’s changed.

Something’s beginning.

And it doesn’t hurt.

Not this time.

Not with him.

He texts later that evening, after the market.

[BUCKY]: You make that peach cobbler yet?

You reply from your kitchen, phone propped against the wall as you mix flour with cold butter.

[YOU]: In progress. You may get a forkful if you behave. [BUCKY]: Define “behave.”

You smile, biting your lip.

[YOU]: Don’t disappear again. [YOU]: And maybe kiss me next time.

He doesn’t respond immediately. You almost think you pushed too far.

But then the phone buzzes.

[BUCKY]: I won’t disappear. I don’t plan to go anywhere. [BUCKY]: And next time… I’m not stopping at one.

You bring him the cobbler in a Tupperware container the next day.

You leave it on the Tower rec room table during a strategy review session and say nothing. He finds it mid-debrief, opens the lid, and raises an eyebrow like you just handed him a winning lottery ticket.

You don’t look over at him. But you hear him murmur—just once, softly, “Perfect.”

And it’s stupid how much that word makes your breath catch.

Two days later, you’re both assigned to a recon walk-through in Midtown—low risk, just surveillance and timing, no suits required. The kind of thing you used to hate: tedious, quiet, impersonal.

But with Bucky, it’s different.

The walk is steady. The air between you easy.

He doesn’t fill the silence. He doesn’t flirt or perform. He just listens. Occasionally points something out, occasionally leans close to murmur a route note, occasionally lets his hand brush yours in that way that could be an accident—but isn’t.

You round a corner between two brownstones, fall into step beside him, and say quietly, “I like this.”

He glances over. “The mission?”

You shake your head. “This. You and me. Just… this.”

He doesn’t smile. Not quite. But his shoulders relax, just a little. Like someone exhaling something they’ve held too long. “Me too.”

That night, he shows up with a movie download and two beers.

“I figured you’d say no if I asked,” he says, shrugging. “So I didn’t.”

You try to argue. You fail.

The movie plays. It’s forgettable—some B-level 90s thriller with bad haircuts and worse dialogue—but you sit close enough to feel his arm beside yours on the couch. Close enough that when you laugh, your shoulders touch.

He doesn’t lean away.

You don’t either.

Halfway through, the power flickers for a moment. You both look up. Then back down.

His hand drifts closer.

It’s not bold. Not intentional.

Just… available.

So you reach for it.

Just for a moment.

Fingers brush.

They settle.

And then they stay.

At the end of the night, when he leaves, you walk him to the door.

You open it quietly, expecting him to nod and step out.

Instead, he hesitates.

Just a second.

Then says, “You look like yourself again.”

You blink. “What does that mean?”

His voice stays quiet. Warm. “The version of you that doesn’t flinch at kindness.”

The words strike deep.

Not in a painful way. In a way that makes your chest ache with something unnamable.

You smile—small and tired, but real. “You have a terrible habit of saying exactly the right thing.”

He shrugs. “Blame the old soul.”

And then—

He leans in.

Not fast. Not sudden.

Just close enough for you to meet him halfway.

You do.

The kiss is soft. Barely more than a brush at first—his lips warm, careful, waiting.

When you don’t pull back, he deepens it slightly, one hand rising to rest at your jaw like he’s steadying something precious.

It doesn’t last long.

It doesn’t need to.

When he pulls away, your foreheads rest together. One shared breath.

Then he steps back.

You let him go, watching as he disappears into the hallway.

Then close the door and lean against it, hand pressed flat to the wood, and whisper, to no one in particular, “He’s going to ruin me.”

But what you really mean is: he might be the one who doesn’t.

The mission ends late.

A dull, dragging mess of faulty intel, downed comms, and a long walk back to the quinjet in the dark. You’re bruised, bone-tired, and aching from shoulders to shins.

By the time you make it back to the Tower, it’s nearly 2 a.m.

You’re not ready to be alone but don’t say that out loud. You just look at him across the loading bay, still in tactical gear, dirt on his cheek and concern in his eyes.

He doesn’t ask.

He just says, “You want to crash at my place?”

And you nod.

Bucky’s apartment is quiet. Clean but lived-in.

There’s a small stack of books on the coffee table—titles about history, trauma, woodworking, and cats. A cozy, oversized hoodie slung over the back of a chair. A plant on the windowsill that looks surprisingly healthy. Alpine is nowhere to be seen, probably curled up in a warmed hiding spot you’re not cool enough to know about yet.

He throws you a soft sweatshirt and gestures toward the couch.

“You want the bed?”

You shake your head. “I’m good here.”

He nods, but doesn’t move right away.

You hesitate.

Then, quietly—barely above a whisper—you say, “I don’t… want to be alone tonight.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his shoulders softens. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t ask why.

He just nods once. “Okay.”

Then turns to grab a blanket.

When he comes back, he doesn’t hand it to you.

He settles beside you on the couch, careful and quiet, and drapes the quilt over both of you. His arm brushes yours. You don’t pull away.

You curl beneath the fabric. He shifts just slightly closer.

Not to crowd you—just to be there.

You rest your head against his shoulder.

His hand finds yours beneath the blanket.

Fingers twine.

You don’t say thank you.

You don’t need to.

He stays.

And slowly, your body stops bracing for the worst.

You wake to the smell of coffee.

And something warm. Sweet.

Your eyes open slowly. Sunlight spills across the floor in long golden stripes. The apartment is hushed, but not silent. You can hear music playing low—something wordless and soft, like jazz on vinyl.

You sit up.

Bucky’s in the kitchen.

His hair is a mess. His shirt’s wrinkled. He’s barefoot, holding a spatula in one hand and flipping something in a pan with the other. He’s humming.

It hits you all at once: this could be a life.

Your life.

Not a fantasy.

A rhythm.

A morning you come home to.

He turns when he hears you. “Hey,” he says, smiling. “You like blueberry pancakes?”

You blink. “You made pancakes?”

He shrugs. “Seemed like a post-mission necessity.”

You walk over, still wrapped in the quilt, and lean against the counter.

He pours you coffee exactly how you like it. Your hands brush when he hands it off.

You both go still.

Then look up.

And just like that, the tension snaps—not with force, not with heat.

With relief.

You step closer. He sets the mug down.

Your hand rises to rest gently against his chest. Right over his heart.

He covers it with his own.

No words.

Just breath and warmth and something old as time curling between you.

You lift your chin.

He meets you halfway.

The kiss is slow.

No teeth. No rush.

Just the press of lips that have wanted each other for too long and finally—finally—have permission to linger in it.

You melt into him. His hands find your waist. Your fingers slide into his hair.

It’s not about passion.

It’s about peace.

About choosing.

About home.

When you pull back, your forehead rests against his. Your heart is loud, and his hands stay where they are.

Then, softly—so softly—it nearly gets lost in the air between you, he whispers, “When I see you, I see wrinkles and grey hair and children that look like you.”

Your breath catches.

You pull back to look at him.

“Bucky—”

But he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t explain it away. He just watches you, calm, patient.

Sure.

Your throat closes.

And suddenly, for reasons you can’t name, you laugh.

The kind of laugh that comes with too much emotion and not enough places to put it.

You shake your head, pressing your fingers to your mouth.

Then the laugh folds.

And you’re crying.

Not sobbing. Not unraveling.

Just tears. Slow. Quiet.

He doesn’t panic.

Doesn’t try to fix it.

He just steps closer. Wraps his arms around you. Tucks your head against his chest and holds you like he’s done it a hundred times.

Like he plans to do it a hundred more.

You stand there for a long time.

Wrapped up.

Breathing in the same rhythm.

Later, as the sun climbs higher and the plates sit empty on the counter, you sit together on the couch—your feet in his lap, your hand in his.

He glances at you.

Then asks, easy as anything, “Are we soulmates then?”

You look at him.

Really look.

This man who waited.

This man who stayed.

This man who never asked you to be less than your whole, messy, guarded self.

And you smile.

“Probably.”

And this time, probably means yes.

There’s a photo on the fridge now.

It’s crooked, half-pinned under a magnet shaped like a cat, corners curling from heat and time. You don’t remember when he put it there—just that one morning, it was up. You in his hoodie, leaning against a market stand, holding a peach and mid-laugh. Your sunglasses are too big for your face. He’s in the background, watching you like you hung the sun.

You look at it every morning while you make coffee.

And you smile.

This morning, you wake to the sound of soft breathing and the weight of his arm slung over your waist.

Your nose is cold. The rest of you is warm.

He’s pulled you close sometime in the night. Now he’s half on top of you, tucked in like you’re a pillow, a furnace, and a safe place all at once.

“Bucky,” you whisper.

He grumbles into your neck. Doesn’t move.

You try again. “You’re crushing me.”

He nuzzles closer. “You’re fine.”

“You weigh like 240 pounds.”

“One-eighty-five.”

“Plus the arm.”

“…Okay, two-ten. Go back to sleep.”

You laugh.

He smiles against your skin.

Later, when you finally roll out of bed—his hoodie on your body, his kiss still on your mouth—you find him barefoot in the kitchen, humming something old and low while he cracks eggs with one hand.

“You’re not even looking at the pan,” you say, grabbing two mugs.

“I’m highly skilled.”

“In assassinating, not making omelets.”

He shrugs. “You like it.”

You pour the coffee.

He glances over, eyes soft. “You staying in today?”

You nod. “Did all my paperwork yesterday.”

“Good,” he says. “Stay.”

You raise a brow. “Here?”

He crosses the kitchen, gently takes the mug from your hand, sets it down.

Then cups your face with both hands and kisses your forehead like it’s his life’s calling.

“With me.”

You eat breakfast on the floor again.

Pancakes this time. Your legs tangled over his. Jazz on the speakers. Alpine curled on a sunlit windowsill like she owns the place—which, as you’ve learned over the past year and a half, she does.

At one point, you reach for your plate, and he stops you just to kiss you again.

It’s slow. Familiar. Home.

“I love you,” you murmur into the curve of his mouth.

He hums. “I know.”

You pull back. “That’s it?”

He leans in again. Presses another kiss behind your ear. “You know how I feel about obvious answers.”

You grin. “Okay then. Tell me something better.”

He pretends to think.

Then whispers, without hesitation—

“When I look at you, I still see the same thing I saw the first night we met at Sam’s dumb logistics sync.”

“What’s that?” You ask, smiling.

“A life I want.”

You don’t speak after that.

Not because there’s nothing to say. But because sometimes, silence isn’t an absence.

Sometimes, it’s safety.

Much later, curled up on the couch, your legs over his lap and his hand tracing idle patterns against your thigh, he murmurs into your hair, “Are we soulmates then?”

You smile against his chest.

“Always.”

#thank you for this fic queen #i need to kiss your forehead #bucky barnes x reader

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crownofdecitreadingrespectfully · 6 days ago

Text

“man-child! why you always come a-running to me?”

(feeling feral while thinking about cowboy!john walker and his uptown girlfriend)

please give credit if you reuse! thank you angels :)

#he can fuck my life any day of the week #john walker

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crownofdecitreadingrespectfully · 6 days ago

Text

asset protocol

bucky barnes 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – dark themes, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes x Scientist!Reader, Soft Possession, Obsession Not Protection, minor mentions of violence and gore, angst

word count: 3k

Summary: You are a biomedical engineer under Hydra’s control, tasked with maintaining the Winter Soldier’s titanium prosthetic. One day, a man touches you—and the Soldier reacts with chilling precision, maiming him. It isn’t protection. It’s possession.

notes – not proofread. just wanted to write something for winter soldier era while i prep a multiverse story w him

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.

You’ve stopped keeping track of the days. Mostly. But sometimes it creeps in anyway—like rust along a seam. You think this one is 214.

The titanium arm is due for another recalibration.

You slip your badge into the door’s reader, ignoring the way your hands tremble. You’ve learned to control it well. No one here rewards nerves.

Inside, the air is always cold. Too sterile. Too quiet.

He’s already there, seated in the maintenance chair.

The Asset.

Codename: Winter Soldier. Subject to recall phrases. Subject to triggers. Subject to no one, if the wrong variable shifts.

He doesn’t look at you. He never does. Not until the diagnostics begin.

You don’t speak. You learned that early—first week. The one tech who tried small talk wound up with a fractured orbital and seven missing teeth. It wasn’t even during a mission-ready phase.

Just a moment of curiosity. That’s all it takes here to get hurt.

You move around the lab quietly. Pull up the thermal signature logs. The servo integrity file. You take the data pad and approach.

He lifts the arm without being asked.

Not for you. For the routine.

You slot the brace under his forearm, start the neuro-feedback scan. Titanium alloy, Soviet design—years behind what you could do if they let you touch the code instead of the hardware. But they don’t want better. They want loyal. Efficient. Lethal.

His fingers twitch once as you patch in.

You see the spike in neural activity on the screen. Reflexive, not aggressive. But still—you go still too. Just in case.

Then his gaze flicks to you.

A glance.

Your heart rate stutters.

He doesn’t look away.

You’ve learned to keep your head down, 500 days into your captivity.

Hydra doesn’t care if you speak. They only care if you work—clean welds, diagnostic reports, synthetic fiber integration, and the goddamn titanium core that keeps overheating when the Soldier exerts himself past mission protocol.

He never speaks to you. Even after all this time. Just sits in the chair when they order him to, muscle coiled, breathing even. You work in silence. Sometimes you wonder if he even sees you as a person.

Until today.

His name is Lenkov. You’ve seen him once or twice before—always lurking just outside the lab perimeter, clipboard in hand, smug in the way that men are when they think power makes them untouchable.

Today, he steps into your workspace like he owns it. Doesn’t even glance at the man in the chair.

You’re reviewing the motor feedback data. You don’t speak. You know better.

Lenkov makes some joke you don’t catch. You don’t respond.

He circles your workstation like a hyena in dress shoes.

Then—

He reaches out. Not rough. Not aggressive. Just… entitled. His fingers brush your shoulder. Then slide down your arm.

You freeze.

Not because you fear him. But because you can feel it. The shift.

Across from you, the Soldier’s body doesn’t move.

But his eyes lift.

And lock.

Right on the hand that’s touching you.

It’s quiet for a breath too long.

Then it happens. Fast.

The soft whistle of air moving faster than thought. Then the crack of metal through flesh and bone and desk.

Lenkov’s scream is delayed. You watch the knife tremble where it’s pinned him down—his hand splayed like a dissected frog, two fingers already turning dark from severed vessels.

You don’t scream. You just look at him.

The Soldier.

Still seated. Calm. He lifts his flesh hand and places it flat on the armrest. Deliberate. Grounding.

The titanium fingers flex once.

The meaning is clear.

He is not under command. He is not waiting for orders.

He chose this.

Chose to react.

Chose you.

Guards rush in. But they hesitate—guns drawn, but no one willing to make the first move. Not with him sitting there. Not with that look on his face. Not at you. Not at Lenkov. At everyone.

A warning.

The room stinks of blood and antiseptic. You reach for the edge of your desk to steady yourself, heart pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

His gaze flicks to your hand. Your fingers stop moving. It’s then you realize—

It wasn’t about helping you.

It was about the line someone crossed.

And in his mind, you’re not a person. You’re a variable.

A variable that belongs to him.

You don’t know where they’re taking you.

Not at first. They come after midnight—two men in black fatigues with unreadable patches, neither offering explanation or eye contact. One takes your elbow too tightly. The other gestures for you to leave everything behind, even your lab badge. Especially your badge.

You don’t fight. You just walk.

It’s cold. Your socks are thin. You don’t know if you’re being punished or reassigned—or if the knife that severed flesh and tendon was somehow your fault.

You didn’t ask him to do it. You didn’t even look scared. You’d frozen.

But the Soldier had moved.

And Hydra doesn’t like variables.

They move you to sub-level five. Medical overflow turned containment-adjacent workspace. One cot. No terminals. No clock. No window.

You spend the first three hours staring at the rivets on the far wall, counting the flicker of the overhead light like it might mean something.

By hour eight, you stop counting.

You hear rumors through the vents. Someone down the corridor has a cracked rib. Another has nerve damage in their hand. There’s blood on a reprocessing table that wasn’t there before.

They say the Soldier is noncompliant.

Not verbally. Not violently.

Worse—he’s still.

Still in that terrible, silent way that means his programming isn’t working. Still like a loaded gun no one knows how to disarm. They try resets. Conditioning. Repetitions. Nothing takes. He doesn’t move for recalibration anymore. He doesn’t sit when ordered.

They send in five separate techs to work on his arm. He doesn’t react to a single one. But the minute a gloved hand nears the shoulder port where your fingers used to rest—he closes his metal hand around the technician’s wrist, crushes it, and waits.

They all get the message.

No one touches the arm.

Not unless it’s you.

You get sick.

Two weeks in isolation with no proper rest or food and a poorly sanitized air system finally catches up with you. You try to hide the cough at first, pressing your sleeve to your mouth, but it grows sharp and wet, and by the third day it’s coated in red.

They move you to quarantine for observation. Lock you behind a two-way mirror. You sleep on a stretcher while a machine breathes beside you, fluid crackling in your lungs like rain on tin.

You think maybe this is it. Maybe you’ll die nameless in a lab three floors underground, with no one to notice or care.

You’re wrong.

Meanwhile—

Six levels above, the Soldier’s screen flickers. His diagnostics queue hasn’t been cleared in days. But the vitals display still runs.

You.

Heart rate: elevated. Blood oxygen: critically low. Blood pressure: fluctuating. He watches your chart the way others watch mission targets. He doesn’t know why he watches it.

Only that he does.

That when it spikes—he can feel something squeeze inside his ribs. Not physical. Not metal. Something wrong.

He doesn’t sleep that night. (He rarely sleeps.) But this is different. He sits on the platform with his hand still slotted into the interface dock, and doesn’t blink for four hours.

The next morning, a technician comments on the smell of something burning. Another finds the data feed to your vitals manually looped onto his monitor, despite three firewalls.

No one knows how he did it.

No one knows why.

No one asks.

You survive.

Barely. It takes a saline drip, a round of antibiotics, and the quiet whisper of something inside you that wants to live—even if no one’s looking.

On day nineteen, you wake up to find your badge reinstated. A guard is waiting. “You’ve been cleared,” he says flatly. “The Soldier’s interface has locked out all alternate access. Command wants it fixed.”

You don’t ask what happened to the last person who tried.

You already know.

They bring you back under full escort. Two guards on either side. A medic trailing behind. One supervisor holding a handheld trigger with the kill-code primed, just in case the Soldier reacts… unpredictably. You’re thinner than before. Paler. Hollow-eyed, skin still tight over fever-burnt cheeks. You’ve been cleared for duty, but not recovered.

The doors to the main diagnostics lab hiss open.

He’s already there.

The Soldier sits in the chair with his arm docked into the maintenance platform, head bowed slightly. Still. Too still. You feel it in your bones—the quiet held tension. The kind of silence that belongs to cages, not men.

Your workstation’s been stripped down. All your scripts removed. You’re given a new terminal and a warning: minimal interaction. No unnecessary speech. No deviation.

They lock your wrist to the metal table rail with a padded cuff. You don’t protest. It’s not about safety. It’s about control.

You sit. Open the interface. He doesn’t look at you. Not at first.

You begin diagnostics. Cautious. Every motion deliberate.

Click. Scroll. Analyze. Adjust.

And then—he lifts his head.

Not all the way.

Just enough.

You glance up, caught off guard by the sudden awareness in his eyes. Not the blank focus of protocol. Not the dead stare of an Asset on standby. Something else.

He looks at you.

You don’t speak.

The titanium fingers twitch.

Just once.

You continue working, trying not to shake. It takes you five full minutes to realize something’s wrong. The interface is… responsive. Not just to your commands, but to your patterns. It’s preloading diagnostics you haven’t entered. Adapting to your algorithms in real time. Its calibration cycle skips errors the way only you would skip them—compensating for field abrasion you haven’t logged in this build.

It’s behaving like it remembers you.

Like he does.

You check the control log. The arm has rejected every other technician. It shouldn’t be possible unless the system’s coded for one user.

Unless the Soldier wanted it that way.

You don’t say a word but that’s the day you start wearing gloves in the lab. Just in case he’s still watching your hands.

(He is.)

Your shift ends late. You leave through the auxiliary corridor—quieter, faster. It’s one of the few places in this compound that doesn’t echo with boots or screams. You make it halfway to your quarters before you hear them.

Footsteps.

Not in rhythm. Not patrol.

You turn, slow.

Too slow.

A man grabs your arm. Civilian clothes. Unregistered badge. One of the ones they think you don’t notice—someone who works on things beneath your clearance. The kind that smells like vodka and ambition.

“You think he protects you?” he slurs, breath hot against your cheek. “Think he cares? He’d rip you in half if I asked nicely.”

You try to wrench away. He grabs harder. Drags you toward the shadows at the edge of the hallway. You scream.

The echo is sharp, raw.

And then—

“Stop.”

It’s not a shout. It’s a word. One word.

Ragged. Hoarse. Human.

It hits the walls like a grenade and the hallway lights explode into red. Alarms blare. Doors slam shut. You fall to your knees as the man releases you—screaming now, but in pain. Somewhere beyond the strobing red, you hear bones breaking.

A metal hand meeting a soft throat.

Then nothing.

You wake up in medical again. Your lip is split. Your ribs ache. You’re bandaged and tethered to a pulse monitor. When you ask who brought you in, no one answers.

You already know.

Six floors below, in one of the reinforced isolation cells, the Soldier sits on the ground with blood on his knuckles and a black eye he didn’t have before.

He hasn’t spoken since. He won’t respond to commands. He won’t look at anyone. But he said something once.

To you.

And it wasn’t a code.

It wasn’t protocol.

It was a choice.

Something’s changed. Not just in the Asset.

In the facility.

You notice it first in the way people stop looking at you. At first, you think you imagined it. But then it becomes unmistakable. You enter the cafeteria. Four guards seated. A technician you recognize from interface prep. None of them meet your eyes. One of them stands and leaves the tray behind.

You pass a comms officer in the corridor. He steps aside too quickly. Even your supervisor—a thin, miserable man with a habit of condescension—now says nothing unless absolutely necessary. His fingers shake when he hands you your daily task file. They don’t touch you anymore.

No one does.

You sit alone now. In the far corner. Tray untouched. Gloves on. Head down. The cameras follow you like they always have—but now you feel it.

Like the whole place is watching.

Like they’re waiting.

He watches too. Every day they walk him through the diagnostics bay. Always under guard. Hands unclenched but close to fists. Eyes forward. Blank. Until he passes the cafeteria. There’s a small glass viewport, high on the wall. Most wouldn’t notice it.

But you do.

So does he.

Every day at 1300, you feel it: the scrape of a stare against your skin. Your hand stills over your tray. You lift your head.

He’s there.

Watching.

Not like a man.

Like a scope sighting a target.

Only he never blinks.

Just waits.

And still—some part of you… doesn’t feel afraid.

That might scare you most of all.

They’re testing new reset procedures. Sensory deprivation. Total silence. White void chambers. They want to reboot his protocol responses by starving him of context. If he can’t rely on sight, sound, memory—maybe they can isolate the code. They don’t tell you what’s happening. You only find out because they need your clearance to stabilize the interface mid-session.

You’re behind glass again, in an auxiliary control room, overseeing the calibration remotely. You can’t see him. He can’t see anything. His vitals are elevated. Heart rate: 92 bpm. Respiratory rhythm shallow.

He’s agitated—but not reactive.

A tech mutters, “Subject is stable but erratic. Looks like he’s disassociating again.”

You flinch. Something about that word makes your teeth ache. The comms glitch. A hard feedback squeal echoes through the system. You lunge forward, hands flying over the console to reroute the channel. “Override echo path,” you mutter. “Loop external—”

And then, without thinking, you lean toward the mic and whisper, “I’m here.”

Just two words. The first time you’ve ever used your voice directed towards him. Soft. Like you’d say to a scared animal. Like it means something.

Silence.

Then—

He moves.

The chair scrapes. Someone gasps. A guard fumbles for the kill code. “Asset—stand down—”

But the Soldier turns his head toward you.

You’re behind six inches of glass.

You haven’t said your name to him, or anything real. You haven’t really even been introduced. You are in white sterile clothing like every other lab worker here.

And he finds you.

Eyes blind. Comms down. Systems scrambled.

He finds you.

And breathes—

“…You.”

Just that.

Rough. Soft. Almost… reverent.

A whisper in a throat not used to sound.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

Because in that moment—across glass, across protocol, across every chain they’ve ever welded into his mind—

He doesn’t just recognize your voice.

He recognizes you.

It starts with fire.

One of the side labs goes dark at 0314. A power loss. Contained. Suppressed within six minutes. No cause listed.

But you feel it. The buzz in the walls. The tremble beneath your feet. The sudden absence of sound—as if the compound itself holds its breath.

When you arrive at your workstation, the guards are tighter. The hallways are half-empty. Your supervisor doesn’t make eye contact when he hands you the day’s file.

Inside the folder?

No diagnostics. No calibration. No lab notes.

Just your name.

Your clearance.

And the word: “TERMINATE.”

They want you gone. No explanation. No trial. Just erased like data.

You aren’t special. You aren’t vital. You were a variable—and you’ve reached the end of utility. Interfered too much with their precious asset.

Worse? They don’t even want to kill you.

They want to scrub you. Mind wiped. Identity dismantled. Memories fragmented until your name sounds like static. A ghost with a heartbeat.

You laugh—high, too sharp.

Because the only thing worse than being remembered is being forgotten.

He’s the one they send to do it in some sort of sick punishment for both of you.

The Soldier.

They walk him into the memory suite under sedation protocol, guards on all sides. He’s silent. Blank-eyed. They strap you down in the chair next to the sync console. You try to fight. Scream. Beg. But you already know they won’t listen. Your hands are trembling. Your mouth won’t move.

And then he looks at you. No weapons. No commands. No external stimuli. And something shatters. Because he doesn’t raise his hand. Doesn’t move toward the sync port.

He just stares.

Something behind his eyes catching—

Catching and holding—

Like he knows.

“Asset,” someone says, voice clipped. “Begin procedure.”

He doesn’t move.

“Execute memory override.”

Still nothing.

His fingers twitch.

They try the first-level command sequence. You see it flash in his eyes. The flicker of pain. The internal override colliding with the thing inside him that won’t obey. They scream the Russian code words.

And he falls.

Not down. Not out. Just freezes. Back straight. Eyes open. Limbs locked.

The failsafe.

Not a kill switch.

But worse.

Paralyzed. Conscious. Trapped.

You scream for him then. You scream until your throat breaks open, until blood and spit coat your teeth.

He can’t look away.

He can’t move.

He watches you cry. Watches them wheel the neural cleanse device closer. The red diode pulses against your temple.

He can’t stop it.

But he tries.

God, you can see it—his body trembling inside its own cage.

The last thing you see before your memory goes under? His eyes. Wide and shining and human.

You’re found three weeks later. Abandoned on the border of two collapsed territories. No records. No ID. Blank-eyed. Calm.

No memories.

You say your name is “No One.” You don’t know why. They think you’re just another escapee.

You’re not.

You’re just a ghost.

He never recovers. They reset him twelve times. Every mission, every kill, every system ping returns clean. Except for one thing. Every time they drop him into cryo, he says it. Soft. Slurred. Almost like a prayer.

“Where is she?”

They never ask who.

And he never forgets.

Even after you do.

#NOOOO #please I need the sequel #I’m imagining the possible angst and I’m FIENDING #bucky barnes x reader #god I can’t imagine his thought when he was frozen in his mind #fuck me that’s probably one of his void rooms 😭

188 notes · View notes

crownofdecitreadingrespectfully · 9 days ago

Text

HOLY FUCKING AIRBALL. NO FUCKING NOTES. THIS WAS PERFECTION. IF I LOVED IT LESS I MIGHT BE ABLE TO TALK ABOUT IT MORE.

this fic made me laugh. made me cry. made me so effing hot. and made me so happy. It was so well written and your characterization is so good.

Would GLADLY read 11k MORE words of this fic.

only you

john walker 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – nsfw (18+), explicit sexual content, MDNI, fem!masturbation, dirty talk, phone sex, domestic fluff, DILF!john x babysitter!reader, idk if it’s a slow burn but it’s sweet, friends to lovers, John had his redemption arc already but you’re the gift he never expected

word count: 11k

Summary: John Walker wasn’t looking for more. Not after everything. Not after the shield, the war, the wreckage. But then you showed up—hired by Val to watch his toddler son, Elijah Lemar—and somehow, without meaning to, you made yourself at home.

You, with your snarky comebacks and soft hands. With your coffee mugs and folded laundry and the way Elijah lights up when he sees you. You were supposed to be temporary.

But now you’re in his bed. In his life. And in his heart.

notes – not proofread. brought to you by: me wanting to write more thunderbolts banter and flirty John Walker, and me yearning over this idiot

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.

You meet John Walker in sweatpants and a scowl.

It’s your second week working for Val full-time—enough to be cleared for field-adjacent duties, but not enough to be sent back into any real action. So when she said she had an “important private protection assignment” for someone with your skillset, you expected something high-profile. A diplomat’s kid, maybe. A VIP escort job.

You didn’t expect a toddler with a superhero sticker book and a half-eaten pouch of applesauce.

And you definitely didn’t expect him.

The door creaks open, and you freeze.

John Walker is… tall. Broad. Sleep-rumpled in a dark Henley and gray sweatpants, barefoot, jaw shadowed with stubble. His hair is messy like he ran his hands through it too many times, and his arm flexes as he leans against the frame.

He looks like every bad decision you’ve ever wanted to make twice.

Your mouth goes a little dry.

“You the sitter?” he asks, voice low and rough like it hasn’t been used all morning.

You blink. “Yeah. Val sent me.”

He doesn’t respond right away—just gives you a slow once-over. Not gross. Not leering. Just… assessing. Careful. Cautious. But there’s amusement, too, simmering just under the surface like he’s trying not to laugh at you for wearing tactical boots to a babysitting gig.

Before either of you can say another word, a tiny voice chirps behind him.

“Dada!”

Then a blur of motion: a toddler waddles into view, dark curls bouncing, chubby fists clutching a juice box half his size. He beams at you like you hung the moon.

You crouch instinctively. “Hi, little guy.”

John exhales, rubbing a hand over his face like he hasn’t slept in three years. “That’s Elijah,” he says. “He just turned two. He’s obsessed with trucks, blueberries, and throwing things he’s not supposed to.”

Elijah lunges toward your boots like you’re the most interesting thing he’s seen all day. You gently distract him with the toy dinosaur that was lying on the floor.

John watches. You feel it. “Val said you’re combat-certified,” he says after a beat.

You shrug, still smiling at the toddler. “Doesn’t mean I can’t handle diapers.”

That earns a low huff of a laugh. It curls under your skin and settles there. “Come in, then,” he says, stepping aside.

You do. And you don’t miss the way his eyes dip down one last time—just a flicker, one heartbeat too long.

John’s house is clean but lived-in. Toys scattered in organized chaos, a sippy cup upside down on the coffee table, a folded New Avengers hoodie tossed over the back of the couch.

You pick up on the quiet right away. No sign of a second parent. No recent photos with Olivia in the frames. Just John and Elijah—park days, bedtime stories, tiny hands on a too-big shield.

“His mom,” he says, catching you looking, “isn’t in the picture day-to-day. Olivia and I… didn’t work out.” You nod once, softly. “Just me and him, now.”

You glance at him. “You’re doing a good job.”

He huffs again. “You haven’t seen bedtime yet.”

Elijah’s easy. He clings to your legs the second John disappears to change into something less lingering, and hands you his favorite book upside down with a proud grin.

You don’t mind. You’re good with kids. Always have been. But it’s not the kid that’s messing with your head. It’s him.

John, when he comes back, is in jeans and a plain t-shirt. No socks. He moves through the room with a calm confidence that makes it hard not to look. He picks Elijah up with one arm like it’s nothing, bounces him once, presses a kiss to the top of his head.

You’re absolutely doomed.

He catches you watching. “You good?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow.

You clear your throat. “Y-Yup. Totally.”

He smirks. “Didn’t think the crime fighting babysitter would be nervous because of me.”

“I’m not,” you lie. “You’re just… not what I pictured.”

“You expected someone with a dad bod and a fanny pack?”

You glance at his biceps. “I expected an old diplomat with a brat. Not—” You stop yourself. Too late.

His smile is smug now. Dangerous. “Not what?”

You snatch the book from Elijah and hold it up like a shield. “Not someone who looks like that, okay?”

He laughs. Full-bodied. Deep. “You know you’re saying this in front of my two-year-old, right?”

“He doesn’t know what it means.”

“I do.”

Your cheeks burn. He’s enjoying this. “You’re an ass,” you mutter.

“You’re the one making it weird, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

God help you.

You think it’s over. You think the awkward tension is just that—awkward. A moment. Nothing more.

But when you pack up to leave after the first shift, John walks you to the door. Elijah’s already asleep, and the house has gone quiet. Too quiet.

You’re pulling your hoodie on when he speaks again. “Thanks. For today.”

You smile. “Of course. He’s great.”

“So are you.” That pulls your eyes back to his. He’s watching you again. That same careful, quiet assessment from the first minute you met. “You’ve got a calm about you that I definitely don’t,” he says. “And Eli likes that.”

You hesitate. “And you?”

He shrugs, slow and warm. “I like it too.”

Then, before you can reply, he opens the door for you like a gentleman. The night air is cool. You step out and turn back, already half-smiling. “See you next week, Mr. Walker.”

He leans against the frame, arms crossed, voice lower than it has any right to be. “Can’t wait.”

You’ve settled into a rhythm now. Babysitting Elijah on days when Walker was in the field and you weren’t, and then training in the tower or working with the New Avengers any other day of the week.

But somewhere in the middle of it all, bantering with John became the constant. He wormed his way into your messages regularly. At first under the guise of something about watching Eli, and now, whenever he had a snarky comment to make about Bob’s fashion choices or Alexei’s anti-capitalist rants.

One time he sent a message about Bucky’s “fuck ass bob” that made you laugh so hard during a debrief you got lectured from Val on professionalism.

Tonight is one such night in your routine, though, where you’re at John’s house, babysitting. And something new happens— a phone call.

The call comes just after 7 p.m., and you know it’s him before you even check the screen.

Walker🛡️: Incoming FaceTime…

You glance down at the two-year-old currently curled into your chest like a sleepy barnacle, thumb in mouth, warm and sticky from applesauce and a bath. He’s heavy now, relaxed in that total-trust way only toddlers can manage.

You answer with a quiet tap, careful not to jostle Elijah.

John’s face appears immediately—dusty, wind-blown, still in tac gear. You catch the edge of a transport ship behind him. And, faintly, two voices arguing about whose comms were off.

“There he is,” John says, softening the second he sees his son.

Elijah perks up just enough to murmur, “Hi, Dada,” before settling back down with a sleepy sigh.

“That his juice-drunk voice?” John asks with a grin.

You nod, cradling Elijah tighter. “Bath, blueberries, and five books. He’s down for the count.”

“You’re a miracle worker.”

“Something like that,” you deadpan.

Behind John, Yelena leans into frame. “Tell her she has to babysit me next time. I like cuddles and strawberries,” she mutters.

You snort.

Ava appears next. “Can she train Bob?”

“Nobody can train Bob,” you say, then glance back at John. “How much longer are you out?”

“Another twelve hours, tops. I’ll be back in time for breakfast. You okay staying overnight?” You look down at Elijah. He’s snoring now, clutching a truck in one hand and the edge of your sweater in the other.

“We’re good,” you say. “By the way, he called you ‘Duh-duh’ today. Not sure if that’s a promotion or a demotion.”

John laughs, quiet and fond. “I’ll take what I can get.” His eyes flick to you again. They linger for just a second too long. Your thumb brushes Elijah’s curls, and John notices that too. “You look good with him,” he says, voice lower, meant only for you to hear.

You raise a brow and try to pretend your heart didn’t fumble a beat. “Careful, Walker. That almost sounded like flirting.”

“Maybe it was.”

You grin. “You’re supposed to be saving the world, not making me blush.”

“Pretty sure I can do both.” Before you can answer, a loud crash echoes behind him. Bob, probably. John winces. “Gotta go, sweetheart,” he says. “Be good for her, bud.”

Elijah’s thumb wiggles in sleepy acknowledgment. The screen goes black.

John comes home just after 2 a.m.

You don’t hear the door. You’re dead asleep on the couch, curled under a throw blanket, one arm wrapped protectively around the baby monitor like it might explode if you let it go.

John stops in the doorway and just watches.

You’re tucked into the cushions like you belong there, face smushed against your shoulder, one sock half-off. He can hear Elijah’s white noise machine crackling softly through the monitor in your hand. The kid’s fine.

And you? You look…

He swallows. It shouldn’t be hot. But it is. Not just the curve of your legs, or the way your lips part in your sleep. It’s the whole damn picture—the domestic quiet, the way you smell faintly like his shampoo. He knows it’s a job. You’re just showing up for work. But something about the little messages you send to him throughout the day, or the fact that you stay even when he could probably get another sitter for overnights, lingers with him. Makes him hope for something more. And the way that you do this, without question? Like this is normal? It makes it seem like this is yours too.

It’s too much for a man as lonely as John Walker.

John exhales through his nose and shakes it off.

Barely.

Then, he steps past you to drop his keys and pauses. “Hey, wake up.”

You blink awake, startled. The baby monitor shifts in your grip. “Oh my god—sorry, I didn’t mean to—was gonna wait up—”

“Relax.” His voice is low. Warm. “It’s good. You’re good.”

You sit up slowly, brushing hair from your face. “He’s asleep. Didn’t even fuss.”

“I saw. Thanks again.”

You nod. “Welcome home, John.”

John rubs the back of his neck, and you don’t notice that his ears are a little pink. “You, uh… want to crash here tonight? You’ve already got a blanket, and I just threw whatever you had in the washer into the dryer.”

You hesitate. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Couch is yours. Or the bed, if you want it.”

“Your bed?”

“I won’t be in it,” he says with a crooked smirk. “Scout’s honor.”

You roll your eyes. “You weren’t a scout.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you flirt like someone who got suspended from high school.”

He laughs, soft and raspy. “You gonna pick a spot or keep complimenting me, sugar?”

Twenty minutes later, you’re curled up on the couch again. Elijah’s still down for the count. The monitor’s on the end table and you’re watching something dumb and half-muted, chewing on the end of a Twizzler John handed you without asking.

He disappears into the shower. Reappears in low-slung sweats and a navy t-shirt, damp hair sticking up in all directions.

He drops into the other end of the couch with a soft grunt, arm stretching along the back of it. You glance sideways, suspicious.

“You hover around me like I’m gonna bite.” He says with a smirk.

“I don’t think you’d bite,” you murmur. “I think you’d devour.”

John stills. His gaze cuts to you. Slow. Heated. “You flirt like someone who wants to be punished.”

Your mouth dries. “What if I do?”

Silence. Thick. Unforgiving. The look he gives you could melt glass.

And then a soft cry splits the air from the monitor. John exhales like he’s just been punched. “I got it,” he mutters, already rising. “You get some rest.”

You don’t argue. You just nod and watch him disappear down the hall. You hear the door creak open, then his low voice murmuring something you can’t quite catch.

You slip into his room a few minutes later. You didn’t mean to. You swear you were going to take the couch. But your eyes are already closing by the time your head hits his pillow.

He finds you there twenty minutes later, fast asleep. His side of the bed untouched. And for a second—just one second—John lets himself imagine what it’d be like if this was real.

If you were his.

Not the sitter. Not a job. Just… you. You, here. In his space. Staying.

He turns off the light. And quietly, silently, takes the couch.

For now.

6:32 a.m.

The monitor on the nightstand crackles to life with a cry that could rattle windows.

You jolt upright, bleary-eyed, hair flattened on one side.

Across the hall, John’s already moving. You hear the calm, familiar shuffle of a dad who’s done this a hundred times. “Shh, hey, little man. Dada’s got you. You okay?”

You swing your legs out of bed, rubbing your eyes, and pad toward the hallway in your socks. He meets you in the middle—Elijah on his hip, cheeks flushed and nose scrunched in that dramatic toddler way that always follows a nightmare or a diaper change.

John raises a brow at your tangled hair and your frown. “Mornin’, Sunshine.”

You squint at him. “Don’t call me that. It’s not even 7am.”

“Why not? You’re practically glowing.” Elijah babbles something incoherent, then leans forward and plants a sticky hand on your cheek.

“Sun,” he declares proudly.

You blink. “What’d he just call me?”

John chuckles, pressing a kiss to Elijah’s head. “Guess it stuck.”

Your ears go pink. You mutter something about needing coffee and duck into the kitchen, trying not to trip over the warmth blooming in your chest

Ten minutes later, you’re both in the kitchen—John barefoot, Elijah in his high chair, and you halfway through your first cup of coffee.

John’s slicing bananas. “You didn’t have to wake up,” he says.

“Try sleeping through a banshee scream.”

“He gets it from Olivia,” he deadpans.

“He gets it from you,” you shoot back.

“You calling me dramatic?”

You take a sip of coffee. “If the giant bicep fits.”

He grins. And then Elijah lets out a garbled squeak—right before he pukes all over your shirt.

There’s a beat of silence. John blinks. You stare down at yourself, frozen. “Oh my god—”

“Okay, okay, I got him,” John says, already lifting Elijah from the chair. “You—just don’t move.”

“I’m wearing it, John. Moving’s kind of the problem.”

“I’ll bring you a shirt,” he calls, already halfway down the hall. “Something that hides baby vomit and makes me look good.”

“You mean makes me look good.”

“That’s what I said.”

You’re wearing his shirt when he comes back from the bathroom.

A navy blue tee, stretched soft with age and clinging to your shoulders in all the right places. It’s massive on you—covers your tiny sleep shorts entirely. Your legs are bare, your hair is messy, and you’re lazily stirring a bowl of cereal while scrolling your phone.

He walks into the kitchen with Elijah on his hip and immediately forgets how to breathe. “Jesus.”

You glance up. “Something wrong?”

“You trying to kill me in my own kitchen?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pretty sure Elijah already tried.”

John doesn’t rise to the bait and instead drags a hand over his face. “You’re in my shirt.”

“You literally just gave it to me, Walker.”

“Yeah but I didn’t mean for it to look like that.”

“Like what?”

He doesn’t answer. And the silence lingers.

Then, he shifts Elijah onto his other hip and leans one elbow against the counter, glancing at your phone. “What are you doing?”

“Swiping.”

“Swiping?”

“Dating app.”

His expression hardens in a second. “What for?”

You shrug. “Kinda single if you’ve not noticed. Kinda bored.”

John narrows his eyes. You swipe on a guy with a dog. “This one’s cute.”

“That dog’s the only thing he’s bringing to the table.”

You laugh. Swipe again. “This one?”

“Wears socks in bed.”

Another. “This guy’s tall.”

“Yeah, so are murderers.”

“Okay, what do you approve of?”

“Me.”

The word is out before he can stop it. You freeze, but he doesn’t look away.

Elijah burps.

You snort. “Careful, Mr. Walker. That almost sounded like jealousy.”

“Did it?”

“You gonna tell me not to date other men?”

“No,” he says, voice lower now. “But I might start pickin’ you up after your dates just to make a point.”

“What kind of point?”

“That none of them know how to fold a stroller one-handed while carrying a two-year-old and a bag of wipes.”

You blink. “Okay, that was hot.”

“I know.” His smirk makes your heart melt.

Your clothes are dry by the time you’re getting ready to leave.

You change and carry the shirt out of the bathroom, folding the borrowed shirt with a little too much care, fingers brushing over the soft cotton like it’s still warm from his skin. When you step out, hoodie slung over your arm, John’s in the kitchen—back to you, shoulder muscles shifting under a bare upper back as he pours juice one-handed, balanced as ever.

You sit the shirt on the island when he’s turning towards you. “Hey, I’m gonna head out—”

And then he pulls on the shirt.

That shirt. The one you had just wore this morning and sat on his kitchen island. Faded navy, worn thin in a way that made it fall just right across your frame—and now it hugs his like a goddamn sin. It stretches over his chest, clings to his arms, and when he adjusts the hem casually, you go still.

Too still.

John raises his gaze.

Catches you.

And smirks. “You like this one, huh?”

Your throat goes dry. You recover fast, but not fast enough. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Walker.”

He takes a step toward you, slow and self-assured, that damn smirk growing. The shirt shifts with his body, and your stomach flips. “Oh, I’m not flattering myself, sweetheart. I’m flattering you.”

You shove a plush toy you picked up from the floor at his chest—harder than necessary—and pivot toward the door before you combust. “Bye, John.”

Your voice is too even. He knows it. “See you next week, Sunny.”

Behind you, you don’t see his face. But you feel his smile all the way down the front steps.

The mission is simple. In and out, minimal contact, no major threats. You, Yelena, and Bucky spend most of it in tactical sweats and earpieces, staking out a lead on an arms deal that’s taking forever to go sideways.

You’re barely paying attention when your phone buzzes in your back pocket. The soft trill of an incoming FaceTime rattles against the dull night air.

Walker🛡️: Incoming FaceTime…

You blink. “You gonna answer that?” Bucky asks, not looking up from his scope.

“Depends,” you mutter. “Could be a code red. Could be a two-year-old with questions about ducks.”

Yelena snorts. “Both are equally deadly.”

You answer. John’s face fills the screen immediately—forehead first, like he hasn’t quite mastered the angle. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You lean against the wall, smirking. “Mid-mission, Walker. You miss the memo on operational silence?”

“Eli wanted to see you.”

Your breath catches. You say nothing. Then the camera tilts—and there he is. Tiny, curly-haired chaos. A juice stain on his cheek and a toy truck clutched in his chubby hand.

“Sunny!” he squeals. Your heart does a somersault.

“Hey, Buddy,” you coo. “You being good for your Dada?”

He nods solemnly, then drops the truck and leans closer to the screen. “I miss Sunny.”

You hear Yelena audibly melt beside you. “You’re going to kill that man,” she whispers.

John’s still holding the phone, expression unreadable. Except—no, not unreadable. Soft. Quiet. Like he’s trying not to show how much that nickname does to him.

“He didn’t nap,” John says casually, but his voice is off. Tighter than usual.

“I’m not surprised,” you reply, eyes still on Elijah. “He only naps for me.”

“Don’t start,” John mutters.

“Start what?”

“Flirting while I’m holding a toddler.”

You blink. “You started it.”

“You answered,” he counters, then smiles. “Lookin’ good, by the way. Field gear suits you.”

Bucky’s voice drifts in from your earpiece. “Tell him to stop checking you out mid-op.”

“Barnes says stop checking me out mid-op.”

John just grins. “Tell Barnes to mind his business.”

You roll your eyes. “Say bye, Eli.”

“Bye, Sunny!” He kisses the screen. “Luh you!”

And just like that, your body forgets the cold. The exhaustion. Everything. John’s eyes flick to you. And linger. “Be careful out there,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Always.”

The call ends.

You stare at the blank screen for a second longer than necessary.

Later that week, you weren’t planning to go out. The date was a favor to a friend-of-a-friend—a finance bro with decent hair and too much cologne. He picks a bar with overpriced cocktails and keeps talking about himself.

You check your phone four times in thirty minutes.

The fifth time, you don’t even hesitate.

You call him.

He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t mock you. Doesn’t tease. Just asks, “Where are you?” And then says, “I’m on my way.”

When he shows up, it’s without Elijah—thankfully. You assume Olivia has him tonight. John pulls up in that black SUV like he’s heading into battle, and when he steps out, he looks pissed.

He’s in jeans and a Henley, forearms taut where he slams the door shut.

Your date blinks. “Who’s that?”

You smile too wide. “My ride.”

John doesn’t say a word. Just stares the guy down, jaw tight. One hand on the open door, the other flexing like he wants a reason to use it.

“You okay?” he asks you, eyes only on you.

You nod. “Now I am.”

The bro tries to protest. “Hey, man, I was just—”

“You can shut up now,” John snaps, eyes narrowing. “She’s good. You’re done.”

You slide into the car before it gets worse. He doesn’t say anything until you’re two blocks away.

“What was that all about?” you finally ask, trying for light. “You show up like my dad. Or… my bodyguard.”

“You called me, remember?” he growls.

“Yeah, I did.” You fold your arms. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“Don’t say shit like that,” he mutters. “You think I’m not gonna show when you ask?”

“I didn’t even think. That’s the problem.” His hands are gripping the wheel too tightly. You glance over. His jaw’s clenched, pulse jumping in his neck. “You jealous, Walker?”

“That guy looked at you like you were a joke.”

“And you don’t?”

“No. You know I look at you like I know exactly what kind of trouble you are.”

You swallow. “That supposed to scare me?”

“Should.”

The silence stretches. Thick. Hot. You shift in your seat, heart racing. “Why’d you come?” you ask quietly.

“Because you called me.”

“That’s not the real answer and we both know it, John.”

He glances at you. The streetlights flicker over his face, highlighting the shadows under his eyes. “It felt good,” he admits, voice raw. “Being your first call.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t.

He pulls up in front of your apartment and shifts into park—but doesn’t unlock the doors. Just sits there.

You turn to him. “You coming in?”

“Don’t ask unless you want me to.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m this close—” he holds up two fingers, barely apart “—to pulling over and finally kissing you senseless.”

Your breath catches. “You could,” you whisper. “If you wanted.”

He looks at you, really looks, and starts to lean in. You meet him halfway. The tension crackles. His hand brushes your cheek. Warm. Callused. Reverent.

And then—

BRRRRZZZZZT.

His phone buzzes violently in the cupholder. He pulls back fast, blinking like he forgot where he was. You exhale shakily. John checks the screen. His face shutters. “It’s Olivia. Probably about Eli.”

You nod. “Go ahead.”

He hesitates, then answers.

You open the door. “Goodnight, John.”

He grabs your wrist before you can leave. “Hey.”

You pause. Look back. His voice is soft. Wrecked. “Still want to kiss you.”

Your lips part. “Then maybe next time don’t wait.” You close the door behind you and don’t look back.

Elijah’s fever starts just after lunch.

Nothing dramatic—just a slow burn, cheeks flushed, whimpers between sips of water and repeated cries of “Sunny.” He doesn’t want to nap unless you’re holding him. Won’t eat unless you spoon-feed him applesauce. Every now and then, he drifts off mid-sentence, his fingers still tangled in your sleeve.

You don’t hesitate. You text John.

You snap one—Elijah asleep against your chest, thumb in his mouth, cheeks rosy. You’re not even fully in frame, but John doesn’t miss the detail of your hand resting over his son’s heart, or the way your body curls protectively around him.

You stare at the screen. Heart stuttering. Stomach flipping. You type. Delete. Type again.

You don’t. You should.

Instead, you curl tighter into the hoodie, into Elijah’s weight, into the house that smells like all the things you pretend don’t matter.

But they do.

Because no matter how many times you remind yourself that this isn’t your family, your heart keeps forgetting.

It’s 11:43 p.m. when your phone buzzes again. It’s a FaceTime from John.

You answer half-asleep, wrapped in fleece and shadows. Elijah’s down for the count, finally. His breathing even in the baby monitor beside you.

John’s face fills your screen—wet hair, a low-cut tee, tired eyes. “Hey, Sunshine.”

“Hey, Walker.”

His gaze drops to the hoodie you’re wearing. “That mine?”

“Maybe.”

“Looks good on you.”

“Everything looks good on me,” you deadpan.

He laughs, soft and warm. “True.”

You shift under the blanket, self-conscious. “I didn’t mean to steal it. I just… wanted to smell like you.”

He stills.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The tension creeps in. Thick. Slow. Heavy. He watches you like he wants to climb through the screen.

“I miss you,” he says.

You blink. “You miss me or the free childcare?”

“Don’t do that.”

Your breath catches. “Do what?”

“Pretend this doesn’t mean something.” The silence stretches.

You speak first. Quiet. Honest. “It’s getting harder to pretend.”

John exhales. Runs a hand down his face. “You’re in my clothes. In my house. My kid callin’ you Sunny like you’re his favorite damn person in the world.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah,” he says, no hesitation. “You are.”

Your throat tightens. “Come home, John.”

He nods slowly. “I’m trying.”

The call doesn’t end for another hour. But the moment? That lasts the whole damn night.

John gets home just after sunrise.

The house is quiet, humming with the soft static of early morning. No cartoons. No little feet slapping against hardwood. No voice calling out “Dada!” on repeat. Just stillness.

He toes off his boots, drops his bag by the door, and makes a beeline for the living room—half-expecting to find you passed out on the couch with the baby monitor tucked under your arm.

But you’re not there. You’re in his bed.

The door’s cracked. Enough for him to see. You’re curled under the blanket, deep asleep, wearing the hoodie you mentioned and nothing else he can see. And tucked into your side—sprawled across your stomach like a starfish—is Elijah, his little hand gripping the edge of the hoodie like it’s his favorite blanket.

John doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

He just… stands there.

And tries not to fall harder.

You wake up to the sound of someone clattering in the kitchen and the faint smell of coffee.

Elijah is still snoring on your chest, drooling through your shirt. You shift, stretching one arm and peeking at the monitor. Still on. Still safe.

When you shuffle into the hallway, John’s at the counter. Fresh clothes. Hair damp. Mug in hand. “Morning, Sunshine.”

“Hey,” you mumble, voice rough. He turns, eyes dragging down your legs—bare except for socks and his hoodie, sleeves too long, collar stretched from sleep.

You rub your face and try not to notice the way he stares just a second too long.

“You guys get any sleep?” he asks casually.

“Some. Your son’s a bed hog.”

“Takes after me.”

“I noticed.”

He grins. “You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Good. You’re comin’ with us.”

You blink. “Us?”

“Me. Elijah. You. Target run. Maybe pancakes. You in?”

You pretend to groan. “Are you asking me on a date or kidnapping me?”

“I’m asking if you want to spend the morning with a grown man who folds laundry like a soldier and a toddler who can’t pronounce ‘banana.’”

You lean against the counter, smile soft. “Hard to say no to that.”

It’s so painfully domestic it makes your chest ache.

John pushing the cart with one hand, Elijah babbling nonsense in the seat. You trailing alongside, tossing snacks and wipes and sippy cups into the basket. Every few minutes, Elijah reaches for you—chubby fingers opening and closing with a determined “Sun. Sun!”

John doesn’t stop smiling the whole time. “You’re his favorite,” he says as you wrangle Elijah into his little jacket in the parking lot.

“He’s mine too,” you murmur. John looks at you. Long. Quiet. You look away first.

A week later and John’s gone again. Short mission. Three nights, maybe four. He doesn’t like leaving Eli, but Olivia’s schedule is slammed and—well. There’s only one person he trusts with his son when he can’t be there.

You.

You don’t think twice. You’re at the house within twenty minutes of his call, hoodie in your bag, toothbrush already stashed in the bathroom from last time.

By the second day, you’re back in the rhythm. Morning cartoons. Afternoon walks. Bedtime meltdowns and storybooks read on loop.

And John? John’s texting you nonstop. Sometimes it’s just to check in. Other times? Other times it’s more.

You hesitate.

Then give in.

Snap a quick one in the hallway mirror—bare legs, messy bun, oversized hoodie swallowing your frame. No makeup. Just you.

That should’ve been it.

Light flirting. Nothing new. But you’re feeling reckless tonight. Sleep-deprived and warm and just buzzed enough from the glass of wine you allowed yourself after bedtime.

So you snap another photo. A little bolder this time. It’s still the hoodie—but this time you’re lying on the bed. The zipper pulled down just enough to show the dip of your collarbone. The swell of your breasts. A sliver of skin and nothing else. No caption. Just the photo.

And then:

The op’s supposed to be clean. Quiet. One-and-done extraction with minimal resistance and no unnecessary fire.

But then again, John should’ve known it wouldn’t be easy the second you stepped out of the briefing room in tactical gear and laced boots, stretching like it was just another Tuesday.

You lock eyes with him as you tighten your gloves. “You ready, Captain?”

He swallows. Hard. “Always, Sunshine.”

He’s seen you tired. Grouchy. Makeup-smudged and hoodie-drowned with a toddler half-asleep on your chest.

But this? This is something else entirely.

On the field, you’re fire and honey, all swaying hips and lethal grace. You move like a weapon—fast, fluid, fucking mesmerizing. You’re not flashy. You’re precise. Efficient. A ghost on the wind. And still somehow the brightest thing in the middle of a goddamn warehouse full of shadows and gunfire.

John nearly walks into a crate watching you dodge a stun charge.

“Eyes up, Walker,” Yelena snaps. “Not on her ass.”

“That’s a damn lie and you know it,” he mutters, adjusting his grip on the shield.

Ava chuckles. “You’re doomed.”

“Shut up.”

You don’t even notice the way he watches you. You’re too busy calling shots, redirecting momentum like a pro. You press your fingers to your comm, murmur something about extraction windows, and when you duck behind cover beside him, you’re all heat and focus.

You glance up, eyes shining with adrenaline. “Having fun yet?”

“Define fun,” John says, voice lower than it needs to be.

You flash a smirk. “I’d define it for you, but then you’d owe me dinner.”

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t been planning that since day one.”

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t been letting you.”

And just like that—boom. He’s gone. The second it settles—operation over, intel secured, comms cleared—John’s pacing outside the extraction van like a man possessed.

He’s not thinking about the objective. He’s thinking about the way your knee brushed his thigh when you both slid behind cover. The curve of your mouth when you called him Captain with a grin. The way you looked—covered in sweat and dirt and pride—laughing with Ava like none of it touched you.

He’s fucked.

He’s in love. It hits him hard. Like an elbow to the solar plexus. Because this isn’t just a crush or a phase or something he’ll sleep off when the hoodie doesn’t smell like you anymore. This is real.

And he’s John Walker.

The dumbass. The joke. The emotionally-stunted dad with the bad PR and the even worse track record. You deserve someone stable. Someone who knows how to hold it together when a woman like you steals his breath and calls his son “baby.”

So he does what he always does.

He covers it up with bullshit.

“You looked good out there,” he says once you’re alone in the back of the van.

“Thanks,” you murmur, leaning your head against the cool metal wall. “You did alright too. For an old man.”

“Old?” He snorts. “You gonna start tucking me in after bedtime too?”

“You want me to?”

You don’t see it—but his jaw tenses. “Depends. You bringin’ the hoodie you commandeered?”

“It’s still mine.”

“I’ll allow it. On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You wear it to bed again.”

Your eyes flick to him. Heat under your skin. “That almost sounded like a fantasy.”

“It is.”

Silence.

Thick.

And then—you both look away at the same time.

Like cowards.

Later that night, while you’re showering off the mission grime in the team’s safehouse, John’s lying on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, phone in hand.

He re-looks the last photo you sent. The one in his hoodie. No pants. Just legs and attitude and a caption that said: You’re missing the best part of your house.

He groans.

Slaps a hand over his eyes.

And says aloud, to no one in particular, “God help me, I think I’m gonna marry her.”

The post-mission bar isn’t glamorous, but it’s open late, and no one questions IDs or how many weapons you’re packing. The music’s loud, the lights are low, and the air smells like cheap beer and sweat.

Ava’s halfway through her second whiskey when she leans into John’s side, eyes narrowed. “You’re in love with her.”

John doesn’t look up from his beer. “Nope.”

“Liar.” Yelena slams her glass down and spins toward him on her stool, grinning like a gremlin. “I give it two weeks before you combust.”

“I’m not combusting,” he mutters.

“You were literally hard for half the op.”

John chokes on his drink. “Excuse me?!”

“I was behind you,” Yelena says sweetly. “Trust me. If there was a roundhouse kick, I would’ve caught friendly fire.”

“Can’t help it,” Ava adds, sipping. “Guy’s walking around with a lightsaber in his pants.”

“Val warned us during onboarding,” Yelena stage-whispers. “Special equipment.”

John groans, dragging a hand over his face. “You two done?”

“Not even close,” Ava says. “You were panting watching her knock out that merc in one hit.”

“She was hot!” John defends.

“Uh-huh,” Yelena grins. “You know what else was hot? Your entire face when she touched your arm. Looked like you were gonna propose.”

“You think I’d propose that fast?”

They both blink. “…So you’ve thought about proposing,” Ava says.

He slams his glass down. “I’m getting another drink.”

You find him twenty minutes later at the edge of the dance floor, sipping bourbon and looking like he’s trying not to die inside. You nudge him with your hip. “You hiding?”

“I was until you found me.”

You grin. “Poor baby. Girls giving you hell?”

“You mean the two harpies dissecting my facial expressions like I’m on trial? Yeah.”

“Can’t imagine why,” you say innocently.

“You want in on it too?”

“Nope.” You lean in, hand sliding around his wrist. “I just want a dance.”

He stiffens. “Here?”

“Scared?”

“Of you? Always.” Still, he follows when you tug him forward. Onto the floor. Into the blur of moving bodies and pulsing bass.

You press close. Not inappropriate. Not quite. But close enough that his breath catches when your hand slides up his arm. When you sway your hips to the beat and your chest brushes his. “You okay, Captain?”

“Peachy,” he says, voice tight.

You smirk. “Liar.”

He’s holding you too carefully. Like if he moves too fast, he’ll break the illusion—or maybe lose control entirely.

And you? You’re not helping. Your hand drags down his chest, slow and deliberate. His fingers curl into your waist. “You’ve been quiet all night,” you murmur against his ear.

“Trying not to say something stupid.”

“Try me.”

“You wore my hoodie. You sent me that photo. Then you walked onto the field like a goddamn fever dream. And now you’re doing this.” His voice drops, low and sharp. “You know exactly what you’re doing to me.”

You blink. Your smile softens. “Then stop pretending you don’t want it.” He exhales like he’s in pain.

Then Ava’s voice cuts through the crowd.’“Wrap it up, Walker! You’re two pelvic thrusts away from turning this into an HR violation!”

You laugh. He groans. The spell breaks. But the damage? It’s already done.

It’s well after midnight when you finally give in.

The house is too quiet. No Elijah babbling in the monitor. No cartoons humming from the TV. Just you. Alone in John Walker’s bed.

In his hoodie.

Wrapped up in sheets that still smell like him.

You’ve been here before. Dozens of times. But not like this. Not without the reason of babysitting. Not without the excuse of a sick toddler or a late mission briefing.

He’s away.

Elijah’s with Olivia.

And you’re still here.

Because when he handed you the spare key, it meant something. Even if neither of you said it out loud.

You roll over, check your phone, thumb hovering over his name.

It’s stupid.

You shouldn’t.

You do it anyway.

It rings. Once. Twice.

“Sunshine?” He sounds half-asleep. Low. Raspy. Like he rolled over to answer it without opening his eyes.

You breathe into the receiver. Just a second. Just long enough to gather the courage. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah?” His voice lifts a little. “You at home?”

Your heart stutters. “Yours.”

“…Wait, what?”

You curl tighter under his blanket, nose brushing the collar of the hoodie. “Mhm. Just—couldn’t settle down. Didn’t wanna be alone.”

He goes quiet for a second too long. “You’re at my house right now?”

“Yeah. In your bed.” Still quiet. Except now you hear it: his breathing changes. Deeper. Sharper.

“You wearin’ my hoodie?”

“Mhm.”

“Jesus.”

You press the edge of the phone tighter to your cheek. Say nothing.

“I didn’t think you’d actually go over while I was gone.”

“I didn’t plan to. Just… ended up here.”

“Yeah?” His tone softens. “That why you called? Wanted to say hi?”

You pause.

Then, barely above a whisper. “Wanted to hear your voice.”

He stills completely. You add, slower this time: “It helps.”

“…Helps with what, baby?”

You let out a soft, shaky breath when he speaks. But the second he calls you baby, a small, involuntary whimper slips out.

That does it.

He groans. Low. Rough. Like he can feel you through the phone. “Don’t do that, Sunshine.”

“Do what?”

“Sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re laid out in my bed, in my clothes, legs squeezed together, and all I’d have to do is say your name a little softer to make you fall apart.”

Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten in the sheets. “John…”

“Yeah, baby?” It’s devastating—how he says it. All breath. All heat. Like he’s already half-undone just imagining you.

“I miss the way your arms felt around me. When we danced.”

He swears softly under his breath. “You’re killin’ me.”

“You started it.”

“Nah, sweetheart. You started it the second you put that hoodie on and sent me that picture.”

“I didn’t send you a picture tonight.”

“No, but I can see you. Right now. In my head.”

Another breath. Yours this time. Desperate. “John…”

“You need me there?”

“Yes.”

“You needy, baby?”

“You don’t get to tease me when I’m calling you like this.”

“I’m not teasing,” he says, voice gravel-thick. “I’m picturing it. You, all curled up in my bed. Hoodie soft on your skin. No pants, I bet.” Your throat is too tight to answer. “Bet you smell like me,” he murmurs. “Bet that’s why you’re in there. That’s what helps you sleep.”

You whimper again. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I’d put money on the fact you’re wet right now. Just from me talkin’ like this.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Then stop soundin’ like you wanna come apart just from my voice.”

You press the phone against your cheek, half-wrecked. “You’ll be home soon, right?”

“I’ll break every damn speed limit to get there if you keep talkin’ like that.”

“You’d better.”

“Sleep, baby. I mean it. I’ll be there soon.”

“You’ll hold me again?”

“Yeah,” he says, soft now. Reverent. “First thing.”

You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing on the other end. And the promise that the next time you call him like this… he’ll be there to answer with more than words.

The week after your last mission is brutal.

Not because of the job. The job’s easy—scouting, tailing, extraction, report.

What’s hard is the distance.

You and John are never in the same place at the same time anymore. Olivia’s got doubles, John’s doing recon, and you’re still watching Elijah whenever you’re in town.

John always leaves the house spotless for you. Your favorite snacks stocked. A fresh towel on the bathroom hook. Sometimes he texts you before he even lands. But it’s the late-night texts that really start to unravel you.

Tuesday, 11:47 p.m.

Wednesday, 12:06 a.m.

Thursday, 9:32 p.m.

By Friday, you’re calling him and asking what this is. What you’re doing. He meets the conversation head on— and then you talk.

You talk about dominance and softness. About control and being needed. About how you don’t want a savior—you want a partner. Someone who sees through your sharpness and knows you’re a little needy underneath.

He tells you he hasn’t wanted anyone like this in years. That it scares him how much you get under his skin. He talks about how he wants you physically. Emotionally. You swear you hear his voice shake when you tell him how safe he makes you feel.

You’re counting down the minutes until he comes home.

But you break on Saturday night when Elijah’s asleep. Olivia’s schedule didn’t change, so you’re staying over again. You’re alone in John’s house—his hoodie on your body, your thighs bare against his sheets.

And you miss him so bad it makes your whole body ache.

So you take a picture. You’re curled on your side in his bed, phone angled low, tank top pushed up a little. A flash of hip, the waistband of your underwear, the soft fall of your hair over the pillow. You send it. The only caption? please call me.

He calls five minutes later. You answer on the first ring. “Hi.”

He sounds wrecked. Like he sprinted somewhere and hasn’t caught his breath. “Sweetheart…”

“I’m sorry—”

“No. Don’t apologize.”

“I just—God, I missed you. I know I’m clingy, and I know I’m needy, and—”

“Hey. Hey.” His voice softens. “You’re allowed to need me.”

You swallow hard. “It’s embarrassing.”

“You wanna know what’s embarrassing?”

“What?”

“I saw that picture and had to excuse myself from the fuckin’ briefing room. Told Val I had heartburn. She’s gonna make fun of me for months.”

You laugh. It cracks under the weight of your chest. “You in my bed right now? In my clothes?” He asks voice warm.

“Yeah.”

“Goddamn. You touching yourself?”

“Not yet.”

“You want to?”

Your breath hitches. “Yeah.”

“You wet, baby?” You nod, before realizing he can’t see it. “Say it.”

“I’m wet.”

“For me?”

“Only ever for you.”

He groans—low, helpless. You hear a shift—his back hitting the headboard, his voice gravel-thick. “Slide your hand down.”

You do. “Under your panties.” You whimper. “How’s it feel?”

“Warm. Slick. I—John—”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you. About your hands. Your arms around me.”

“Fuck.”

“When we danced,” you whisper, “I didn’t wanna let go. I still don’t.”

He swears. You hear it muffled—like he’s trying not to fall apart with you. “You talk pretty when you’re needy,” he murmurs.

“So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Talk you through it. Make you come with nothin’ but my voice.”

“Only tonight?”

“Every night if you let me.”

Your hips roll into your palm. Slow. Desperate. “Tell me what to do.”

And he does. God, he does. Soft at first. Then sharper. Then reverent. His voice sinks into your skin until you’re squirming, moaning into his pillow, one hand clutching his sheets while the other follows his every word. “That’s it. Just like that, baby. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“John—”

“Let go.” And you do. Quietly. Completely. His name is the only thing you know how to say. When it’s over, he’s still on the line. “You okay?”

“I think I saw stars.”

“You’re fuckin’ amazing.” He groans, and you laugh. Then he takes a deep breath. “I don’t want almost anymore.”

“Me either.”

“We’re gonna talk. When I’m home.”

“Promise?”

“Swear to God, Sunshine. I’m comin’ home to you.”

John doesn’t tell you he’s coming back. You open your front door to let in more light, and there he is—car keys in hand, Eli balanced on his hip like nothing in the world’s changed.

Except everything has. Because when he sees you? He smiles. Like it means something. You don’t even get a full hello out before Elijah squeals, arms outstretched. “Sunny!”

He practically launches from John’s hold, and you catch him with a little spin, laughing as his tiny hands grab at your cheeks. “Hey, buddy. You missed me?”

“Mhm,” he mumbles, head tucked into your shoulder. “Missed snackies. Missed you.”

John watches from the threshold—quiet, lingering. “Told him that you were gonna cry,” he teases.

“Shut up,” you say, voice thick.

He just grins and reaches out to you. “C’mere,” he purrs and wraps an arm around your waist as he presses a kiss to your temple, one hand still resting on Elijah back between you. He doesn’t let go for a long time.

You spend the day with the boys. John takes Elijah to the park while you sit on the blanket and read and sneaks you gummy bears while Eli isn’t looking. He grills for lunch, makes fun of your overly complicated burger preferences, and threatens to throw you over his shoulder when you sass him. It’s… domestic. Easy. Like it’s always been this way.

Later, when Elijah goes down for a nap, John leans against the hallway doorway with his arms crossed. He’s quiet. Thoughtful.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Yeah.” He nods toward the living room. You follow him there, sitting close on the couch. Your knees brush. He doesn’t move away. “I’ve been thinkin’.”

“Dangerous.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “I told you before. I don’t want this to stay… halfway,” he says.

You look up. “This?”

“You and me.”

Your heart flutters. “Me neither.”

He nods. Glances down. Like it took everything in him just to say that. You lean in and he meets you half way. When he kisses you, its not soft. Not tentative.

It’s hungry. Hot. His hand in your hair, your knees pulled across his lap, your body flush against his as his mouth takes yours over and over again like he’s starved for it.

And then—

A knock at the door.

You both freeze. “It’s probably—”

“Yeah.”

He opens it and Olivia stands there. You sit up, adjusting your shirt, face flushed. Olivia glances at you. Then at John. Then back. She raises an eyebrow. “Well, it’s about damn time.”

You blink. “Wait, you’re not mad?”

“Please.” She waves a hand. “I’ve known for weeks. Eli calls you Sunny like it’s a love song and I know he had to pick that up from somewhere.” She casts a pointed look at her ex husband.

John groans, but she continues with a smile. “I’m here to talk about my cousin’s grad party next weekend. But I can come back.”

“No, no,” you say quickly, standing. “I should head out anyway.” You brush past John with a small smile and he trails you out the door.

“You good?” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll text you.”

“You better.” You kiss his cheek and walk to your car.

He watches you until your car vanishes off his street.

You don’t know what to expect when John says he wants to take you out properly.

Not just for dinner. But for a date.

He said the words exactly like that—voice low, serious, a little shy. “Let me take you out. Like… not just ‘grab food and come back to my place.’ I want to do this right. A date.”

So when he shows up at your door—clean-shaven, in a dark button-down that fits him too well, bouquet in hand, eyes soft—you just… blink.

“Hey, sunshine.”

You laugh, breathless, and step aside to let him in. “You got me flowers?”

He shrugs one shoulder, a little bashful. “They’re not great. But they’re yellow. Thought they’d be fitting.”

You smile, ear-to-ear. “They do.”

You let him watch you put them in water. He doesn’t say anything, just leans in the doorway and watches like he’s memorizing something private.

He takes you to a quiet place on the edge of the city. No press. No fanfare. Just dim lights, good food, and a view of the water. It’s not fancy. But it’s perfect.

John pulls your chair out. Orders your drink without asking, because he remembers. You talk. You laugh. You tease. But under it all, there’s a softness neither of you names yet.

He looks at you like he’s still in disbelief.

“You ever get tired of starin’ at me?” you tease, sipping your wine.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Not once.”

You blink. He grins, not cocky—just honest.

“I’m serious. You’re the best thing I’ve seen in years.” And then, quieter, he adds, “I think about you even when I shouldn’t.”

Later, when you’re walking side by side along the water, his hand brushes yours. You link fingers without a word.

He squeezes.

You squeeze back.

“You’re different,” he says.

“How so?”

“You’re the only person who ever made me feel like I could be good without tryin’ to prove it.”

That one hits. Deep.

You stop and turn to face him. “I already know you’re good, John.”

His jaw works. Like he’s trying to keep it together. You cup his cheek and smile as he leans into it.

“I don’t care about the shield,” you whisper. “Or the past. Or what the world sees. I care about the man who holds his son like he’s the whole world. The one who lets me borrow his hoodie and watches cartoons with me. The one who shows up.”

He blinks. Hard.

And then he kisses you. Slow and deep. Nothing rushed. Just steady and real.

Back in the car, your hand stays on his thigh. He holds it there, thumb brushing the back of your knuckles like he’s trying to say thank you without words.

At a red light, he glances over. “You wanna come home with me?”

You smile. “Always.”

He lets out a breath. Like he didn’t know he was holding it. “You sure?”

You lean in, kiss his jaw. “Yeah, John. I’m sure.”

You kick your shoes off by the door and watch as John shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it neatly on the hook beside the fridge. He doesn’t even glance at it—but you notice the way his muscles move under his shirt when he lifts his arms.

“Want tea?” he asks, like he hasn’t been fighting the urge to kiss you again since the car.

You nod. “Sure.”

He puts the kettle on. You slide onto the couch. It’s familiar here—the soft click of the stove, the muted hum of the baby monitor in the other room (Elijah’s already tucked in at Olivia’s for the weekend). The space smells like cedar and coffee and laundry detergent. It smells like him.

You curl your legs beneath you and watch him move. The way his hand braces the counter. The flex of his forearms when he opens a cabinet. He’s domestic and devastating all at once.

“I had a good time tonight,” you say softly.

He glances over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

You nod. “You were sweet.”

“I’m always sweet,” he deadpans, but there’s a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

The kettle whistles. He pours two mugs and brings them over, sitting beside you with a quiet grunt. As you take your tea cup from him, your fingers brush, sending a small jolt through your spine. You sip in silence for a few seconds.

Then—

“You keep lookin’ at me like that, sunshine,” he murmurs, “and I’m gonna forget how to be a gentleman.”

Your gaze flicks to him. “I like you better when you’re not trying so hard to be one,” you reply, voice soft, teasing.

That gets you a huff of a laugh. But he doesn’t look away. Neither do you.

He shifts a little closer, the warmth of him seeping into your side. His fingers brush your knee. Then rest there, calloused and steady. “You keep wearin’ my hoodie to bed?”

“Mhm.”

“You sleep in my shirts, too?”

“I like to pretend you’re still here.”

His hand tightens slightly on your leg. His voice is rough when he speaks again. “You think about me when I’m gone?”

You nod. “Too much.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you. “I think about you, too,” he finally says. “Sometimes I get home from a mission and this place’s too quiet. Too clean. Makes me wish you were already in it.”

You look at him, startled by the honesty. “John.”

He sets his mug down and turns toward you fully. Then, softly asks, “Can I kiss you again?”

You nod.

He kisses you like it’s instinct.

No rush.

No fight.

Just mouths brushing, hands finding skin. The slow, deliberate kind of kiss that builds. You end up straddling his lap before either of you really registers the shift, your arms looped around his neck, his hands splayed over your hips.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs into your mouth.

“You love it.”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I do.”

You roll your hips once, slowly. He groans. His fingers dig into your thighs. He looks up at you—eyes heavy, breathing uneven. “You wanna take this to bed?”

You nod. Breathless. Wanting. He stands, lifting you with him like it’s nothing.

His hands are firm on your hips as he carries you, your arms looped around his neck, your nose brushing his jaw.

It’s quiet in the bedroom when he sets you down.

But your pulse is loud. So is his breath.

He leans down, presses a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your mouth—soft, almost cautious, like he’s waiting for you to flinch.

You don’t.

You chase his lips instead.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you murmur, your fingers at the buttons of his shirt.

He helps you, undoing the rest with shaking hands. You drag it off his shoulders, and your breath hitches at the sight of him. Strong. Solid. Familiar, and yet so intimate like this.

“Your turn,” he says, low and warm.

You slip your top off and toss it aside, bare from the waist up. He stops. Just stares for a second. Then reaches out like you’re something holy.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re beautiful.”

You pull him close, skin to skin now, and he makes a noise that sounds like something breaking open.

You fall back onto the bed together—slow, careful, a tangle of hands and mouths. You’re not rushing. He touches you like he’s trying to learn you. Like he wants to memorize every reaction. Every sigh. Every shiver.

His mouth trails down your throat, across your collarbone, between your breasts. He kisses slow. Hands anchoring you to the bed.

You’re already trembling.

“Still good?” he asks, looking up at you.

You nod. “So good.”

“You nervous?”

“A little.”

His palm slides up your thigh. “Me too.”

You laugh softly. “You?”

“I’ve never wanted to do this right so badly.”

That admission—so honest, so raw—makes you kiss him again, hard and deep.

He groans into your mouth and presses a knee between your legs, parting them. He strokes over your panties, eyes on your face the whole time.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs. “For me?”

You nod. “Only you.”

He kisses you again. Then slides those panties down your legs, slow and reverent.

You feel bare. Exposed. But never unsafe.

When his fingers slide through your folds, your whole body jolts.

“Shh,” he soothes. “I’ve got you.”

He keeps his touch slow—teasing circles, dipping shallow just to watch your face. He kisses you through every gasp. Every twitch. When he sinks a finger in, your hips rise.

You’re clinging to him already.

“I love how you fall apart for me,” he murmurs.

You arch. “John—”

“I know, baby. I know.”

You tug at his jeans, and he chuckles as he shimmies out of them, followed by his boxers. When he presses against you—bare, thick, heavy—you freeze.

Oh, fuck.

Your eyes go wide. He’s thick. Long. Veined. Heavy in his hand. You whimper.

“That’s the sound I like,” he mutters. “Scared little gasp like you know I’m too big for this sweet little pussy.”

“You are,” you breathe.

“I’ll make it fit.” He notices the look in your eye at his words and pauses for a moment. “Still okay, baby?” He asks, tone soft again. Reverent.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just… it’s a lot.”

He grins, a little cocky now. “It is.”

You swat at his chest. “I mean emotionally, jackass.”

But you’re laughing.

So is he.

It breaks the tension. Eases you back into it.

He lines himself up, the head of his cock nudging your entrance.

You’re soaked. Sensitive. Wrecked already.

And he knows it.

He leans down, mouth to your ear. “Gonna split you open, baby. Real slow. Let you feel every inch.” He promises. “But you can stop me any time.”

You nod. And when he finally pushes in—slow, stretching, breath catching in his throat—you clutch him like a lifeline.

He curses softly. “That’s it,” he groans. “Take it. Just like that.”

He bottoms out, hips flush against yours.

You breathe through it, feeling every inch. The burn fades to fullness. To pressure. To something deep and real. “You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. “Don’t stop.”

“Atta girl,” he purrs. He starts to move—shallow thrusts, careful, eyes locked on yours. You’re gasping into his shoulder, legs wrapping around his waist, trying to pull him closer.

He kisses your cheek. Your neck. Your temple. “I’m right here,” he whispers. “I’ve got you, baby.”

You’re not just moaning anymore.

You’re feeling.

Letting go.

He speeds up slightly, still controlled, but deeper now. His hand finds yours on the pillow, fingers threading tight.

“I missed you,” you say, voice breaking. Because you can’t say I love you yet. Not without feeling like it would be weird.

He kisses the corner of your eye, catching the tear that slips free. And you wonder, for a brief moment, if he knows what you really mean when he says, “I missed you, too, sunshine. So fuckin’ much.”

You come first—shaking and overwhelmed, sobbing his name into his neck as he holds you through it. He follows with a groan so low and deep it curls your toes, burying himself as far as he can go.

And when it’s over—

He doesn’t move.

Just stays inside you. Kisses your shoulder.

Then your hand.

Then your lips.

Like he’s still trying to believe it’s real.

You don’t plan to move in a few months later. You just… start forgetting things. A toothbrush here. A hoodie there. A mug you like. Socks in his laundry.

John notices. Of course he does. He just doesn’t say anything—until he trips over your slippers in the hallway.

“These yours?” he asks, holding one like it personally offended him.

You look up from where you’re folding laundry. “Yeah.”

He just looks at you like he’s waiting.

You raise a brow but smirk as you speak. “Say thank you.”

“For what?”

“For finally admitting you like me being here.”

He snorts, tosses the slipper at your leg, and walks off grumbling something about “taking over his damn closet.”

The next week, Elijah insists on brushing his teeth next to you. He drags a little stepstool to the sink, looks up at you through the mirror, and declares, “I like when you sleep over. You make Dada eat pancakes.”

John, walking in with wet hair and a towel slung low on his hips, blinks at you both. “I do not eat pancakes.”

Elijah grins, toothpaste foam on his chin. “You had four.”

You grin at John, handing Elijah a washcloth.

“Busted.” You tease.

It builds from there. A basket of your skincare products in the bathroom. Books on his nightstand. Elijah’s drawings on the fridge—stick figures labeled me, Daddy, and Sunny.

You overhear John on the phone with Olivia one night, pacing the hallway. He doesn’t say coworker. Doesn’t say babysitter. Doesn’t even say girlfriend. He just says, “She’s here. Yeah. Home.”

And your heart does something it’s not supposed to do that casually.

You still argue sometimes. About dumb things—dish soap, laundry folding methods, whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie. About serious things. But you always prioritize communicating and not going to bed angry.

“You’re folding that shirt like a sociopath,” you say, elbow-deep in laundry.

“It’s a tactical fold,” he deadpans. “For maximum drawer efficiency.”

“It’s ugly.”

“You’re ugly.”

“You want me to fold your shirts or fold you?”

“Yes,” He smirks and wiggles his eyebrows at you.

You throw a sock at his face.

One night, Elijah’s having a bad dream. You’re up before John even hears the cry, already halfway down the hallway. When John catches up, you’re rubbing Elijah’s back, murmuring something soft while he curls into your side, hiccuping through sleepy tears.

John leans in the doorway. Watches. Says nothing. Just crosses his arms over his chest and exhales like it hurts. Later that night, when he climbs into bed, he kisses your shoulder without a word and tucks you into his side a little tighter than usual.

One Saturday morning, Elijah’s curled into your lap on the couch, watching cartoons and feeding you dry cereal from a cup with sticky fingers. John walks in from a run, sweaty and flushed, and pauses in the doorway.

You glance up. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothin’. Just…” He walks over, leans down, and kisses your temple. “You two are somethin’ else.”

Eventually, you realize half your wardrobe lives in his dresser. Your name’s on Elijah’s emergency contact forms. The barista at the corner shop starts calling you the “Walker order.”

You still have your own place. But every time you walk into this one— it feels like the only place that matters.

The house is dark when John returns.

He’s dusted with exhaustion, boots muddy from the field, duffel heavy on his shoulder. His neck aches. His mind’s still half on the debrief. But all of that vanishes the second he steps through the door.

Because it smells like home. There’s a familiar mug in the sink—your mug. One of Elijah’s little socks on the hallway floor. A quiet cartoon menu screen flickering on the living room TV.

And then—

Soft snoring.

He moves quietly down the hall, pushing the bedroom door open with careful fingers. There you are.

Asleep on top of the covers, legs tangled with Elijah’s, the two of you curled like a matched set. His son’s tiny hand is tucked beneath your cheek. You’ve got one of John’s hoodies on—oversized, worn soft—and your face is turned toward Elijah’s like you’d never dream of letting go.

John forgets to breathe. Because this? This is the part of his life he never thought he’d get back. Not after everything. Not after who he became. But it’s here. In his bed. In his house. With his son.

And you.

Always you.

He crosses to the edge of the bed and crouches down, elbows on his knees, just watching for a moment. His eyes drift over the soft rise and fall of your chest, the way Elijah sleeps with one foot tucked under your leg like he knows this is safe.

“Hey,” you whisper, barely stirring.

John blinks. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” Your voice is groggy. “Just… felt you.”

He swallows hard at that. His hand finds yours where it rests near Elijah’s shoulder.

“Mission go okay?” you ask softly.

“Yeah. Long.”

“You hungry?”

“Not for food,” he says, before he can stop himself.

Your eyes flick to his.

Something shifts.

Carefully, you ease yourself out from under Elijah’s weight, whisper a soft kiss to his curls, and meet John in the hallway, closing the door gently behind you.

And then it’s just the two of you. In the warm hush of the hallway. Nothing between you but air and months of everything.

“I missed you,” you say, voice tight.

John steps in, close—too close—and cups your cheek with one calloused hand.

“You’ve ruined me,” he murmurs.

You blink. “What?”

“You. This. I used to think I didn’t get to have soft things. That I didn’t deserve a second shot.”

Your heart beats faster. “And then you showed up in my house. Made Elijah laugh over and over. Took over my closet. Argued with me about dish soap. And I didn’t even realize I’d let you in until you were already home.”

You reach for him—palm to his chest. Right over his heart. “You’re not the only one who didn’t think they deserved this,” you whisper.

He leans in, forehead resting on yours. “I love you,” he says, rough and sure and without a single inch of hesitation.

Your breath catches. “I love you, too.”

He kisses you—slow and deep, not hurried or hungry, but like he knows. Like he’s trying to memorize how it feels when everything finally clicks. When he pulls back, he grins—thumb brushing your cheek, forehead still pressed to yours. “You’re in my bed every time I come home.”

You arch a brow. “Problem?”

“No,” he says quietly. “It’s my favorite damn thing.”

A pause. Then he says, “I don’t want you leaving it anymore.”

Your heart stutters. “John—”

“I mean it,” he says, voice rough now. “Don’t go back to your place. Don’t wake up somewhere that isn’t next to me.”

You look up at him—brows drawn, breath caught, that dangerous, tender thing stretching between you. “You asking me to move in?”

“I’m asking you to stay,” he says. “For good.”

You snort. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” he says. “I can be ridiculous.”

Then, softer, he murmurs, “only for you, sunshine. Always only you,” as he presses a kiss to your temple.

Elijah’s asleep. The dishes are done. The house is quiet. You’re curled into John’s side on the couch, wearing one of his old shirts and nothing else, your legs tangled under a shared blanket. He’s got a hand on your thigh, thumb brushing absentminded circles. On the coffee table, your mug sits next to his. Matching. Lived in. Home.

“You ever think we’d end up like this?” you murmur.

John smiles, kisses your temple, and pulls you closer.

“Not once,” he says. “But I’d do it all over again just to get here.”

#I’m not fine #GOD BLESS YOU AUTHOR #YOU SAVED MY MENTAL STATE WITH THIS FIC #john walker x reader #I hope you find 20$ on the ground today #please yall read this fic #it deserves all the love

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crownofdecitreadingrespectfully · 9 days ago

Note

And it's the rare seriousness that shines through his features that makes you smile, knowing that despite the man in front of you- war torn, bruised, aged- he's like a kid with a crush.

I’m fine

may i please have a john walker fic :):) i'll take headcanons too love youuu

are we still friends? / john walker

PAIRING: john walker x f!avenger!reader SUMMARY: you and john were friends. just friends... right? WC: 4k A/N: tfatws me would've never thought she'd see the day i write john walker fanfiction; for my one and only friend in sydney who’s moving across the globe in two weeks: a going away present <3 in american english so you can practice for your new home mwah WARNINGS: minors dni 18+, john walker beating the absolute SHIT out of a guy, blood, reader gets shot y'know how it is, graphic depictions of violence, walker being puppy dog lover and guard dog teammate, first time seriously writing for john so forgive me if it's not good!!!, kinda steamy but no smut.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

It starts slow.

It starts with the outstretched hand waiting to help you up from the ground- gloved and firm- but offered to you with a vulnerability and kindness that made you both wipe your hands on your pants after you stood. It starts with your simple reprimanding of Yelena and Ava for taking cheap shots at him concerning his ex-wife and son. It starts with two people who don't realize what they've gotten themselves into until they're beyond the point of no return.

John Walker was a man who had always had friends. Growing up, he rode around on bicycles with the neighborhood kids in his cul-de-sac, flinging their arms in the air while their feet kept on peddling- imaging that they were on top of the world, flying through the air like a flock of birds. In high school, John had had it all- his own clique that looked to him for guidance on their afternoon plans, a girlfriend who hung at his side like a prop in a play about the archetype high school jock.

John Walker had always had friends. John Walker had always been on top of the world.

So why now, on a team like the Avengers, had he never felt so alone?

Well. There was one exception.

You were the glue of the New Avengers: brave, kind, and still maintaining a personality that didn't revolve entirely around death and despair. You were the quickest to warm up to Walker and he to you.

John was a formulaic man, not in monotony but in his predictability. Yes, he had a short temper that had only been stoked by years in the military, but he was also easy to bring back down to Earth. In some ways, John Walker was the most human of the entire group. His life, until he had the serum pumped into his veins was completely... normal. Typical. A Norman Rockwell painting, as Ava put it.

And what does a red-blooded man want more than anything? A companion.

Lord knows he hadn't been looking for one when the two of you met. He was damaged and discarded- a once decorated soldier falling victim to the same fate a million before him had. Though, he couldn't blame the government for what came after: the shattering of his marriage, the pinnacle of fatherhood that he had idolized for so long collapsing under the weight of his own flaws and temperament.

When John first met you, he had barely been able to admit it to himself.

But, then again, what's the saying? 'Misery loves company?'

What had begun with a bond built on surviving, had grown into fondness- late night snack breaks, trips to the store together when no one else would come. From there, you had your own inside jokes, memories, feelings that were separate from the group. John became us. Me became we.

He couldn't pinpoint when it started, when amicable fondness shifted into a desire that far superseded any claim he had to it. But looking back, he suspected it was always there and that scared him...

Haunted him. He had you without trying, gave himself to you without thinking. In a way, by the time he realized it, he was terrified that his own consciousness would get in the way of whatever you had. Whatever golden boy he had been before was gone, tarnished to a cheaply made green wax that stained everything it touched.

John wanted you, god he did, but he couldn't have you - couldn't risk himself destroying the only good thing he had left.

So he did nothing. Being your friend was better than being your enemy... right?

But fuck did you make it hard.

"What's that?"

Your voice carried throughout the kitchen as you leaned against the counter beside him, your arm brushing his. When did your touch become so casual?

"Jam from that market over in Central Park." John replied mid-chew. "Want some?"

Admittedly, when he offered, he hadn't really expected you to say yes. It was just something he did instinctively; that good-boy southern hospitality still stitched into the fabric of his character.

"Yeah, I'll try some."

Handing it over to you, John watched as you raised the slice of toast to your own mouth. It really wasn't anything that the two of you hadn't done before, but as he watched your mouth wrap around the spot that his had just been- your saliva entangled with his- he shifted on his feet. A piece of jam lingered on your lips as you pulled it away.

"Mmm, that's good." You hummed, handing it back to him unfazed. "Make me one?"

Pull it together, John. What are you? Fifteen?

He loosened his shoulders and shrugged, careful to play off as nonchalant. Pulling another slice of bread from the bag, he popped it in the toaster.

"You got it."

John had once considered himself an open book. Once.

Now, he lived in memories. As far as he was concerned, his life was a scrapbook- glorious highlight pages f his best moments, with none of the tragedies in between. It was a persona, albeit flimsy and see-through, that he carried like an emotional shield.

Except when it came to you.

One night, as you made your way down the hallway to your own bedroom, you heard the muffled, distinguishable sound of a child's giggle behind his door. The door had been left ajar and you could see the stretching lights of the television reach into the hallway, almost as if they were inviting you in to watch.

Silently, you leaned against his doorframe and peeked inside.

On the television across from John's bed, a home video played on the screen. A boy, no older than 17 months, sat between Walker's legs, waving an airplane in the air. John fussed with his son, wiping away spit from his chin with the bib as he made airplane noises.

The baby's laughter echoed through the room, the sweet sound of his delighted giggles bringing a silent smile to your face.

Then you heard a throat clear, not from some distant past carried through the television screen, but rather from right beside you where the golden-haired super soldier was slumped in his bed.

"Y'know on Sundays I go see him?" John said. "Olivia's always there.. and I used to get so mad, you know? That she left me and took our son and now I'm the guy who shows up on weekends... but then I saw this new... guy... she's with and I realized, I wasn't mad at her."

You stiffened.

"I'm not..." John said, scratching his beard. It was a noticeable, nervous tick of his that you had committed to memory by now. "I was just so mad at myself for fucking it all up. I couldn't even tell anyone she left me."

John scoffed and took a swig from the beer that was in his hands.

"So, y'know whatever, defend me against them, but they're right." John said, waving his hand towards the door. "I had a choice. They didn't."

Earlier in the evening Bucky had torn into John after a mission gone south. You hated to admit it, but it wasn't different from any other day- the tower was full of individuals with large personalities and even shorter tempers. Though you had often watched the sly remarks run off of John like water, you would be remiss in not realizing that at a certain point the jokes stopped being funny.

On the screen, the video replayed itself, beginning with John's son grabbing at his beard with a jumbled "Dada".

You turned to him.

"John," you sighed. "I'm not going to tell you that you didn't do anything wrong, because you did, but so did the rest of us. The difference between us and the other guys is that we try to be better."

You glanced down the quiet hallway and stepped inside his room.

"Beating yourself up isn't going to change anything. Maybe you weren't the best husband, and you can't change that, but you can still be the kind of guy your son looks up to, right?"

You could tell by the way the light from the television screen reverberated off of his face that his jaw was clenched. But rather than bite back- tell you that you were wrong, that he was past saving- he just nodded and placed the forgotten beer on the nightstand.

He laughed and leaned against the headboard.

"You would've made a better Captain America than me."

As he laid back, his t-shirt rode up his torso, exposing his stomach. Whatever joke you had burning on the tip of your tongue was quickly snuffed out by the view.

As quickly as your brain had malfunctioned, you tore your eyes from his skin, making a mental note to reprimand yourself later for being an absolute pervert.

You cleared your throat.

"Don't mention it." You said, attempting to sound as coy as possible. "I'm uh... I'm going to go to bed now."

You weren't sure what you had expected. Maybe an argument? Maybe a plea for you to stay? But instead, John just nodded and grabbed the remote.

"Night, Y/n."

That had been one week ago.

Now, despite the fondness he held for you, you stopped being John's first pick for partner on missions. You would have been fibbing if you said that it didn't bother you: that John's inability to even look at you as his finger landed on Ava, Bucky, Yelena.. hell even Alexei.. when he picked a teammate didn't drive you absolutely mad.

You couldn't help but take it as an insult. Did he really believe that you were that incompetent? Or did he believe you thought less of him since that night?

It was only because of Bucky's assertion that the current mission could only be done with the two of you that you now stood beside John in sterile hallway.

The mission had been going rather smoothly. For a place with such a valuable item that you were on the hunt for, you had anticipated more guards, but by the second hour of dodging cameras as you raced down an endless maze of hallways, you let your guard down.

Mistake.

John hears the shot- the deafening sound of a minute explosion propelling the bullet from the gun- before he sees the guy.

Before he can react, cover his ears, cover you- John hears the the gasp of air escape your throat as the pullet makes impact with your skin. He watches as it throws you off of your feet and although he feels as if he's swimming, drowning under the weight of what's happening, the instinctive part of his brain that doesn't think: just does, catches you before you fall and shields you.

Bullets ricochet off of the shield, the sound of metal against metal ringing in your ears as your breaths fan one another's faces.

When the bullets stop, John's body reacts before his brain does. Before he realizes what he's doing or you have the chance to stop him, he lets go of you, marks his target and runs. The shield in front of him, he pummels into the guy like a battering ram.

They both fall to the floor, but John's on top. A primal urge crawls up his spine as he grabs the guy's shirt with one hand, pulls back with the other before striking him so hard that it elicits a crunch from his nose. Blood pools from the guy's nostrils but John doesn't stop. A part of him realizes that he's unleashing a flurry of blows against his face, blood pooling around the asshole's broken lip as John heaves and grunts with each swing.

He's been here before. He knows that. But he can't seem to stop; not because he enjoys throwing a punch or watching another man beg for his life- but because he threatened yours.

John was a kind child. He'd help his friend's up when they fell, order two popsicles from the ice cream truck, threaten a bully on his friend's behalf- but he had never been too keen on sharing what was his. Worse, even, was trying to take what was.

He failed Lemar. He failed his wife. He failed his son.

John Walker couldn't afford to fail you.

But like a man just beneath the surface of water, close to the threshold between air and sea, he can hear your muffled voice calling out to him.

"Walker!" You shout, "John!"

When his fists halt, the man beneath him flops back onto the floor, unconscious. Heaving, as if he came up for air, he looks to you and it's like he's rushed back into the present.

Your keeled over against the wall, blood dripping from between your fingers.

John stumbles away from the guy and rushes over to you, pressing his own warm, calloused palm to where the wound permeates your skin.

"Shit!" He curses, "Can you walk?"

You suck in your breath and cringe in pain, but nod.

That wasn't a good enough answer for the super soldier. Sliding his shield into its place on his back, he knelt down and scooped his arms underneath you- one beneath your legs, and the other bracing your back. You're in no position to argue as you wrap your arm around his shoulders, pulling yourself to him.

He doesn't heave or groan by the sudden addition of your weight and you have to silence the part of your brain that begs the implications of that discovery. Instead, you pull yourself tighter into him, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he begins running.

It's only when he starts in the opposite direction, back from where you came, that you question him.

"Where are we going?" You ask. "We didn't get the-"

He huffs as he back himself against a door to open it.

"Forget it!"

John doesn't look at you as he says it and you promptly halt yourself from spurting any further arguments. He has a new mission now.

As Walker runs, you jostle in his arms. You try to hold on- you do. He's the one carrying you. He's the one running for your life as you lay in his arms. But the fluorescent lights begin to blur your vision as your grip loosens and your head grows heavy.

"John?" You sigh, just loud enough for him to hear. "I'm starting to get tired."

He stops for such a brief moment that you almost don't realize it until you feel his grip tighten around your legs and a rumbled breath heave through his chest.

"Stay with me. We're-" He huffs as he kicks through another door, shifting you in his arms. "We're almost out."

You don't say anything as you curl yourself back into his chest, silencing your mind from the burning pain in your stomach and the blood you can feel oozing through the fabric. Instead, you listen to John's breathing like a melodic lullaby.

The last thing you think before your eyes close is that you could've gotten used to this... if only you had had the chance.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

When you woke up a day later in the medbay, he was at your side. Uncharacteristically quiet and brooding, but with you all the same.

When he left the room to grab a drink of water, Bucky told you the John hadn't left your side since the mission had gone south. He had stood guard in the operating theatre the entire time, critiquing the way they stitched you up and nearly having to be tied down when your blood rate plummeted while in surgery.

You were relieved that John hadn't been in the room to see your own blood pressure spike at the revelation.

Instead, John had watched you like a hawk as you healed. Although you were only barred from carrying heavy objects, he wouldn't allow you to lift a single finger. Whether it be grabbing you a snack from the kitchen or changing the thermostat, he was like the most burly, overpowered live-in nurse you had ever seen.

It was endearing really.

Now, after three days, John watches as you sit on your bed, telling some story about the day you and Yelena had had last week. He's not listening, not really. He hums and nods to keep you playing like a record in a distant room, but all he can focus on is your face. The way that John can't really understand how you look so good after years in a team like the Avengers or how you manage to laugh despite the shooting pain that runs through you every time you do. He can't believe there was ever a time when he had looked at that face and felt anything but pure, unadulterated fondness.

He wishes he was listening, but how could he think about Yelena when you're looking at him with that smile?

It's only when you stop and wave your hand in the air that he tunes back into the conversation.

"I..." You huff. "I can't reach down to put my socks on."

And John doesn't say anything, just lifts himself from the doorframe and gestures for you to hand him the socks.

You can't help but stiffen as he kneels between your legs. One of his hands cradles your foot, calloused fingers against smooth skin, as the other slips the sock over it. Despite the mundanity and domesticity that oozes from the feeling of his gentle touch on you, you can't help but feel as if you're doing something wrong. Like you're crossing a boundary that can't be uncrossed.

You have half the mind to tell him to stop- to jokingly shove his head away and assure him that you can take care of yourself.

But when you think of shoving him away, you can almost feel the ghost of the tufts of his golden hair between your fingers as you tug on them. When you try to tell him to stop, your brain lingers on the intoxicating feeling of his fingers brushing your skin.

Before you realize it, your socks are on and John's looking up at you from between your legs. Were his eyelashes always that long? Did he always have hints of red in his beard?

John moves to stand up, bracing himself with one of his hands on your thighs; but as he pulls away: your hand covers his.

Now, you're at an impasse.

John stares down at you, eyes flickering between where your cold hand envelopes his warm one and your own face, staring up at him. John's not sure if you're inches away or millimeters, but he swears he can hear your heart beating through your chest. Or maybe that was his?

You both stay like that for a moment- locked at the gate between what was and what will be- and then it happens.

John's hand slips from yours, but before you can protest, argue, beg him to stay- those same hands are cradling your face and guiding it to his own like a man stranded in the middle of desert and you're water. His lips are on yours in an instant.

When your brain finally gets the message that you're kissing him, your hands rush to his hoodie, pulling him closer. A groan escapes his throat at the contact as one of John's hands slips behind you to brace himself onto the bed.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You're kissing him. You're kissing John fucking Walker. He's in your room, your space, laying you back on the bed not roughly, but not gentle either. You can feel it: the hesitation in his touch, the hitch in his breath as he lips meet yours for more... he wants to treat you like glass. He does. He wants to make you feel like mist between his fingers, but he's been waiting for this for so long. John's sorry. He is. But he can't help himself.

When your back meets your comforter, your hands are already in his hair. One knee lays between your legs, keeping his entire weight from bearing on top of you, as his hand grips the sheet beside your head.

When John pulls away for air, you catch his bottom lip between your teeth, pulling him back. And that's when you hear the sound that'll fog your brain the remainder of your nights- the choked groan that tumbles off of his tongue and into your waiting mouth.

And that should be the moment that it happens- that the water braces against the dam, rushing against its walls too fast, so quickly that the walls fall down, releasing everything that's been held back- but then the intercom announces the arrival of your teammates.

And John considers for a moment what would happen if the two of you just kept going; if he kept his lips at home on yours as his hands ran up and down your thighs, memorizing the feeling of your soft skin against his. But then he looks down at you, the blissed out smile on your face, the way your pupils are shot as you stare up at him and he knows he can't risk ruining whatever this is on impulse.

Call him old-fashioned but it's real, raw, and pure and he won't let you slip from his fingers.

So John rolls himself off of you. He groans as he does it- not because he's straining a muscle, but because it hurts him to do it and he can't help but express it physically.

Your heart beats rapidly in your chest, coming down from the adrenaline high of seconds earlier- now replaced by the fear that you had done something wrong. That you had acted too quickly, too rashly, had forced the barrier of what the two of you were and now that friendship and everything you did, and could have had, had faded away like the moan that fell from his lips moments before.

John's running his hands through his now tussled hair, huffing as he straightens it into some semblance of normalcy that the others- because that was the team was to him, you two and the others- wouldn't catch. But then your voice cracks.

"Did I..." You begin, pulling yourself up. "Did I do something wrong?"

And you hate the way it comes out of your mouth. It's desperate and needy but your head's still spinning and it's not like either of you can hide your feelings anymore. You could still taste him on your tongue.

John blinked a few times.

"What?" He asked, sobering himself from your kiss. "Fuck. No, I just.. I don't want to mess this up."

And it's the rare seriousness that shines through his features that makes you smile, knowing that despite the man in front of you- war torn, bruised, aged- he's like a kid with a crush.

"Embarrassed of me, Walker?" You ask.

You nudge him in the side and laugh, and John swears it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.

He only shakes his head and huffs out a chuckle.

"Funny."

"Walker! Y/l/n!" Alexei called from the common area. "We have returned with dinner! Come eat before it is cold!"

"C'mon." John said, pushing himself off of the bed and reaching out his hand for yours.

"What about us?" You asked, taking his hand. "Are we still friends?"

In the same breath that he pulls you to your feet, face now inches from yours, John just shakes his head and smirks.

"Yeah right." He said, hand laid on your lower back as he ushered you to the door. "Let's be honest, we were never friends."

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

To my lovely bestie, rhea @reythenerdypisces!! i hope this is okay!! thank you for all the support in my writing- i hope you have the best time in london. sydney's not as bright without you. i miss you already <3

#wow i love this #john walker x reader

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crownofdecitreadingrespectfully · 9 days ago

Text

WHY WAS THAT SECOND, SLOWER KISS SO HOT TO ME??? Had me feeling like

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.”

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated 💕🫶🏻

#ANGSTY FLUFF FOR WALKER ANY DAY #john walker x reader #john walker apologist

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crownofdecitreadingrespectfully · 9 days ago

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Me, selecting filters on Ao3

#yeah yall know who yall followed

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crownofdecitreadingrespectfully · 9 days ago

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—-- windchill

john walker x ex-avenger!ex-widow!reader

—- summary: walker doesn't seem too excited about the fact that captain america just saved your life. arguing ensues. and then making out follows. —- wc: 5.4k —- warnings: no use of y/n, john walker is an asshole, canon-typical violence, reader is also a bit of an asshole, actually everyone is kind of an asshole, jealous john walker, arguing, making out, spontaneous confessions, everybody lives in the tower because i said so —- notes: thunderbolts made me want walker and i will make it everyone's problem. first time writing this freak so hopefully you guys like it lmao.

[тётушка (tyot-oosh-ka) - auntie]

"lost visual on the fourth, anyone got him?"

walker's voice comes through your earpiece, the only sound beside the thrum of the wind in your ears. you shift to look down at him from your vantage point, perched on the roof of a nearby building.

"nothing from up here," you respond, giving the streets another quick once-over through your scope, but between the overturned cars, the only movement on the street is from your team. "must've ducked into an alley somewhere."

he huffs, and you watch him run a hand through his hair. "copy that."

"copy this, copy that, lost visual– you can just say you let him get away, you know that right?" ava's grumbling earns a quiet chuckle from you which you're careful not to broadcast over the radio, but yelena isn't so considerate.

naturally, the three of them start to bicker. as entertaining as it is to listen to them go back and forth, you tune them out as best you can while you continue to watch for the last target. or, that's what you intended to do, but despite your efforts your gaze seems to naturally gravitate to john no matter where you look.

his helmet had been lost a while ago, and you have to admit, he looks good with his hair a mess like that. the blood smeared on his face, the dirt and grime marring his skin – in the back of your mind, you're glad everyone else is too busy to notice you ogling him through your scope.

it crept up on you, how quickly you came to like walker. you weren't expecting to care for him any more than you did when you were chasing the flag smashers, but he's a lot more tolerable when he's not being an egomaniac. lately, though, just being near him is enough to distract you. and when you're twenty stories up and still can't seem to focus? you realise it might have become a problem.

there's a crunch behind you, the unmistakable sound of gravel under heavy boots, but your reaction is too slow. the moment you twist around to face your assailant, you're met with a hard strike to the temple.

your vision blurs from the impact, a trail of warm blood falling down your face, a yelp passing your lips before you can stop it. the blow knocks you onto your back, dangerously close to the ledge, and sends your rifle clattering to the ground below.

you grunt, your fingers immediately reach for the pistol at your thigh, pointing it at him the best you can through the disorientation, but he grabs the barrel and forces it upwards.

there's a struggle, an agonising moment where you fight for the upper hand with him on top of you. voices in your earpiece are white noise in the background, your team no doubt having noticed your situation by now.

your assailant shifts his weight, and you take the split-second opportunity to swipe his legs from under him. the gun slips from both of your hands, sliding just out of reach as he hits the ground next to you.

you lunge for it, and so does he, your breathing ragged. the trigger, taut under your finger, the barrel flush to his chest, the blood roaring in your ears, a hard pressure against your stomach.

a single shot rings through the air, and then you're falling.

the weightless feeling makes your stomach turn, the ground is coming up fast, too fast to think – it all happens quicker than you can react.

you vaguely hear a shout of your name, multiple voices, though one is louder than the rest, but it falls on deaf ears.

then, the air is forced from your lungs by a solid force colliding with your ribs, and suddenly you're not falling anymore. you blink through your dizzy confusion, finding what caught you isn't just a force, but a person – and not just any person, it's sam wilson.

with the wind whipping around you, you can just about discern his voice as he calls out, "happy to see me?"

he'd swooped in and plucked you out of the air, holding you close as he cuts through the air with a speed that makes your head spin.

"holy shit!" you cry, holding the back of his suit with a vice grip. the skyscrapers fly by, and, yes, you've known sam a long time, but you've never been in the sky with him before.

you feel his laugh rather than hear it, the vibrations under your palms as he gradually banks back around to where the other (new) avengers were. and honestly, now that you're not in immediate danger, the feeling of the wind in your hair is actually quite pleasant.

when your feet are finally back on the ground, you're not prepared for how your knees give out from under you. sam catches you, again, his arms winding around your waist to steady you, an amused grin on his face.

"woah, you okay?" he asks, the wings of his suit retracting into themselves, and you nod.

"yeah, i'm good – nice catch, by the way." you grin up at him, breathless. a hand still rests over the star on his chest as you find your balance, and the other cradles the new ache in your side, "even if you did break all my ribs in the process."

he chuckles, finding the humour in your words and returning it easily. "hey, i don't accept responsibility for injuries sustained while i'm saving your life, and you're more than welcome for that, by the way."

you're still reeling from the shock of almost falling to your demise, but you can't help the breathless laugh that escapes you. it's slightly delirious and adrenaline fueled, a reflex of sorts. near-death experiences weren't uncommon for you, but you have to admit, this was one of the more fun occasions.

steady enough now to stand on your own, you take a step back and meet sam's eyes once more with a sincere expression. "seriously though, thanks."

"any time." he smiles again, softer, and releases your waist, sliding one arm up to rest around your shoulders instead. "just don't make a habit of falling off buildings, okay?"

you chuckle, patting his chest as you take notice of the rest of your team rushing over, "alright, if you insist."

yelena calls your name as she skids to a stop in front of you, taking your face in both her hands and thoroughly checking you over for cuts and bruises.

"тётушка, you okay? you don't have a concussion?" she frowns, tilting your head to meet her concerned gaze. she brushes away the blood at your brow, and the incredulous look she sends sam, as if it was his fault, almost has you laughing again.

you manage to hold back your amusement though, mostly for her sake, and reassure her, "i'm fine, lena, i promise."

her eyes dart to the way you're holding your ribs as you shift uncomfortably in place, and clicks her tongue at you. "no, you're not fine, look at you – you're more injured than before he got to you!"

"ah, captain america, a rookie mistake!" alexei's voice echoes through the empty street, and he's still yelling even as he lands a hand on sam's shoulder. "you are not very good at whole saving people business, eh? that's okay, red guardian forgives you!"

"wh–" sam pulls a face, half offended, half confused, "you didn't see me catch her mid-air two minutes ago?"

"bah! child's play!" alexei dismisses him with a wave of his giant hand, and he's about to continue until he's interrupted by another one of your team arriving.

"yeah, we all saw you wilson, jesus christ…" walker huffs, rolling his eyes as he comes to a stop a little ways from where you stand.

the air instantly thickens. his jaw is clenched hard, the death glare he's sending sam unsettling in a way that's not like him.

"what's the problem now, walker?" there's annoyance in sam's voice, but you can't shake the way john is locked onto sam; like a predator to prey, he hasn't taken his eyes off him once, and it worries you.

something about the way his eyes graze sam's arm, still around you, sticks in the back of your mind. the way his jaw clenches and his fists tighten at his sides, it unearths something more to his anger.

john scoffs, and rolls his eyes again. "my problem is we're the avengers, and yet for some reason you're always right there whenever we're trying to do our jobs!" he throws his arms out to the sides, his breathing fast and heavy. a moment passes where no one moves, just watching him in stunned silence. "look– we get it, you think you're better than us, but you're not, okay?"

"walker, you need to calm down." yelena leaves your side to get between them, but the staredown just continues over her head.

sam drops his arm from your shoulders, holding his hands out as he takes a step towards walker, an attempt to placate him that has little effect. "hold on, i don't think I'm better than you guys–"

"but you do think you're better than me, don't you wilson?" he's shouting, invading sam's space now, his fists twitching with the effort of holding back. the way his voice cracks, subtle but clear as day to you, sends a twinge through your heart.

you hesitate to break the thick silence that follows. part of you wants to shut him up, to defend your friend – but a larger part, the part of you that cares about john, says that this isn't like him.

"walker." you murmur, a low warning just loud enough to catch his attention.

his glare snaps to you, an undertone of something undeniably hurt beneath his burning anger, but then it's gone just as fast as it appeared. "what? you're on his side now?"

there's a deep sting in your chest when he meets your eye with that same piercing scowl. "i'm not on anyone's side–"

"really? 'cause you're supposed to be on ours– your team's!" he spits, "but i guess it's just whatever you feel like in the moment, right widow?"

if he notices the way your face falls, he doesn't show it.

"alright enough!" bucky yells. he gets in-between the two of them, next to yelena, and puts his metal hand sternly on john's chest. "walker, go back to the car."

john scoffs again. "right. i'm the bad guy – as per usual." he spits, the energy fading from his voice with every word until he just sounds defeated. "why is he even here?"

"just shut up and start walking." bucky growls, pushing him away with the hand on his chest. walker huffs, hesitating like he's debating if he should argue, but eventually spins on his heel and marches off. bucky looks over his shoulder at you, sending sam a somewhat apologetic look, before wordlessly following behind him with alexei in tow.

"sorry." you sigh, massaging the furrow from your brow, and offer sam a regretful look of your own. "he's not always that much of an asshole."

"why do i find that hard to believe?" sam grumbles, watching walker's form retreat. he looks back at you, his expression softening, and shakes his head. "you don't have to apologise."

"sorry anyway." because you are. yelena is waiting for you, her hands on her hips. you pat sam's arm, that guilty feeling still lingering. "i'll see you around?"

he gives you a nod, already starting to walk away. "of course. take care of yourself, alright?"

and with that, his wings extend and he's in the sky before you can blink.

you watch him go a moment longer, before turning back to yelena and gesturing for the two of you to get moving. the others have already turned the corner up ahead, leaving just you and her walking side by side.

"you want to talk about that?" she broaches, looking at you from the corner of her eye with a certain delicate tone that really doesn't make you feel any better.

a grimace crosses your face. no, you wanted to say, not particularly, especially since you're shouldering most of the blame for it. "...what is there to say? i think it might've been my fault anyway."

"don't say that." yelena scolds, her brows pulling into a frown, but you shake your head.

"if i'd been paying attention, then that guy wouldn't have snuck up on me, and then sam wouldn't have had to come and save me, and we could've avoided this whole thing." you release a deep breath, ignoring the sting that radiates from your ribs. "now the energy's all… weird."

she clicks her tongue, and lays a comforting hand on your back. "it's not your fault walker is an asshole, тётушка, nothing we can do about that."

you catch her smile and huff, a weak attempt at a laugh, but it falls flat.

it was more than that, you could tell. more than just walker's typical asshole shtick, but, again, you were hesitant to think about it. he always toed the line, pushed his luck with comments and insults, but that was malicious, meant to wound. you really thought walker had moved past his feud with sam – he didn't seem to harbour the same animosity for you, or even bucky, though maybe you were wrong about that too, since you'd just gotten the same treatment. you shake your head to rid yourself of that train of thought; that's not an idea you want to confront.

so you settle for something vague, a plausible deniability you hoped she would let you keep. "did he seem… off to you?"

yelena lets out a sharp laugh, "oh, so you noticed this time, thank god for that."

"what's that supposed to mean?" you shoot her a puzzled look, your eyes narrowing. she holds herself like she knows something you don't, and it's unsettling.

she chuckles to herself again, a knowing glint in her eye. "it's not all about that shield with him, you know that, right?"

"uh…" you swallow hard, vaguely remembering that odd flash of emotion you'd noticed in john earlier, but you're still confused. "no?"

she doesn't elaborate any further, simply holding your gaze with an expression that reveals absolutely nothing. there's no time to interrogate her further, though, bucky's call of your names from just ahead cutting your conversation short. one last attempt to meet yelena's eye before you climb into the back of the truck, which she shoots down, and you're left with only the rumble of the engine as bucky pulls away.

the drive home is eerily quiet. even ava – who usually jumps at the chance to make a sly comment, at john's expense especially – refrains from speaking.

despite what yelena said, and despite knowing she's right, it still feels like you could've avoided this. you all knew john wasn't really a fan of sam, but he was a good friend of yours, you weren't going to drop him just because one member of your team didn't like him; even if it was the same teammate that held your heart in his hands.

and speaking of walker, he has yet to acknowledge any of the rest of you, taking instead to boring holes in the wall opposite him with his red hot glare. you've been trying to meet his eye the whole ride home, but he fails to notice, like he's somewhere else entirely. with every minute that passes in uncomfortable silence, you're less and less sure that it's not you he's angry at.

when bucky finally pulls into the tower's basement garage, after fifteen minutes that could have easily been hours, he's the first to move. the car has barely even rolled to a stop before walker's standing, hunched over awkwardly as he crosses the length of the truck and throws open the back doors.

the heavy sound of his footsteps echos through the garage, and he's gone before the rest of you can clamber out. the urge to follow him is strong, but you hold off. you're not even sure what you'd say if you caught up to him.

"what crawled up his arse and died?" ava grumbles, sending you a sideways glance as she passes you. "thought i was about to suffocate in that tension…"

you frown, watching the door to the stairwell slowly fall shut, the only indication that john was even there at all.

"just give him some space." you follow her towards the elevator, and she cranes her neck to roll her eyes at you over her shoulder.

"right. like i was planning on spending the rest of my evening in his glowing company…"

a few paces behind you yelena snorts, ignoring the warning look you give her as the rest of you load into the elevator. it's a squeeze with alexei and bucky taking up most of the space, leaving you and yelena facing each other from opposite sides of the box.

"don't worry, тётушка will talk to him," she begins, leaning back against the cool steel and crossing her arms over her chest.

"i will?" you quirk a brow at her as the doors slide shut and the elevator begins to rise. you're not sure if the way your stomach sinks is because of the elevator, or the thought of having to face walker after what happened earlier. "i don't know if that's a good idea."

"yes, it is. seeing as this whole thing is kind of your fault, i think that's fair." she continues, shrugging in response to the look of betrayal you send her. "what? you said it yourself!"

you throw your hands out to the sides, as emphatically as you can in the confined elevator. "you weren't supposed to agree with me!"

"she's got a point, though." ava chimes in, then leans back to hide from your glare behind alexei's arm. "you did let your guard down, quite critically if you ask me."

"hey!"

"you were distracted, yes?" alexei now grins down at you, a gesture you pointedly do not return, and continues, "too busy watching red guardian's heroic moves, i understand, it happens."

you bring a hand up to cover your face, massaging the bridge of your nose, and mutter a quiet, "oh my god…"

a nudge against your foot draws your attention, and you look up to find bucky looking at you too. "it's not a bad idea."

you stare at him, an image appearing in your mind of the fury in walker's eyes earlier, but then bucky tilts his head at you and you really can't resist that sad puppy look he puts on. you breathe a deep sigh, rolling your eyes at all of them, "...fine. i'll talk to him. but if it backfires and he just yells at me again, it's your fault."

"thank fuck," ava replies, a subtle smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth, and as the elevator dings she's already phasing through the doors with a call over her shoulder, "spare the rest of us from his terrible mood."

the conversation dies there. one by one, the others filter out on their respective floors, until you're left standing by yourself in the elevator which suddenly seems far too big.

you press the button for walker's floor, and the doors slide shut again.

he was angry at you, even if you didn't fully understand why, he made that abundantly clear. that scathing omment directed at you – you know he's referring to the sokovia accords, the fight in germany, and even though you know he was just lashing out, a defence mechanism you're accustomed to from him, it was a low blow.

and it stung that little bit more coming from him, because you trusted him. it had come up, late one night when you had bumped into each other in the kitchen during a bout of insomnia, the topic of the previous avengers. in the early hours of that morning you'd confided in him your worries about being part of a team again, how you couldn't handle losing another family like that. and he had reassured you, that the new avengers wouldn't be like that – only to use it against you in a petty argument.

the elevator dings. the doors slide open.

the hallway feels unusually cold when you step over the threshold. something within you tells you this is a bad idea, that you're only going to get hurt again, but you can't walk away.

your hand is poised to knock, hovering centimetres from his door and staying frozen there. no light seeps through the cracks from his room, making the cool fluorescent lights in the hall seem that much more suffocating. you're still not sure what exactly you're here to say.

as if the universe could sense your indecisiveness, the door abruptly swings open, revealing john with a look on his face that sends a shiver down your spine.

but when his eyes land on you, he pauses, his expression going blank. your name falls from his mouth in a whisper. he'd shed the top half of his suit, leaving him in that skin-tight undershirt that does absolutely nothing to help your already scrambling mind. you blink at him, trying to find something to say, but you draw a blank.

and then he goes to shut the door on you. you manage to wedge your foot in the gap before he can fully close it, a small frown taking over your features.

"john," you begin, your tone something almost pleading. "i want to talk."

hesitation dances across his face, and you briefly wonder if hes just going to jist the door on you again. but, to your surprise, he lets the door falls back open, screwing his eyes shut as you move to lean in the doorway.

"about what?" he avoids your gaze as he mumbles, a distinctly defeated feel to his voice. he looks so tired, even more so than he did when you last saw him not even an half an hour ago.

you frown, and answer in a murmur, "you know what."

"yeah, i screwed up, okay? i know that!" he snaps, still dutifully avoiding your gaze as he lets go of the door and turns back into his room. "you don't have to rub it in!"

"i'm not– what's going on with you?" you follow him in, leaving the door ajar behind you, and stare at his back a few steps away, "and don't try and give me the 'i'm just tired' excuse, because i know it's more than that."

he sighs sharply, running a hand over the back of his head, but doesn't turn to face you when he answers, "you wouldn't get it."

it's a lame excuse, and he knows it – it's why he refuses to look you in the eye – but you're not discouraged by his attempt to brush you off.

"oh, come on, john." you roll your eyes, your concern quickly morphing into frustration the more indignant he becomes. "it's something to do with sam, right? i know he's my friend, but if you have something to say, or–"

finally he whips around to face you, his eyes wide with the same kind of anger as before. "right– everything's always about sam! you can't even stop for five seconds to back me up when you know I'm right!"

"why the hell would i back you up when you're being a complete asshole to the guy who just saved my life?" you retort, standing your ground against him despite the way it prickles the hairs on the back of your neck. "he's my friend, i'm not gonna let you, or anyone, talk to him like that!"

"it's not about him– it's about none of you guys ever having my back like i have yours!"

"so i'm the problem? seriously, what did i ever do to you? and bringing up the accords thing, really john?" you glare at him with a scoff, exasperation bleeding into your expression. he goes to turn his back to you again, but you grab his arm before he can, forcing him to hold your gaze. "you're lashing out, you're pissed at me, i know you are, so just tell me what i did!"

he groans, a deep rumble of frustration in his chest as he presses the ball of his hand into his eye. "you didn't do anything!"

"so it is sam?" you press him further, but he just grits his teeth. "i thought we were over this, why do you have such a problem with him?"

a beat passes, a fleeting second where he seems to hold himself back, but the words spill from his mouth against his better judgment.

"because it should've been me!"

you don't say anything. something changes in the air as he catches his breath, feeling thicker than before with the weight of everything still unsaid. he takes your wrist in his hand and brings it between you, taking a tiny step forward.

"...because i could've saved you! he's not–" his voice catches, breaking in a way that squeezes your heart, and his gaze is just short of desperate. "...i could've saved you, and then maybe you would've looked at me the way you looked at him!"

his eyes gloss over, you catch a glimpse just as he drops his head to hide it from you. it's hard to find a single word to say.

"...how did i look at him?" you whisper, hesitant to disturb the fragile air between you.

against your skin, john's fingers twitch, a barely noticeable tremble. there's another oppressive pause where he doesn't speak, just holds you there in unbearable silence. you can almost feel the embarrassment, the shame, radiating from him, see it in the way his shoulders are bunched up.

"like he was your hero. like– like he was everything…" he finally answers. he tilts his head back up, his eyes darting between yours and looking beyond you.

"john…" you murmur.

it seems so obvious now, what all of this has been about – the weird feeling about him you got earlier, yelena's cryptic remarks, you're embarrassed it took you this long to realise.

warmth rushes to your face as you come to the conclusion; john was jealous of sam, not because of the shield, but because of you.

"...how is it fair? that he gets the shield, the fame, the life, the legacy…" the hand on your wrist moves up to grasp your own, his thumb pressing into your palm. his voice is low and raspy, a jarring contrast to his usual blunt confidence. "he already has everything, how is it fair that he gets you too?"

your mouth falls open, confusion replacing the surprise from his confession. "i don't…"

"it doesn't matter." he mumbles quickly, releasing your hand and taking a step back from you. his eyes are still glassy as he turns away, a strain to his voice when he continues, "it doesn't fucking matter, you don't see me that way."

you step forward with him, reaching for his hand that drags through his hair. "you don't need–"

"no, don't do that. don't try to make me feel better." he pulls away from your touch, back to avoiding eye contact, his brows pulling tightly together.

he's spiralling, that much is clear, but you can't manage to get a word in without him interrupting you. "i–"

"just get out, okay? i need to be alone!"

"will you listen to me!" you yell, taking the front of his shirt in your fist to force his gaze back on you. he freezes, his jaw clenched tight, but he stays quiet. "you don't need to save my life in some grand gesture for me to look at you like that!"

he opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but the words get stuck in his throat. the way the light from the hall catches in his eye, you can't bring yourself to look away, even when the vulnerability feels too much.

"you don't need to be the hero, john, i don't care about any of that. is it so hard for you to understand that i might just like you how you are?" your voice is quiet again now, the room closing in around you as if you're the only two people in the world – and in this moment, you might be.

the air is warm, bordering on stifling, but your skin prickles under the ghost of his touch on your waist. he lets it hover there for a moment, as if he was afraid you'd change your mind. you don't, though, and a shiver rolls through you as he plants his hand firmly there. the bruising is just a distant ache under his touch, all but forgotten as you gaze deep into his eyes.

"i like you how you are." you utter. the words are little more than a whisper, reverence in the miniscule space left between you.

he walks you backwards – one, two, three large strides, until his hand can reach to shut the door and crowd you against it, plunging his room into total darkness.

"you shouldn't…" he mumbles, his breath fanning over your lips, tantalisingly close but still much too far, "...i'm not a good person, everything i touch… just…"

you huff, bringing a hand up to curl around the back of his neck, grazing your nails over his skin. "don't care."

the press of his lips to yours is hungry, and it steals the air from your lungs. the force knocks your head against the door, earning a muffled groan into his mouth.

"sorry," he breathes against you, a hint of a smirk in his voice that you can picture even without the light. you click your tongue, fighting a smile of your own, sliding your hand up through his hair and use it to pull him back in. he doesn't resist, following your unspoken command with the diligence of soldier.

then he's on you again, gentler this time but no less desperate. he brushes his fingers over your cheek, moving to cup your jaw and tilt your head to close whatever distance was left between you. the feel of him is overwhelming; the maddening scratch of his beard, how his broad shoulders box you in and his arm snakes around you to pull your body flush to his, it's so much but still not enough at the same time. his skin under your hands is hot, and you absently wonder if he always runs this hot, or if it's just for you.

he sighs against your lips, rough and needy, barely moving away to draw in ragged breaths. your other hand flattens across his chest to feel the rapid pace of his heart, pounding out of control beneath his sternum just like your own.

there's nothing else, in this moment, just him and you. the argument from before is long forgotten, replaced with the feeling of his mouth on yours, his hands all over you, seared into your mind even after he finally leans back.

you can't help the bashful smile that spreads across your face as you catch your breath. you're thankful the room is dark enough to hide it, though you're not sure it matters with his super soldier eyesight.

"i'm…" john murmurs lowly, feeling the vibrations from his voice under your hand as he continues, "...i'm sorry, i shouldn't have yelled at you, earlier. you didn't deserve that."

you sigh, resting your head in the crook of his neck. "i wish you'd just talk to me."

"i will." his hand comes to cradle the back of your head, and he presses a soft kiss to your hairline. "i'll try. i promise."

"then i'll hold you to that." you grin against his neck, placing a kiss of your own against the barest stubble there. "...so, are you gonna apologise to sam, too?"

john scoffs. "what? no, i stand by what i said." you tighten your grip in his hair, drawing a sharp breath from him before he begrudgingly continues, "...but i guess i could thank him, y'know, for not letting you die?"

an airy laugh escapes you, not surprised by his stubbornness. "y'know what? just don't talk to him."

"probably for the best."

#ooooohhh this is good stuff #i could fix him #no really i can #john walker x reader #begging you to write more John fics and make it my problem #the yearning in his voice ugh #‘how can he have everything…and you’#KOed

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crownofdecitreadingrespectfully · 9 days ago

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going on a date with bucky barnes and it all goes so nicely, so sweetly, so smoothly. you both had so much fun, chemistry and a good time. he's charming, witty and he keeps flirting and complimenting you at every chance he gets. he held your hand all night long, neither of you even noticed it, it just happened naturally, your cheeks hurt from how much you're smiling and both of your hearts are at ease.. that's until the date comes to an end, it's time to pay and you ask him if he wants to go 50/50.

that would be the first time he lets go of your hand that night, it's unintentional just happened out of pure shock. "50... what.." the confusion on his face, you'd think he's an alien seeing earth the first time.

"you know.. 50/50.. we'll split the bill between us"

"split the bill?" he asks and you just nod, he'd blink at you, "50/50.. splitting the bill.. what is this about, i asked you on a date"

now it's your turn to be the alien seeing earth for the first time, "we are on a date, bucky. this is a date"

"no, it's not a date."

"it is a date"

"you're asking me to split the bill, this is not a date"

"oh my god sam was right, you can be such a drama queen." you laugh, he just stares at you, blankly. "it might've been a while since the last time you went on a date so let me break it down for you.. these days, people who go on dates split the bill, they go 50/50" you shrug, "it's normal"

"it's normal? you've done it before?"

you nod, "every date i've been on has been 50/50 yeah"

bucky nearly flips the table. bucky who spent all of his three dollars in the 1940's trying to win a teddybear for a girl he had a crush on, bucky who used to save up most of his income in an old shoe box underneath his bed so he can take his girl to a nice diner, bucky who went to the florist to get you a bouquet of roses and didn't even ask for the price just handed his credit card because to him your smile is priceless, bucky is about to have a stroke.

"you've never been on a date" he says, face still blank.

"yes i have"

"no you haven't. this is your first date." he says, "i'm your first time." he smirks and you blush at the possible implication. "50/50.." he scoffs under his breath, "what else are you gonna tell me next? i should walk on the inside of the sidewalk? keep my jacket on when you're cold? sleep further from the door? not open doors for you? jesus sweetheart what has the world come to?"

you hide your smile, you love it when he rambles like that, he's so calm yet so offended all at once somehow, it's funny and endearing. "what's wrong with walking on the inside of the sidewalk?" you joke and he rolls his eyes making you laugh, "so.. no 50/50? are you sure?" you ask one last time, hands on your purse on your lap.

he keeps his eyes on you as he pays the bill, glaring playfully, gets up and pulls out your chair before putting his black leather jacket on your shoulders, "no doll," he offers you his hand which you quickly hold, intertwining your fingers with his, and opens the door with his metal hand, "no 50/50."

#I LOVE BOYFRIEND BUCKY #i love bucky barnes more than i love life itself #bucky barnes my beloved #bucky barnes x reader

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crownofdecitreadingrespectfully · 9 days ago

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Leave You Breathless

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Thunderbolts!Female Reader

Summary: Bucky wants to ask you out and you give him the courage to do so in an unexpected way.

Word Count: Over 2.4k

Warnings: Longing, pining, mild humor, fake dating mention (of sorts), kissing, referenced masturbation, confessions, getting together, slight possessive and jealous behaviour, Bucky's POV, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?) and he's smitten.

A/N: Waiting at the airport and whipped this up. What is it with me and game nights? 😂 Not part of Tower Shenanigans, but it has that feel of sorts. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky nursed a beer as he sat on the roof and looked at the stars. He was taking a small breather from the impromptu game night after Alexei spilled his drink all over the table. He should've asked you to join him, but you had stepped away to take a call with an annoyed look on your face. Whoever it was that was bothering you he hoped everything was okay.

And if it wasn't okay, he’d take care of it or do his best to cheer you up.

His lips curled in a gentle smile when he heard your footsteps behind him. “One of these days you might be able to sneak up on me,” he said, twisting his head so he could look at you.

The smile on your face nearly knocked the breath from his lungs. He had it bad and he swore he fell for you more with each day that passed. He tried not to follow you around the tower like a lovesick puppy, but he often found himself in the same area as you so he could talk to you or ask you to spar as a desperate excuse to touch you. Whenever he pinned you beneath him, he had to rush back to his room and jerk off as images of your face and echoes of your sighs and gasps raced through his mind.

While he tried not to stare at you either, he always had his eyes on you whenever you were around. That morning he had been so busy staring at you that he poured too much coffee into his mug and burned his hand, which you thankfully hadn't seen. And there was that time he walked right into a wall when you wore a form fitting dress for an event Valentina demanded you attend.

“Bucky! Are you okay?” you had asked, rushing over to check on him. When you cupped his face to look over his face with worried eyes, he nearly melted on the spot.

“I’m fine. Just… distracted,” he answered, almost wishing he was a little injured so you'd dote on him some more.

“Well, let me kiss it better anyway,” you said, surprising him by kissing his nose and spreading warmth up to his cheeks.

“Thanks.” He swallowed hard. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

“Thanks,” you whispered back and walked away, leaving him to stare after you as you glided away with confidence and grace.

“Smooth,” Ava said once you were out of sight. “You know, I’m the one who can phase through walls, not you.”

“Don’t blame Barnes. She looked good in her dress,” Yelena said with a knowing smirk when Bucky snarled. “Perhaps she will wear it again if you ask nicely.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, but he had a goofy smile on his face since the feel of your lips lingered on his skin.

The girls would never let him live it down, and he wondered if his crush on you was obvious to you or if he hid it well enough.

Whatever level was beyond whipped was where he was.

Back in the present, you playfully groaned when you took a seat beside him. “You have enhanced senses. I’ll never be able to sneak up on you.”

Bucky turned toward you, watching as you tilted your head and gazed up at the sky. The night seemed more beautiful because of your presence. “You never know,” he said. You had stealth and agility, and you gave him a run for his money in training.

Your eyes sparkled when you turned your gaze on him, the mixture of your subtle perfume and natural scent making him breathe a bit deeper. “Your faith in me is astounding,” you teased, nudging his arm. He’d always believe in you. “But why did you ditch me down there?”

He chuckled when you pouted. It was fucking adorable. “Wasn't ditching you,” he promised. He’d never do that. “Just needed some fresh air.”

“So, it’s okay if I'm here, too?”

“Of course.” He wanted to be where you were.

You smiled, your knee touching his. “I asked where you went and John put his hand on my thigh when he said you were up here.”

It was as if someone shined a red light in front of Bucky’s eyes from the sudden rage he felt. “He what?” he asked, gripping the bottle tighter and feeling it crack under the pressure.

“He put his hand on my thigh,” you repeated, making him clench his teeth. He set the bottle down, too, so he wouldn't shatter it. “Like… Wait, can I demonstrate?”

Bucky nodded and hoped he wasn't dreaming. Asking to touch him showed how thoughtful you were. “Yeah, sure,” he said evenly.

You placed a hand on his upper thigh and gently squeezed. Heat curled at the base of his spine from your touch and he tried not to get excited. He couldn't get hard, not here, not now. He focused on the white hot anger that flowed through him instead since John touched you just as intimately.

Would breaking his fingers be too much?

You moved your hand away and he was two seconds away from taking your hand to put it back there. “I bent one of his fingers back before I came up here,” you told him, making him proud. “I think Bob may have filmed it.”

“That’s my girl,” he said before he could stop himself. His eyes widened when you turned your head and held his stare. “I mean…”

There was no excuse that came to mind for why he said that. All he had to do was confess how he felt. It should've been simple. He was reformed, a super soldier, a hero, and surely he could open his heart to you. So why wouldn't the words come out?

Why couldn't he say that he wanted you to be his girl?

“About that…” You took a breath and scooted away a few inches which had him internally panicking. Did his comment bother you? “What if I sort of told someone that I am your girl?”

His cheek twitched. “I’m sorry, what?” he asked. Did you really tell someone that?

And why did he respond that way instead of playing it cool?

“You know that call I took a bit ago? Well, it was Valentina,” you said, taking another deep breath. He didn't like where this was going. “She wants me to go to a benefit this weekend, and she was hoping I would schmooze a recently divorced potential investor,” you explained, wrinkling your nose and shuddering.

Bucky stomach dropped. You were beautiful and charming, so it wasn’t a shock that Valentina wanted to use you for her advantage. It made his blood boil. First John touching you, and now this. “What does that have to do with being my girl?” he questioned, not connecting the dots.

“I told her I already had a date,” you replied and pointed at his chest. “You.”

Bucky had enhanced hearing, but he couldn't have heard that statement correctly. “You what?”

You bit your lip and risked moving closer again. “I told her you were going as my date.”

The words slowly registered. “So, Valentina not only expects me to be there, but she thinks we're going to be there together?” he asked, gesturing between the two of you. “The two of us.”

You shifted in your seat. He hardly ever saw you uncomfortable. “Yes, the two of us, and I'm sorry,” you said.

Bucky wasn't sorry. Not at all. “Wow,” he breathed. He had pictured himself asking you out so many times and should've done it long ago, but he hadn't imagined a fake dating scenario with you asking him. Is that what it was?

“Bucky, I really am so sorry. I should've asked before I said anything to her,” you said, putting a hand over his before pulling it away just as quickly. “I understand if you don't want to.”

He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal..“It’s okay. I want to go.” He didn’t stay at benefits for long since kissing up to people wasn't his thing and he couldn't stand Valentina, but he’d put up with all of it to be by your side.

“It is? You do?” you asked, your teeth digging into your lip again and drawing his attention to your perfect mouth. “You’ll go?”

“It is, I do, and I will.” He hesitated, but mustered up the courage to put his hand over yours this time. He’d do anything for you. “Really. It’s okay.”

If Valentina had put him in a spot like that, he may have done something similar.

You looked where your hands were joined together and smiled softly. “And you aren't mad at me?”

“No, I’m not mad at you. Not at all,” he promised, exhaling before he moved his hand to your cheek. He felt the temperature rise in your body, heard your heart beat faster. “But why me? Why not Bob or…” He almost choked when he asked, “John?”

“Because I want you, Bucky,” you said without hesitation. “No one else.”

Bucky’s next breath came out harsher than he intended. You didn't say you wanted to date him- you said you wanted him, and he wanted you to want him in every way. “You really want me to be your fake date out of everyone else?” he asked, the word “fake” like acid on his tongue.

You lifted a hand to brush his hair back. “Would I be pushing it if I said I don't want it to be fake?”

He briefly closed his eyes, as if it could hide his longing. The simple question rocked him. “Don't ask me that if you don't mean it,” he whispered.

You leaned in and rested your hand against his. “I mean it. I want you,” you whispered, your lips a breath away from his. You wouldn't play with his feelings or heart. “I want the man who talks with me, spars with me.” You kissed the tip of his nose. “Walks into walls because of me.”

“Sweetheart,” he exhaled, the term of affection easily slipping out.

“I don't want it to be fake, Bucky,” you said, wrapping yourself tighter around his heart than he thought possible. “And I don't think you do either.”

He curled a hand around your hip to draw you closer on the bench. “No, I don't. I don't want to pretend,” he confirmed, kissing the tip of your nose the way you had kissed his. “So, why don't I take you out tomorrow?” he asked, finally asking the question that had been burning in the back of his throat for ages.

He felt your next breath when you tilted your head. “Tomorrow? The benefit isn't until this weekend.”

“I know, but I want a real date with my girl before the benefit,” he smiled, his lips skimming yours. “Been wanting to ask you out for ages.”

“Yeah?” you smiled back. “And it took me arranging a fake date to give you that push?”

“Give me a break. I’m an old man,” he joked.

You smirked, a seductive and dangerous glint in your eyes. “Should I wear that dress tomorrow, or will it give you a heart attack since you're an old man?”

He let out a groan. “I think that dress should come with a warning.” He had already jerked off to the thought of you wearing nothing beneath that gorgeous dress and he would think about that again when he finally went to sleep tonight.

“You're the one who should come with a warning,” you teased, still not kissing him quite yet. “Those tactical pants make your thighs and ass look incredible. And your t-shirts? I swear you wear them on purpose to see if I fall over.”

“I walked into a wall because of you,” he pointed out.

“I touch myself because of you,” you blurted out.

He wasn't sure if he closed the gap or if you did, but his lips were suddenly on yours and everything finally felt right. He wanted to devour you, but he slowly let the heat build before deepening the kiss. When your lips parted, he took the opportunity to sweep his tongue into your mouth and worship it the way he wanted to worship every inch of you. He wasn't going to rush or ruin this perfect moment. Not when he finally had you in his embrace, where he wanted you to belong.

He savored the moan that vibrated on his tongue and swallowed it down to keep it buried deep inside him. When you pulled away to breathe, he didn't let you get far before he went back in for another kiss. The world around you didn't slow down or rush by. It was simply a perfect moment that reverberated through his entire being.

Bucky framed your face when you pulled away again, your gentle panting making him smirk. “I touch myself because of you, too,” he said, chuckling and covering your mouth again when you let out a wanton moan. If he wasn't careful he’d have in his lap and he didn't want to rush that either, unless you wanted to. “And I might break Walker’s fingers for touching you,” he growled.

He worried for a second that it was a bit too much, too possessive. But he heard the whimper in your throat and knew you liked it. “Maybe break one to start with since we weren't officially together.”

“Fine,” he huffed. You were right. You weren't technically together earlier tonight, so he couldn't hold it completely against him. “But he isn't touching your thigh again, sweetheart. You're my girl now.”

“About time,” you sighed, bringing your lips back to his.

“Um,” Bob said from behind you two. Bucky hadn't paid attention to his footsteps since he was so consumed with you. Instead of pulling away from each other, you continued kissing as if you hadn't heard him. “Okay. Guess you two aren't coming back to game night. I’ll tell Yelena and Ava not to bother you,” he added before leaving you two alone.

Bucky would have to plan the perfect date for tomorrow and deal with the team teasing and asking questions. Tonight, he’d leave you breathless with kisses and then kiss you again. And he’ll kiss you every day after that because you were finally his girl.

I guess we can consider this the end of my vacation and my welcome back of sorts agree the week? I missed you lovelies. 🥰 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

#GOOD FOR THEM #bucky barnes x reader

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crownofdecitreadingrespectfully · 9 days ago

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POURING MY LOVE ONTO YOU - Robert Reynolds

pairing: Bob x assistant!Reader

Summary: Rainy days are when you and Bob find yourselves together the most. But what happens when one of those times is when Bob realizes he's madly in love with you?

Warnings: fluff, heavy yearning, friends to lovers, bob being oblivious to your feelings, makeout sesh, intimate moments, implied smut, bucky being bucky

w/c: 1,5k

The rain pittered gently on the windows of your dimmed room, echoing in the silence of peacefulness that was you sitting in bed, eyes focused on your phone before rubbing them with a slight urgency to stay awake. The calming tip-tap was lulling you ever so gently to a realm between unconsciousness and consciousness, only urged by the loud buzzing that came from the bright shining light in your hands.

Yelena: mission went fine, well, fine enough that we only left with maybe one knife wound

Walker: you sure that was one?

Giggling at the interaction, you found yourself questioning where your other half was- Bob. Only required to gather intel, you and Bob had been partners in not being on the field, but being left alone in the tower with just the two of you. It wasn't unlikely that you came across the days where everyone else had left, as missions called accordingly. You didn't mind it these days. The ones where you had found yourself crawling over to the living room where Bob had taken comfort on the beanbag chair in the corner, or the days he'd find himself stumbling into your room asking what you were up to.

Sometimes it'd be board games, sometimes weird youtube videos that'd have him asking "Why are they doing that though? How much stuff are they buying- my god!" that makes him walk out to the kitchen in a rage induced, snack craving mood. Every time you laugh at his silly antics. Other times organizing each others closets and finding an embarrassing pajama top that definitely doesn't fit anymore.

But sometimes you miss him. The loneliness will creep in when you realize how much he's away, and suddenly your footsteps are the only ones being heard through the huge tower.

When he's called out on a whim for a day of interviews with the crew, rather it be galas or simply sitting in a sad, boring room crowded by people behind the scenes and bombarded with questions about his personal life. Bob would rather be anywhere but there- having you curled up beside him when the tower gets too cold late at night, watching a silly romance or an overdone action movie with hot chocolate in your hand and feeding him whatever chips the two of you had picked out hours before. He wanted to be with you.

So on the calm days the two of you had, you always made the most of your time together.

Looking down at your phone again,

Bucky: would you two let us get through one day without arguing like elementary schoolers?

Walker: don't act like you didn't scream cucumber before yelena sneezed

Ava: didn't you say avocado or some shit?

Walker: I 100% said cucumber

Ava: sure.

Snorting, your head immediately snapped up at the sound of a knock at your door, yelling "Come in!" delightfully. Squinting your eyes to focus them through the shadow at your doorway, Bob closes the door behind him, approaching you on your bed. Snuggled into one of his regular crewnecks, a light blue that's stretched and frayed at the edges from so much use land in your vision, sporting him a smile at his entrance.

"Hey" you mutter softly, looking back up at his eyes to find his glued to yours, ears slightly peaked and red at the top.

"Hi- u-uh just wondering what you were up to y'know- got uh, got bored by myself.." fumbling with his hands, he stands in spot, waiting for your permission to invite him into your space.

"C'mon" patting the other side of your bed, welcoming him into your soft sheets that smell otherworldly- or otherwise like you. His skin tingles as he plops down to your side, almost touching you but not quite, for his sanity and for your comfortability. Not realizing, you move over without a problem, your touch lighting him ablaze as your skin to skin. All of a sudden Bob can sense everything- the way your heart races just a little, the warmth radiating off of you although he's running way hotter. The light, hardly-lasting scent of your shampoo still stuck to your hair after lying in bed all evening.

Bob can't distract himself anymore. You bother him in the best ways, and he can't even explain it to himself. His heart threatening to skip more beats than it can handle, overheating himself to the point he actually has to take off his crewneck- It's overwhelming.

He thinks of Yelena and how she'd nudge him with her elbow whenever you entered the kitchen with your hair lazily brushed, and clothes rushed on, opening the cabinets to find a bag of chocolate hiding deep in there. You wouldn't hide your cravings from the team, but Bob wanted to hide himself at times like these, scared his heart would combust if he eyed your cute, disheveled form down any longer. Yelena whispered in his ear, "you're staring" making him jump.

He thinks of the time he saw Bucky eyeing him in his peripherals as you knelt to retrieve bandages from the med kit you had beside you, pulling it gently over an open wound he had gotten from a mission. Only finding out about it when he first came back, you were furious. Ushering him to the couch, urging him to sit down. You couldn't see it, but Bucky sure could- the hairs on his arm were raised, hair clinging to his forehead yet no sweat was dripping down his face. His ears giving way to the rosy tint that stuck with him whenever you lingered. After you were done, you patted him down for anything else as he froze in place, awestruck from the way you had made him feel so safe, but more so from the way you had cared. Almost too much.

The most recent was Walker- training him on stamina and reflexes. But when you walked in the room, he felt himself light up from the inside. The question was, was that a good thing, or a bad thing?- and sentry had made it obvious. A surge of wanting to show off through quick moves had buzzed through his every muscle, only catching himself to be pinned down afterward by the blonde because he had been distracted for too long.

"Bob",

"Bob!"

"H-huh?" looking over to Walker, only a sly grin plastered across his face. With a little pressure, Walker had put his pointer figure to Bobs chest, making the man look down.

"You like her don't you? 'nd your feeling it righhhhht here." Tapping the spot repeatedly, almost like he was making sure Bob got the message like he didn't know it himself.

He quickly scurried back from Walker, replacing his finger with his own hands as he took deep breaths to distract himself from being found out.

"N-no?" instead of a statement, came out like a question, and Walker only snickered as he went to walk out of the training room.

"You should hear hers, man- gets pretty loud when pretty boy walks in the room"

Leaving Bob alone, absolutely stunned in place, he started to question what exactly had he been missing that Walker had been seeing.

His gaze was on you for too long- he knew that. But at some point he started to stop caring as you scrolled mindlessly through different apps, laughing at stupid cat videos, or pointing out an interest of yours. You had almost forgotten about Bob's presence because he was so comfortable and calming to be around. Yawning, you stretched yourself out, in the process splaying your hands over his waist, intertwining yourself with him. You turned to look up at him, making eye contact.

"Bob-"

"Can I kiss you?"

Only left wide eyed, you stared at him in disbelief, stunned but not unwelcomed.

"yes" fumbling out of your mouth immediately "of course"

Cupping your cheeks ever so lightly with his hands, he leaned in slowly. It wasn't hungry, nor was it filled with the weight of desire- it felt like worship. At first hesitant, it felt like his love was slowly pouring into your soul every time he deepened it, warm, tongue dipping slightly into your mouth as he held you tighter, grounding. Through a flurry of strong emotions and new sensations, you let out a gasp at the intrusion. He let go, looking at you with blown-out eyes that stared into yours like they were the stars hung in the sky.

"was that- you okay?" He muttered, unsure and awkward, a shy smile contrasting his tone of voice.

"More than okay. Amazing- fuck" pulling him in again unexpectedly, he leaned into your touch, hands rounding his neck and pulling him closer towards you. Grazing every open area of his skin with your fingertips, he let the two of you separate naturally from the kiss to lead careful nips down your jaw to your neck, little yelps eliciting from you without meaning to as he bit your earlobe. Staring back at you, Bob gripped your hips with weight, "S-shit- y'gotta do that- please you gotta make that sound again"

Before Bob was able to do anything about it, you feel a buzz from your phone grasping your attention. Pulling away from Bob for the slightest second, your hands still tangled in his hair while seeing if it was important, only to be found with a direct message from Bucky.

Bucky: you don't happen to know what caused the power to go out for a second, do you? Fucked up my toast, thanks

#bob reynolds x reader #reluctant father of the year can’t catch a break lol #bob is so love starved could you imagine how he’d react knowing he could touch you when ever he wants #he’d probably cause a brown out when you willinging hold his hand for the first time as a couple #omg actually imagine all the brown outs that were caused when y/n would do that pre couple #Bobby boy will cause a city wide blackout for love and I’m here for it

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crownofdecitreadingrespectfully · 12 days ago

Note

omg yes like cowboy jason working around the ranch in a tank top or without it tbh, all sweaty, muscles flexing. what a sight for sore eyes😫😫 and the hat !!! he'd never take it off i bet

teehee 🤭

farmhand!jason todd x reader. reader owns a farm, jason helps. tw minor cut. lots of ogling 😋

****

"Horses need to be taken inside."

You look up from your seat on the porch swing. You've spent the better part of the hot afternoon in the shade, doing your taxes. Possibly the worst part of running a farm, besides all the excrement.

Jason's got a bridle over his shoulder and a pail of feed in the opposite hand. His neck gleams with sweat. His biceps bulge in his flexed arms. His hat sits low to block the unforgiving sun, so you can't see his eyes. You hope he can't see your wandering gaze.

"Oh, okay. Because of the heat?" This is your first summer on your farm. You're trying to learn everything you can for the future.

He nods. "Then I'll move the rest of the hay."

You make a mental note to watch when Jason starts tossing hay bales. Woof. "Okay. Thanks, Jason. I'm gonna make lunch soon."

He gives you a thumbs up and walks away. You do not (repeat, do not) stare at his broad backside as he walks away. That would be unprofessional and really, really stupid because Jason's the only good farmhand you've found in a sixty-mile radius, and it was sheer luck that brought him here. You can't afford to go searching for someone else because your little crush got out of hand.

It wasn't your dream to own a farm. Your uncle died suddenly in March, and no one else in the family wanted the land. You were convinced by a family friend that a farm was a great way to be self-sufficient. Start anew.

They weren't wrong; you just aren't much of a farmer. It's only because of Jason that you've made any profit at all, or you might've run the farm into the ground.

Jason Todd. You met him by accident in town when he was passing through one day. He told you he was looking for work in an accent that wasn't from anywhere around here. He refused to answer any further questions. That suited you fine in your desperation. You were too frazzled to think about the consequences of hiring a mysterious, handsome stranger. But it's been two months now, and you're regretting everything.

Oh, he's fantastic help. That's not the issue.

The issue is how gently Jason speaks to the cows and the horses, squeezing them affectionately when he thinks you're not watching. It's how he doesn't say much, ever, but he somehow knows when you need help with a chore or when you're daunted by the responsibility of a farm.

Wordlessly, he goes where you go, shouldering the majority of labor. Jason will let you do chores long enough so you learn how they're done, and then he'll take over, shooing you away in minimal words.

He's good at what he does; he's worked on plenty of farms and ranches before. It's entirely professional on his end. It's a little more than that for you.

It almost feels domestic some days: Jason tending to the livestock, you handling the business end of things. Jason offered to make deliveries for you, and you agreed, but he wouldn't accept extra payment for it. At first, you tried to pay him for everything, unsure of the proper etiquette. Jason had very firmly told you that that was a good way to be robbed blind.

Jesus, you're already housing me, feeding me, and paying me. This is my damn job, got it?

And did that deter you from developing a crush? No! If anything, it made it worse, working with a guy who insisted upon being honestly compensated. You overdo it now by making extra pies or chicken bakes for Jason to graze on throughout the day, especially if you're not home. He tells you it's too much, but he won't refuse the extra food.

Sometimes, it feels like he knows exactly what you're doing and why you're doing it. He looks at you with such a piercing gaze, you feel unraveled. He must know your feelings. You hope he doesn't. You hope he does.

You finish the last tax form, happy to be done. Then you stand and stretch before going inside to start lunch. On his days off, Jason cooks for both of you. But being that he takes on the chores and deliveries, you don't mind cooking most days. It's nice to cook for another person, especially one who appreciates your efforts.

Embarrassingly, you've fantasized about Jason coming into the kitchen and sipping kisses from your lips, squeezing your waist, telling you how good the food smells and how good you taste. Your spine goes straight when Jason passes by and gets close to you, so close that you can feel his earthy heat. But he never touches you. And he certainly doesn't tell you how you good you taste.

The curtains on the kitchen window are parted. You have a perfect view of Jason in his white undershirt and jeans and boots. He's stocky and taller than any man you've ever met, all muscle and fat, built like an ox. He told you once it's all he's good for, his strength. You don't know about that, but you can't deny that he's built for farm work.

He lifts the hay bales now, tossing them easily. You absently prepare chicken salad sandwiches while you watch Jason work. You feel like a pervert, gagging for a glimpse of your employee doing his job. You don't possess quite enough shame to stop, though.

Maybe you need to start dating again. Maybe this is just because you're lonely and Jason is the person you interact with the most. You should go to the events they host in town for single people. You're sure you'd at least find someone to occupy your time for a little while.

Then again, you need to focus on the farm. You can't let yourself get distracted by some nobody. Jason cares about your farm's success, so he's okay. But you can't invite anyone else into your life right now.

Cosmic forces deal you your payback then. You're chopping celery for the salad and the knife slips. It's not a serious cut, but it's deep enough for blood to gush from your finger.

The porch door swings open then. Jason hangs up his hat on the hook. His eyes immediately fall onto your bleeding finger.

"It's just a little cut," you begin, but Jason ignores you. He herds you like a sheepdog into a seat at the kitchen table, and you obey, dazed by his bulk and easy command. No wonder the horses listen easily to him and not to you.

Jason washes his hands, then gets the first aid kit from under the sink. He's the one who insisted on you getting it. It's been used quite a bit, you being accident-prone, especially with unfamiliar equipment. The first time you needed it, Jason looked at you with a little smugness, proud that his suggestion came in handy. Your crush blossomed.

"I can do it," you say when Jason sits down next to you with the kit, but he wordlessly tends to you and you watch, almost through an out-of-body experience, as Jason takes your wrist and gently cleans your cut. It stings, and you hiss. He squeezes you in apology, then continues, sealing your cut with a band-aid.

Jason's hair is spiked with sweat. He's got a smear of dirt on his cheek. God, what you'd give to see him in the bath. He only takes five minute showers for as long as you've known him: quick and efficent.

As soon as your cut is wrapped, Jason stands, the chair scraping back. He puts away the kit and continues where you left off with the celery, using a fresh knife and a fresh board. Luckily, no blood got on the food.

"I can keep cutting," you say. "Jason, you go wash up. I can do it."

Again, you're ignored, and it's not like you can muscle your way to the counter. So you huff and take the iced tea out of the fridge instead. It's not long before Jason's putting two plates down, yours with potato chips inside of the sandwich, just how you like it.

"You're so stubborn," you say, huffing without any heat.

"Takes one to know one," he says neutrally, filling the glasses with water first. He's always getting on you about staying hydrated. Caffeine is a diuretic, he reminds you.

You grumble. "Kicking me out of my own kitchen..."

But you can't shake the feeling of Jason's calloused hands on yours. His skin was sun-hot. How are you going to manage when he inevitably leaves for more work?

"Thank you for taking care of everything, though," you say, unable to stop your soft words. "And me."

"'S my job," he says, hunched over his sandwich, not looking at you.

"To take care of me?" you ask, face getting warmer.

"You're the boss. You're part of the farm."

"Oh."

God, you're in trouble.

#suddenly #I need to own a farm #jason todd x reader #thank you for always feeding me

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crownofdecitreadingrespectfully · 12 days ago

Text

Hit to the Head

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Nurse!Female Reader

Summary: Bucky doesn't think he needs medical attention after a hit to the head, but he's glad he met you.

Word Count: Over 3k

Warnings: Meet cute (of sorts?), possible concussion, mention of HYRDA, team dynamic, humor, Bucky's POV, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?) and he's smitten.

A/N: A new AU (as if I need more) inspired by this wonderful nonnie. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411 (and thanks for the assurance on the medical discussion), but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky didn't need medical attention. That was what he told himself, and he said the same thing to the team after he took a hard hit to the head. But he made the mistake of telling Bob that he admittedly felt a little dizzy, who then told Yelena, who then demanded that he go to the hospital. Not only did she demand that he go, they all went and were currently hanging out in the lobby to make sure he was okay.

It was a sweet gesture, if not a wasted one.

He took a hit to the head. So what? He experienced much worse when it came to his head and he was a super soldier for God's sake, so he’d heal just fine. It was a bit cocky to think like that but others needed help more than he did and he wasn't in the mood for anyone to inspect him or ask questions.

At least he wasn't until he saw your face.

“Hi,” you smiled, pulling back the curtain to give him some privacy. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

He opened his mouth to say he hadn't waited long at all, but no sound came out. Thank God he wasn't hooked up to a heart monitor because it would've picked up on the accelerated rate when you smiled at him again. He almost forgot to breathe before his body reminded him that he needed oxygen. No one should look as beautiful as you in medical scrubs or under the harsh hospital lighting. He wondered if he looked okay despite the blood and dirt on his clothes.

Wait, why did it matter what he looked like? He wasn't there to flirt with or impress you. There was no reason for him to sit up straighter or flex his right arm. There sure as hell wasn't any reason to run his fingers through his hair to get the tangles out. It was a hospital visit, not a date.

You wore a name tag, but introduced yourself before taking a look at his chart. “I understand you took a pretty hard hit to the head, Mr. Barnes.”

His voice came out huskier than he anticipated when he said, “Call me Bucky.” Clearing his throat he added, “If you consider a slab of concrete to the head hard, then yeah, but at least my head didn't split open.”

He felt the need to assure you he was fine when concern crossed your beautiful features. “I’m very thankful your head didn't split open, Bucky.” He liked the way you said his name. “But a concrete slab to the head is no joke.”

“You should see the other guy,” he joked, making you giggle. Was he funny or were you only laughing for his benefit? “But seeing the other guy wouldn't matter anyway since you won't let me leave without an exam,” he guessed. Even if he didn't believe he needed one.

It wasn't just his belief that he was fine. Most didn't know it, but every now and then hospitals made him feel like he was back at HYDRA, ready to be strapped to a chair to await his next form of torture or to be experimented on. He wouldn't say he was afraid, but there was discomfort. Enough to make it feel like the walls were slowly closing in.

With a deep breath he thought instead of his wonderful treatment in Wakanda and reminded himself that he was safe, free. It helped the next breath come easier. He then looked at your face where he only saw concern and compassion. You weren't going to hurt him. You were there to help.

“Well, I wouldn't be a very good nurse if I just let you walk out, would I?” you gently smiled.

He managed a smile for you because you weren't just doing your job. You also seemed kind. “I guess not.”

He could get through a simple exam.

Bucky inhaled, detecting a hint of something sweet under the sterile surroundings as you checked his heart beat. It was so subtle that he wouldn't have been able to pick up on it if it weren't for his heightened senses. He almost leaned into you before you pulled away, and thank God for that. Would he have been able to blame it on his head if he did?

“I don't have a concussion,” he blurted out.

“Is that right?” He swore there was amusement in your tone when you shone a light in each of his eyes. “I imagine you're somewhat familiar with them in your line of work.”

“You can say that,” he said. He had his fair share of hits to the head, and helped his teammates get through injuries. “No nausea, no stiffness or imbalance.”

He didn't mention the dizziness since he didn't want to stay longer than he needed to.

“Any issues with your memory?” you asked.

He smirked a little. “That's a bit of a loaded question.”

“Can you tell me what day it is and what hospital you're at?” you asked.

He answered the questions with ease. He also spelled “world” backwards when you asked him to. “See? I’m fine,” he said.

“Your vitals are normal. Pupils reactive. But-”

“Look, I appreciate you checking me out,” he cut you off, keeping the bite out of his voice because he refused to snap at you. “But I don't want to waste your time.”

Bucky hated that he was trying to rush out when you were only trying to help, but he could hear people in the other rooms even as he tried to block it out. They were in pain, struggling. They needed you more than he did.

“And I appreciate that you're thinking of my time, but it’s my job and I wouldn't feel comfortable with you leaving without completing my exam,” you said, taking a closer look at him. It wasn't concern he saw in your eyes now, but understanding. “You're not exactly a fan of hospitals, are you?”

The question took him by surprise. How did you guess? “Not exactly,” he replied, choosing not to elaborate on that and you were thoughtful enough not to push. Just a sympathetic nod, which he appreciated. “But the work you and everyone else in the medical field does? It's incredible. Thank you.”

In his eyes, people like you were the real heroes. You didn't just face battles, you faced pandemics and life changing events. You risked your lives, saw the best and worst of people, and how many thanked you in return? And from the little time he knew you he could sense the love and dedication to your job and patients. He respected that.

“Thank you. And thank you for all that you do, too,” you said sincerely. The compliment had the corner of his lip tugging in a smile. “I know you want to get out of here, but I am here to help. If you're fine, great. If not, please, let me help you.”

He tried to look anywhere but at you. It unnerved him that you got under his skin with so few words and he wondered for a second if that hit to the head did more damage than he thought. “I feel a little dizzy, but that’s all,” he admitted, and he felt better by doing so.

You put a hand over his, little currents of electricity shooting up his arm. “Thank you for telling me,” you whispered, like it was your little secret. “Since you are feeling dizzy, I would like you to stay for observation.”

Bucky sighed. “How long do I have to stay?”

“As long as everything is stable and there are no new or worsening conditions, you’ll likely be discharged within an hour or two,” you replied. He almost argued that he healed from injuries faster thanks to the serum, but that wasn't too long. Better safe than sorry. At least it wasn't a headscan. “Would you like some water? I can get you a snack, too.”

The snack and drink were likely to make sure he could keep them down. “Sure, thanks,” he whispered.

“Sorry that you’re stuck with me checking on you for the next hour or so,” you said.

Bucky’s smile grew before he chuckled. “You won't hear me complaining,” he promised.

Hell, he'd probably fake an injury just to see you again, or at least ask for you if he ever had to come back to the hospital for any reason. He wondered if you were single. You weren't wearing a wedding band or an engagement ring. That didn't necessarily mean-

“I’m single,” you said quickly.

He glanced at you before his eyes went wide. Shit, he said some of that out loud? “Oh, well, that’s…” He wasn't sure what to say. Should he apologize? “Nice.”

He grimaced. Nice? What was wrong with him? Maybe he had a concussion after all.

You looked at him, your smile soft and easy. He either wasn't the first patient to make a fool out of himself like that or you were being nice. “I’ll be back shortly, but buzz if you need anything.”

“I will,” he said, his finger itching to push the remote the second you left him alone.

He leaned back in the bed and tried to make himself comfortable while he slowly looked around. How was it that the room seemed darker, as if you took a bit of the light and warmth with you? He shook his head slowly and carefully. It was a ridiculous thought.

“Observation for an hour or two. You okay sticking around so you can drive me back?” he messaged Yelena.

Yelena messaged back almost immediately. “Everyone is staying. Even Walker.”

He scoffed, but there was a smile behind it. “Not that you need my permission, but you can punch him if he steps out of line.” Yeah, John was still an asshole, but they did work together and he was trying. Some days.

He perked up when you came back with a cup of water and a snack. “You doing okay?” you asked.

“Since you left a minute or two ago, yeah,” he teased.

“Were you a sarcastic guy before the hit to the head, or is this a new side to you?” you teased back.

“Oh, the sass has always been there,” he said, taking a sip once you handed the drink over. “Better to be smart-ass than a dumbass, right?”

Why was he talking so much?

“So much better,” you smiled, going to the small computer to type something in. He tried not to stare as your fingers flew across the keyboard. He could always blame it on his head if you caught him. “I’ll be back in just a bit, but-”

“Buzz if I need you. I know,” he smiled.

“At least there isn't too much sass in your tone,” you joked before you left him alone once again.

If he didn't know any better he would think you were flirting with him, but you were just being a friendly nurse.

He also tried not to eavesdrop when he heard you assisting others, but your voice drew his attention and he hung on your every word. You were professional, yet personal, showing each patient expert care. You lightly scolded an older gentleman who hadn't listened to you, which brought a smile to Bucky’s face when the man apologized and didn't give you any trouble after that. It was a delicate balance to be kind and assertive and you did it well.

“You are something,” he said to himself.

For the next hour or so Bucky didn't say much when you checked on him, but you had his undivided attention, his eyes following you wherever you went. He wanted to find excuses to keep you there and possibly make small talk, but it felt wrong when there were other patients who needed your attention. He caught that sweet scent again whenever you were close to him. Alluring, captivating. He tried to figure out if it was a body wash or just you.

Something he noticed and tried not to was that your heart raced faster when you were near him. Maybe there was a slight chance that you were attracted to him? Beyond being a friendly nurse, maybe the possible attraction was why you kept smiling at him. He wanted to believe so. He wanted to feel your hand on his hand again. The brief touch had him wanting more, which was crazy.

And before Bucky knew it, it was time to leave.

“Vitals still look good. No change in symptoms,” you confirmed after he said the dizziness had subsided and he didn't feel at all nauseous after the snack. “Do you have someone to drive you home?” you asked.

“Yeah, I have some friends here,” he answered. Even if he wasn't dizzy there was no way they'd let him drive after that.

“Try to take it easy for the next 24-48 hours. If there are new symptoms or if the dizziness gets worse, you should return to the hospital,” you told him. “Other than that, I think you're good to go,” you smiled, but it didn't look as bright as before.

Were you disappointed that he had to leave? Bucky was disappointed, but what could he do? He had no excuse to stay. Ironic how he was itching to leave when he got there when he now wanted a reason to stick around.

“Thanks.” He grabbed his jacket after slowly getting to his feet, your gaze lingering on him when he slipped it on.

“Why don't I walk you back to the lobby?” you offered.

“Oh, you don't have to do that,” he said, regretting it since it sounded like a brush off and that wasn't his intention. “But if you wouldn't mind?”

Your face lit up, at least he thought it did. “I don't mind at all.”

Keeping a respectful distance, but not too much of a gap as you walked together, he stole a couple of glances at you. The quiet confidence in which you carried yourself was beautiful and you turned a few heads from nearby patients. He wondered if you noticed.

He smiled to himself when he spotted his teammates sitting in the waiting area. None of them looked particularly comfortable, but they stuck it out for him. It meant a lot.

“That group right there is my ride,” he said, not wanting you to go any closer. If they got the slightest hint that he enjoyed your company for a short time, they’d pounce. “Thanks again.”

“I’m glad I could help," you said, gazing at him. “Havd a good night. And don't forget to take it easy for the next 24-48 hours, hero.”

Hero. The nickname almost made him smile. “You have a good night, too.”

You lingered for just a moment, almost as if you expected him to say something else. When he didn't, you offered him one last smile and scanned your card to get back through the double doors. His shoulders dropped once you were out of sight. He should've said something.

“Hello?” Yelena asked, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “What are you staring at?”

He blinked a few times. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? Oh, I think he was staring at that pretty nurse,” Ava answered.

Bucky shot the entire group a glare, his cheeks hot. “No, I wasn't,” he grumbled. Except he was. He stared at you. And by the amused looks on their faces, they all saw it.

Yelena exchanged a look with Ava before they both smirked. “Yes, you were. Do you like the nurse?”

Bucky’s fists curled. He was not having this conversation after a hit to the head. “Can we leave?”

“It’s okay to stare or have a crush. She’s a beautiful woman.” Alexei clapped a hand on his shoulder. “She would be lucky to date the Winter Soldier.”

A growl escaped before Bucky could stop it. Yes, you were beautiful. Did he need Alexei to point that out? And he didn't have a crush. How could he?

“When was the last time you went on a date?” Ava asked.

Bucky took a deep breath. He really didn't want to talk about this. “Does it matter?” he asked.

“Ask her out! I drive you for your date!” Alexei offered, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll set the mood. You see.”

Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered, “Dad, stop.”

Bucky shook his head and shut his eyes, wishing he could teleport himself out of there. “Yes, please, stop.”

“Is your head okay?” Bob asked, making him open his eyes. Of course he was concerned with his pain, and Bucky was glad for the change of topic.

“I’m fine,” Bucky assured him. There was nothing for him to worry about. “I just need to take it easy for the next day or so.”

John stretched his back once he stood up. “If you really want to see that nurse again I can make sure you get another hit to the head.”

Bucky’s eyes turned cold. “I’m not a killer anymore, but I may make an exception if you try anything.”

John held his hands up, but still had a smirk on his face before Yelena shot him a look. “A small injury could bring you back here.”

“No one is injuring me to bring me back here,” he announced. Everyone looked disappointed except for Bob. “What, you all want me to get hurt?”

Why did he decide to join this team again?

“No, we just want you to see the nurse again,” Ava said.

“Let’s go,” he ordered.

As the group left, Bucky snuck one last look over his shoulder. You were a good nurse, and you made his night better. A small part of him hoped he made your night a little better, too. And while he certainly didn't want more injuries, a part of him did if only to bring him back to you.

So, what injury is Bucky getting so he can see you again? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

#HOHOHO #merry christmas to me #IM SAT BABY #bucky barnes x reader

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crownofdecitreadingrespectfully · 12 days ago

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Cheer Me On (Matt Murdock x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: You're in love with Matt Murdock, acclaimed boxer and vigilante. But lately, you've felt more like his medic than his partner. After a heated argument, he steps into the ring—only to realize he can't hear your heartbeat in the crowd. WORD COUNT: 3.3k WARNINGS: Boxer!Matt. Blood/Injury. Hurt/Comfort. Argument. Slight miscommunication. Boxing. Stitching. Suggestive content. Fluff. NOTES: Cheer Me On by Malcolm Todd is so Matt core. Also I SWEAR. I'LL WRITE SOMETHING JUST FLUFF WITH HIM SOON. As much as I love Matt, I just think he'd make a horrible boyfriend LMAO. (Refer to season 2 alright). MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3!

Y/n wasn’t even a nurse. She had taken a sports med class in high school, and that was it. She learned the rest from her boyfriend, Matt, the day he knocked on her apartment window in the middle of the night, scaring her half to death in his Daredevil armor. From that day on, she was the only person to know of his heightened senses and vigilante life. Not even Foggy knew, and that added an extra layer of responsibility.

The fact that she was the only person to know how Matt boxed on the side felt like a privilege. He had amazed Hell’s Kitchen by being a blind boxing champ, taking on his father’s role. Sure, he’d always throw a few fights, so he didn’t seem suspicious, but he was moving up the ranks quickly. Considering Nelson & Murdock had become essentially a charity at this point, he needed to make money somehow. Now, all the papers were stating that New York’s up-and-coming champion was a blind man from Hell’s Kitchen.

But as he moved up the ranks, he was facing bigger and tougher opponents. Sometimes, even men outside his weight class, and Y/n would watch from the sidelines with her hands over her mouth and her heart in her ears.

All of this plus his vigilante life? Matt was getting his ass kicked a fair amount. It was getting to a point where she was patching him up nightly. And she noticed the injuries were getting worse and worse. It started with horrid bruising and contusions that left constellations of purple across his ribs. Then slowly it became cuts that she’d have to purchase medical tape for.

The next thing she knew, Matt was talking her through how to stitch a cut on his upper eyebrow. He sat at her kitchen table, calm as can be. Dark blood dripped from his forehead. Red-stained tissues and gauze littered the room.

“Matty- I can’t. I can’t.” She said scared.

“Yes, you can. You can sew. It’s the same thing.” Matt tried reassuring her.

“I SEWED THE HOLE IN YOUR JACKET, NOT YOUR FACE!” She squealed with tears on the brink of her eyes, and he suddenly grabbed her shaking hands. He gently rubbed his thumb over the top of her palms.

“Hey, hey, hey, sweetheart. It’s okay. You’re not gonna hurt me. Been hurt way worse than this.” He said softly, “If you want, I’ll do it, but I just need you to hold the skin together.”

She felt like she was gonna puke, but she also didn’t want Matt to bleed out in her kitchen. “I’ll do it. I’ll- I’ll try.” She said, “But after this, we need to talk.” And that sentence was almost scarier than the fact that she was picking up the needle with shaking hands.

After some rough stitching, she tied it off, and her breathing was on the verge of hyperventilation.

“Breathe. You did it.” He said, reaching for her hand.

She pulled away, and the tears just fell freely now. The built-up stress collapsed on her, and she put her head in her hands.

“Matt, when we started dating, I signed up to be your girlfriend. Not your medic.” She said, trying to catch her breath.

He dabbed at his forehead with some gauze before standing up. “I know. I know I’m sorry-”

“And it was totally fine when it was just bruises and cuts, but Matt, it’s getting worse. With- with the whole Fisk operation you’re fighting and- and the additional weight class, it’s getting out of what I can do.” She stammered.

She felt a little pathetic. It felt like she was supposed to be happy to patch up her superhero boyfriend. But watching Matt box went from something exciting to torturous. And every night she spent at home alone, she spent it waiting by the windowsill for her devil to come back half beaten to death.

“I know. I know it isn’t fair, but you’re doing great. I can teach you more.” He said, walking up to her with his arms out.

She wiped her tears away and crossed her arms, not accepting his offer of affection. “Why can’t you just charge your clients? So you can finally afford an urgent care visit after a match. Or why can’t you stop….” She started, but she already knew what he was gonna say to that.

If she asked him to stop the vigilante work, she would get the same answer. He had said it plenty of times before.

“You know I can’t abandon this city.” He said what felt like a catchphrase to her.

She shook her head, fuming now. It felt impossible to understand, even though she desperately wanted to. She tried to be the most accommodating girlfriend for him because she knew he was making a difference. It didn’t matter if he had to leave early from the dinners she made. Or if he only slept over on nights he crawled through her window. Or if he forgot important dates because he was sleep deprived. She let him and told him it was okay. What was she supposed to say? No, don’t go save innocent lives with your incredible gifts? But now…

“It’s coming at the cost of your life. You’re falling apart.” She said, her voice cracking, “I don’t want to watch you die, Matt.”

There was a silence between them as Matt thought about what to say. He was certainly in a conversation of landmines.

“Sweetheart…” He said gruffly, “It’s just a risk I accept.”

She threw her hands up immediately and shook her head with pursed lips. “No. That’s it. You need to find a new medic that isn’t your god damn girlfriend. Go call up Claire, and bring her out of retirement, because I can’t… I can’t.” She said, pacing, “If a night nurse is all I am to you, I’m going to sleep.” She started leaving towards the hallway.

Matt followed her, “Come on. You know that’s not true. Let’s not go to bed angry.”

She stopped in the hallway and turned to face him. Her face was crumpling now, and she wiped the tears from her cheeks with the palms of her hands. Her face glowed red as she looked up at him with big, watery eyes. Every inhale she took was sharp and fast.

The sound of her crying broke Matt’s heart. The sense of her salty tears hit him like a brick.

“You’re not just my night nurse. I need you in every other way.” Matt said.

A scoff escaped her. “Oh really?” She asked, tilting her head with a sniffle, “When was the last time we were intimate? Huh? When was the last time I wasn’t having to ice pack your whole body, praying that you wouldn’t be eating through a straw?”

Welp. He was silent. It had been a long time since they had done anything romantic. Dates. Nights in. Intimacy… It was difficult to try and incorporate these when he was barely functioning, but that just proved her point more.

“Go sleep on the couch. I don’t want blood on my sheets again.” She said coldly, but with a waver in her voice. It was clear she didn’t want to go to bed alone. Every sign in her body screamed that she wanted to hug him and hold onto him until she fell asleep. But she was so upset, and there’d be no point in letting him off the hook.

She turned back around and started walking to her bedroom.

“Love you, sweetie.” He said, and she froze again, but didn’t turn back around.

“Love you too.” She lamented with a frown before walking forward again.

Matt hit his red gloves together as he got himself ready to go into the ring. It was just Fogwell’s, but he meditated as if it were an UFC arena. He sat on a bench and listened into the gym from the locker room. It was decently packed, nowadays that he had made a name for himself. But he tried listening for his girl’s heartbeat. It was difficult to discern in a crowd of so many… Maybe that’s why he couldn’t hear it. He tried breathing in the air to see if he could sense her signature cherry perfume, but he didn’t smell it.

A sweat began to form on his brow. Where was she? She never missed a match. She was far too anxious to miss one, even if she was gasping and gripping the bench the whole time. Did he go too far with having her stitch him up? Who was he kidding? Of course he did. He knew he had a lot to make up to her, but he didn’t think it was bad enough for her to miss a match.

He sighed and got up to stretch his shoulders out. It was already gonna be a difficult match, and he had a feeling that without her there, it was only going to get harder.

Walking out into the main space of the boxing gym, he desperately searched for any and every sign of her. The clacking of her kitten heels. The jingling of the locket necklace he got her for Christmas. The sound of her cackling laughter when she teased Foggy… Nothing. Her absence was devastating, and it showed on his tense shoulders.

Without her there, all he could sense was the salty sweat and grime of Fogwell’s. The sound of jeering filled his head, and the dust on the bricks clogged his nose.

“Murdock! Whatchu doing? Go on up now.” Will, the current owner of the gym, hissed at him, breaking him out of his thoughts. Besides Y/n, Will was his biggest supporter. The man had owned the gym since his dad’s old days and had watched him grow up.

He nodded and ducked under the ropes to climb up into the ring. The match card was rough. They had paired Matt with another guy above his weight class. Samuel Owens, a rookie notorious for his no-defense strategy. Sure, he was new, but he had gotten this far for a reason. Either he killed you, or you were both going home in ambulances. This was a match-up destined to be bloody, with Matt having that same terrible strategy out on the streets. And if it came to it in the ring, he wouldn’t be afraid to use it there either. Anything to keep the lights on, and to afford flowers for his girl… But then again, now that he thought about it, it had been a while since he had gotten her flowers.

“Front and center.” The ref broke him out of his thoughts again. He was already horribly distracted with his thoughts going a mile a minute and nothing to ground him.

Matt walked forward into the center of the ring. He could hear the heavy breathing of Samuel in front of him, like a bull seeing red. And he didn’t have to see to feel the deadly glare the man was giving him.

“Gentlemen, keep it clean. Protect yourselves at all times.” The ref ordered the typical spiel, then looked over at Samuel, “No low blows, no rabbit punches. I’m looking at you, Owens.”

The blonde man smirked and wiped sweat off his face with his forearm.

“Touch gloves and to your corners.”

Matt reached out his gloves in anticipation, but Samuel looked at him and scoffed. In refusal, Samuel walked back to his corner without the sportsmanship, and Matt already wanted to be home with his girlfriend.

He took a deep breath as he trudged to his corner. The ref backed up against the ropes and pointed to the timekeeper. DING DING.

“BOX!”

Usually, in a typical first round, Matt and his opponent circled the ring, sizing each other up. He’d be able to hear the scuff of his opponent's boots and the ruffle of his shorts. Put in a few jabs up and down to see where the reaction time differed.

But this fight started with Samuel practically flying towards him. Matt’s senses came in handy here as he quickly dodged to the side and turned back to punch at Samuel’s back.

Round one, and the fight was already dirty as Samuel was throwing punches like a madman, forcing Matt to stay on top of it. He almost wished it were an MMA fight so he could make use of the Judo that Stick forced him to endure growing up. But it was just fist to cuffs today.

He instinctively listened for Y/n’s heartbeat. What he did every match. And when he remembered she wasn’t there, Samuel was able to get a hard shot into his cheek. Bouncing back quickly, he took the opportunity to swing at Samuel as well. After a few punches, Samuel got a grip on Matt, only because he was decently bigger than him. Clinching him, Samuel punched some hits into Matt’s ribs.

“Gonna get out of this, wise guy?” Samuel gritted his teeth.

Matt landed a punch to his stomach to create enough space and free his arm. Instantly sending a hook to Samuel’s face. But he was fast, using the last few seconds to recover and clinch Matt again.

“EXCESSIVE OWENS.” The ref called, but DING DING DING. The first round was over. “TIME.”

Even after the ref called it out, Samuel sent an extra punch to his stomach, making him groan. Matt shoved him off of him, more pissed than a usual. This guy was the fucking worst.

“COME ON MURDOCK! GET YOUR HEAD ON STRAIGHT.” Will yelled from the side, making him huff.

This was gonna be a long match.

Stumbling out of Fogwell’s with a bloody nose, split lip, and bruised ribs, Matt flagged down a taxi. The only thing that held up was the stitches that Y/n gave him above his brow, and at the very least, that made him feel better. He had made it through the three rounds, but the judges determined that Samuel was the winner, making this the first match he’s lost in a few months. Once a taxi pulled to the curb, the driver looked at the bloody man standing with a white cane up and down.

Matt got in the back and leaned his head back against the seat. “To the nearest urgent care… please.” He grunted.

And the taxi drove off.

Matt didn’t check his phone until he was sitting in the urgent care room with an ice pack against his lip and gauze packed with ice around his torso. He had enough money saved up to afford a visit, but it sure was making him miss the benefits of working at Landman & Zack.

“Check inbox,” Matt said into his phone with the accessibility features turned on.

“You have six missed calls from… Y/n. Six new texts from… Y/n. One new voicemail from… Y/n.” The phone repeated back to him.

Huh? His heart flipped in his chest. Six missed calls and text messages? That wasn’t like her. Did something happen? He swallowed and prayed that she was just overexcited about something. Maybe she finally got those concert tickets she wanted and needed to tell him… But he knew that wasn’t voicemail worthy.

“Play voicemail,” Matt said nervously.

“Playing voicemail from… Y/n.” The phone repeated back before playing the static-filled voice memo. It sounded like she was in the middle of the street with horns honking and people yelling. “Hey, baby. I’m not gonna make your match today, I’m sorry. I was on my way, then a stupid guy rear-ended my bumper so hard. Foggy’s on his way to pick me up, but I’m just hoping my car isn’t totaled… Also, I’m sorry about last night. I should’ve let you sleep in the bed. But good luck on the match today. You got this. Just don’t be stupid… Okay, the officer is having me move, so I gotta go. Love you, bye.”

The biggest sense of relief flooded through Matt. He wasn’t completely in the doghouse like he thought. Even though he didn’t think she needed to apologize, all that mattered was that she was supposed to be there and that she was okay. He lay back against the exam table, relieved.

“Play text messages.” He said into the phone.

Y/N: I’m not gonna make it to Fogwell’s, just got rear-ended. I’m sorry.

Y/N: Listening to the fight on the radio in Foggy’s car.

Y/N: Break a leg! (Please don’t).

Y/N: I’m sorry about the loss. When you come over, I’ll have ice packs and ice cream. :)

Y/N: Baby, you okay? Do you need me to get Foggy to pick you up? Please answer when you can.

Y/N: You better not be dead, Matthew Michael Murdock, I swear to god.

Matt laughed at the last one. He instantly ordered the phone to call her, and when she picked up, he smirked.

“Guess where I am.”

Y/n had quickly gathered all her things and took the first taxi she could to the urgent care center that she interrogated Matt for the address of. But as soon as she got out of the taxi, Matt was already stiffly getting off a bench and walking towards her.

It took all she could to stop herself from running and pouncing on him. So instead, she briskly walked and put her hands to his sore face.

“That Owens guy really didn’t play nice today, huh?” She said, looking at his face. “No stitches for the lip?” She asked worriedly.

He chuckled at how doting she was and shook his head. “Cut’s shallow. It’ll heal.”

She sighed and pulled him in for a light hug, not wanting to injure him more. But he instead pulled her in tightly against him, not caring about the pain. That gave her permission to hold him tighter against her as well.

Standing on her toes, she kissed the side of his temple. “Please, God, don’t go out tonight.” She murmured into his ear, figuring it’d have fallen on deaf ears per usual. Matt always went out, even after his rougher matches.

Yet, he pulled back to brush a piece of hair out of her face and behind her ear. “Didn’t plan on it.”

She immediately squinted her eyes at him in disbelief. There was no way that Matt was saying he was taking a break from patrol… It didn’t even sound right coming out of him.

“Don’t kid me, Matt.”

“I’m not! I’m not.” He said with his charming smile that could always disarm her. The man was too charismatic for his own good. “I want to spend the night cooking for my girl and making sure she feels appreciated.” His voice lowered, and he leaned closer to her ear. “Very appreciated.”

She pushed him back playfully. “Stop it. You need to rest up that torso.”

A smirk appeared on his lips. “There’s a reason we wear gloves, sweetheart… To protect our hands.”

Jesus Christ. Her heart picked up, and she blinked, surprised as a blush reddened her entire face. Memories of Matt’s hands and new lewd ideas from her imagination flashed in her mind.

“C’mere.” He said before pulling her in for a kiss.

She was horrified at the prospect of hurting his lip, but she tried to suppress that and just enjoy the feel of her boyfriend against her again. As for Matt? Who cared about pain when he had her against him? The city breeze blew through them, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, less afraid of hurting him now.

He smiled at how desperately she kissed him and pulled away to say. “Need to make sure my sweet girl’s there to cheer me on next time.”

#i love me some angst #matt murdock x reader

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