frothy-tart

[frothy-tart]

𝑮𝒆𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒊𝒂 𝑷𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 | 𝑱.𝑾

𝒑: 𝑗𝑜ℎ𝑛 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑒𝑟 𝑥 𝑓!𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

𝒔: 𝑂𝑓 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑇ℎ𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑏𝑜𝑙𝑡𝑠, 𝐽𝑜ℎ𝑛 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑚.

𝒘: 𝐻𝑢𝑟𝑡/𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡 | 𝑀𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 | 𝐼𝑛𝑗𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 | 𝐻𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑡 𝑠𝑢𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑎𝑙 𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 | 𝑆𝑒𝑙𝑓 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑚 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑟 | 𝑃𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑏𝑢𝑠𝑒 | 𝑃𝑇𝑆𝐷 𝑠𝑦𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑜𝑚𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑟 | 𝑁𝑜𝑛-𝑠𝑒𝑥𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑎𝑙 𝑛𝑢𝑑𝑖𝑡𝑦

𝒂/𝒏: 𝑖 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑢𝑝 𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑦 𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑠𝑜 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒. 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒. 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑜 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑒. 𝑎𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑢𝑟𝑡/𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑢𝑝 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑓𝑓𝑦. 𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑠 𝑗𝑜ℎ𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑝𝑠 𝑜𝑢𝑡. 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑. | 𝒘𝒄: 7.5𝑘

Everyone has bad habits.

Nail biting, skin picking, poor diet, sleep avoidance.

But your poison was a lack of safety for your own life. Truthfully, you had little self preservation.

It wasn’t your fault…you repeated this mantra to yourself daily, convincing yourself to believe the sweet lie.

You had a long history.

The only people on the team you were familiar with were Bucky and John. You met Bucky several years ago when the original Avengers were still around. Before the snap, before Thanos, before the great death of Stark. Way back when, you had been volunteered against your will for illegal human experimentation. Without a say at all, you underwent procedures you’d rather forget.

You had become rogue, having botched serums injected into you, it changed how your body and mind operated. Various organizations tried to claim you like you were a stray dog, but none succeeded.

You met Bucky back in Romania, just after his escape from HYDRA. It was a rocky start, you both had pretty severe trust issues. But, as you continued to see one another at the same market, you became more receptive to each other. You were comfortable around him, feeling no pressure to share about your life, have him pry and demand to know things.

But nothing lasts forever.

You didn’t really understand, but he had been framed for a kill, and he disappeared. You tried to follow and help, by now you cared a lot about him. Things crumbled down, fight after fight, running and hiding, nothing but an endless cycle of pure survival. Not really living at all.

Several years later, he found you again. He seemed better than before, he cut his hair and appeared to ask for your help in stopping some people who were trying to spread the serum that made super soldiers. Or, that’s what you thought it was, you weren't really sure, just glad to see a familiar face you could trust.

That’s when you met John.

An insufferable combination of arrogance and irritating self-importance.

You did what you could to help them, but honestly, you didn’t want to be involved. You’d rather be left alone, trying to figure your own life out.

Once that mess was settled, it was your turn to disappear. You wouldn’t resurface until Bucky found you once again, this time demanding for you to help him.

The nerve on him.

That’s when you were dragged into the so called Thunderbolts. Reuniting with John was…what you expected. After hearing his voice for the first time in years, you were already done with him. He acted like he was god's gift to earth, something you didn't miss one bit.

New faces, ones you initially didn’t care about. You only cared to complete whatever the mission was so you could be alone again, but ironically, you stuck around. Forced to maintain your role as Valentina blatantly announced to the world your role. Part of you actually liked being part of the team, as much as your independence screamed at you to leave. But even living with a group of misfits, you still felt…out of place.

You felt like you were sharing space with people who were more bonded than you - a group of idiots, you think with affection - so you naturally held back on a lot of things. Missions, group activities, training - you did things on your own instead, not wanting to feel pressure to keep up with individuals who were better adapt than you.

The reality was that simply being accepted into a team didn't automatically provide you with a sense of purpose or belonging like most would think.

Your past came to surface when everyone's files were published, and naturally, everyone was nosey. You were an unwilling test subject to rogue scientists - former HYDRA researchers who, despite their claims of brief involvement, had clearly absorbed the organization's ruthless ways. Though they had officially severed ties with HYDRA by the time you were their subject, they had retained their knowledge and continued their experiments in secret. All the while, they were being pursued by interested parties.

Aka, they were wanted. By bad people.

Who? No idea, that wasn't your business. All you cared about was that the needles didn't inject you with anything fatal.

It was never fatal. It just burned.

You wished it would kill you, sometimes.

Besides your own story, everyone in the tower had a tragic past, you weren’t special and you were fine with that. You never felt comfortable discussing or comparing - it felt disrespectful to measure one person's pain against another's - but there was an unspoken understanding, a weird comfort in knowing that everyone around you carried their own emotional scars. It made you feel less isolated, less like an anomaly in a world of perfect people.

And as far from perfect as you were, you found yourself doing more reckless things lately.

A rough mission with John and Yelena brought your tendencies to the surface - infiltrate an old OXE base that Val kept hidden from all of you in the small hope that she would be able to salvage old research for her projects. Fortunately, that wouldn't be a possibility. You weren't thrilled to do something that would help Val's reputation, but it's not like you had a choice.

While you were surrounded by operatives, you didn't hesitate for a moment before bursting into that room filled with armed guards. Your combat expertise gave you a certain confidence, and your extensive, forced training wired with HYDRA's methods meant you could efficiently neutralize multiple opponents. It didn’t matter if you were outnumbered.

Hand to hand combat was as easy for you as ballroom dancing was for a ballerina.

The injuries that marred you wounded your pride far more than they did your flesh. Each new scar felt like a failure, an imperfection that you couldn't accept, especially when the wounds were as severe as these. But part of you liked it, part of you liked the feeling of pain, that sick and twisted part of your brain that had been rotted when you were a captive.

Wayward bullets found their mark on your flesh, silver blades left their bright red trails, and dark bruises bloomed across your skin like a sore garden. You absorbed every hit, every injury, taking the full force of combat onto yourself.

The aftermath was always the same.

John...god you hated John. He would launch into a tirade, always making point to mention his military background, talking down at you like an insubordinate soldier, focusing on your disregard for protocol and how you had become a liability. He always made you feel small, and it pissed you off. You didn't like working with him during the Flag Smashers, and you still didn't.

"Would you shut up already, Walker? I got it done didn't I? Infiltrate, exterminate, it's done. You didn't even have to do anything." You snapped after hearing enough of him, the frustration building and beginning to spill out. The tension between you had been mounting for hours, and your patience had finally worn thin. The blond glared at you with intense disapproval, his eyes narrowing as you watched his lip curl upward in that familiar way, a clear sign he was trying with considerable effort not to fully snap at you.

His deeply ingrained need for control and leadership whenever it was just the three of you really began to rise to the surface at moments like these, especially when dealing with someone like you - someone who didn't listen to anyone. Ever.

"You could've died in there! Then what? It would ruin our reputation and reveal everything Val is trying to keep secret. If the world sees us doing shadowy missions for her then our entire rebrand would go to shit." John’s way of saying his new reputation would be ruined. He spoke to you as if you were stupid or worthless, his tone dripping with condescension and barely contained anger.

"I didn't." You grumbled out, tired of hearing his voice continue to berate you despite the mission's success. Your response was short, a refusal to engage further in his attempted power play. The way he raised his voice when agitated reminded you of things from your past you'd rather forget.

"Okay, okay, enough. Let's just stop before either of you say something you will regret later. I do not feel like listening to either of you on the ride back." Yelena mediated the two of you, her hands coming up to hover in front of your chests as a physical barrier. Her expression looked exhausted and you didn’t blame her for it – she'd seen this scenario play out between you too many times before.

John wouldn't strike you, but you didn't know that. The serum amplified everything in his core personality, magnifying both strengths and weaknesses, and John was a very angry man. It boiled beneath his skin like molten lava, unrelenting rage stemming from past failures, personal losses, and years of mistreatment that had shaped him into the volatile person he'd become. The serum only made it all feel more overwhelming for him, intensifying emotions that were already difficult to manage, and he was known for having bouts of uncontrollable violence when pushed too far.

"Let's go before anyone else shows up." Yelena added after no one else spoke, her voice cutting through the heavy silence that had fallen over. She was ready to get out of there, and probably get away from you too.

The trip back to the tower passed in a hazy, exhausted blur. Your mind focused solely on the desire to shower and wash away the layers of dried blood and sweat that caked uncomfortably against your skin and underneath your dark uniform. So upon landing in the hanger, you practically sprinted toward your quarters once you arrived at the tower, rushing through the hallways until you finally reached the welcome sight of your own door.

The familiar, comforting atmosphere of your personal space washed over you immediately upon entry, helping to gradually ease the tension from your physical and emotional state. You could feel the characteristic tingling sensation of electricity dancing across your fingertips - a clear warning sign of your unstable powers.

Unstable being a sensitive word for you.

Yet you heard it daily from your teammates.

Your electrokinetic abilities had always been tied to your emotions, the raw energy proving especially difficult to control given your naturally volatile temperament and tendency toward intense emotional responses.

Your chest rose and fell with several long breaths as you allowed yourself to focus on the soothing traces of lavender that permeated the air from your ridiculous collection of scented products and aromatherapy items. The scent worked its magic, gradually helping to center your thoughts. You were drawn to them when nothing else worked to relax you, clinging to the hope you'd be able to control yourself when you were freshly new with powers. The surges you released were deadly, you couldn't even touch anyone. Lavender had been the only thing to help, a stupid herb you were always desperate to have.

As your mind began to clear and the last remnants of adrenaline faded from your system, you became aware of every ache and injury - you groaned in discomfort as you realized that you still needed to endure a shower and get proper medical attention before you could finally surrender to the sleep your body desperately craved.

All you wanted to do was collapse in your bed.

The image of your teammates flashed in your mind, their disapproving looks plastered on your memory. You would never give John or Yelena the satisfaction of thinking you had any regret about your impulsive actions during the mission. After all, regardless of how reckless your methods might have been, you had succeeded.

That was the important thing. Why couldn’t they just understand that?

The shower was uncomfortable. You could barely wash properly but like hell you were going to ask Yelena for help. Ava would just tattle to Yelena and you'd get another earful so...there was no one to help you without risking the leak of your difficulty.

There was a nasty, jagged cut stretching across your ribs and extending down to your lower back, positioned in such an awkward location that you could barely reach it without causing fresh blood to ooze out with the slightest additional pressure. The wound throbbed like it had its own heartbeat, making you feel dizzy. One of your palms had been sliced open - you blocked a blade from coming down across your face with your hand instead of just dodging the attack - an awkward and annoying spot to have a gash.

After you got out of the hot shower, you reluctantly put on a pair of sleep shorts, they were really all you could wear until your cuts were properly sealed. You bitterly cursed yourself under your breath, glancing with frustration at the heavily fogged mirror. Through the patchy condensation, you could only make out the angry red lacerations that stood out amongst the darker blemishes and bruises that had already begun to mottle your skin.

You couldn't believe part of you liked it. Some part of your brain craved the sting and throb, the burn and ache of it all. Maybe it was because pain was the most familiar thing to you.

You grit your teeth as your hands moved under the sink, grabbing the well-worn first aid kit that was tucked away in the far corner. You hastily unzipped the weathered kit and laid out all the sterile gauze alongside a small, clean hand towel on the countertop. The light-colored towel would need to be thrown out when you were finished but...with pain radiating through your body, you didn't care about the fate of one insignificant towel.

It’s not like Valentina can’t just fund more. Sometimes, you use and throw things out on purpose just to irritate her.

The antiseptic bottle glared at you menacingly from the bathroom counter, your trembling fingers grasping the damned thing as you glared right back. You had always hated antiseptic solution. The pungent medicinal smell, the innocent clear liquid that promised nothing but searing, white-hot pain upon contact with broken skin. It always hurt more than the actual injury…cruel irony.

You angled the plastic bottle over your side, taking a deep breath to steady yourself as you prepared for the inevitable sting. The bathroom light reflected off the clear liquid as it edged on the cap, just about to pour the acidic solution over your open wound when a voice suddenly startled you from your concentrated task.

"You're not supposed to put that on an open wound." John's familiar and irritating voice cut through the silence of your room, causing you to stiffen at the unexpected intrusion.

You dropped the bottle in favor to cover your breasts, not bothering to hide the grimace as the cut across your ribs stretched painfully against the sudden movement. The sting radiated outward in sharp pulses that only intensified your frustration. "What the fuck are you doing," You snapped, hostility lacing your tone as you fully faced him. Your posture immediately shifted to defensive and you suddenly began to feel more cornered than you actually were, backed against the bathroom counter with your vulnerability on full display to a man you never wanted to appear vulnerable to.

Of all the people in the tower, John was the one to make his way into your room. Yelena or Ava would be fine, their presence welcome and understanding in this situation. Hell, you'd take Bucky's scolding first, his stern but caring approach something you could at least tolerate. You were sure Bob wouldn't know what to do but hold the towel as you drug a needle through your own flesh, his awkward and somewhat unsteady assistance better than nothing. It at least came from a place of genuine concern.

But John? Just your luck. The one person whose presence set your teeth on edge and made everything feel twice as difficult.

"It says so on the bottle, you can't put that on an open wound, especially not a lac like that." John pointed toward the antiseptic that was now on the floor, his voice was mundane and held an heir of obviousness. His eyes remained focused on your injury, though that hardly made the situation less uncomfortable.

"Go away! I've done this dozens of times." You snapped again, wanting him to leave before the situation became even more mortifying. You tried desperately to think about anything besides the fact that you were completely topless. What made it feel worse is that he wasn’t even phased by it, he just stood there, more attention on your injuries than your arm over your chest. He just stepped closer with that infuriating confidence, and in return you stepped back until the cold edge of the counter pressed against your spine.

"You need to use a mild soap and warm water to clean a lac like that. Antiseptic interrupts the healing and the chemicals can cause tissue damage." He continued with that know-it-all tone, looking at your sink and seeing a plain bar of soap sitting in its dish. "That will work better," he added, reaching past you to retrieve it, invading your personal space even further.

Panic seized your mind with his proximity, an overwhelming wave of fear washing through your body like ice water when you saw his arm raise. You felt like you were blacking out, the edges of your vision growing dark and fuzzy as sounds began to echo in your ears. Your breath caught in your throat as your hands instinctively pressed against his chest with surprising force, desperately trying to shove him back and away from you.

He barely moved.

Actually, you don't think he moved at all - his solid frame remaining as unmovable as a stone wall against your push, which only heightened your sense of vulnerability in that moment.

But, sensing your desperation for space, he quietly stepped back to give it to you, though not like you noticed much as your mind began to race with chaotic thoughts and fragmented memories. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears like a war drum as you tried to regain your composure.

He quirked a brow, his expression shifting from concern to something more clinical and detached. "I've handled first aid in the military on dozens of soldiers, man and woman. This isn't weird for me," he stated, his voice level and still just as irritating as usual. He tried to explain, since he thought you were freaked out by the fact you were half naked, misinterpreting your reaction as simple modesty or embarrassment, but the raw, unfiltered panic was clear on your face when he got close.

"It's weird for me!" You spat, the words coming out sharper than you intended, laced with a defensive edge. You kept yourself pressed firmly against the counter, your knuckles white from gripping the edge, as if you were trying to push through the solid surface to disappear entirely. The cool porcelain against your back provided your only anchor to reality as you fought to control your breathing. He tilted his head, watching you for a moment with an unreadable expression, his eyes cataloging your reaction, and he bent down to pick up the peroxide bottle from the floor where it had been dropped. He didn’t seem to mind that his sock was soaked in it.

"Alright, fine," He relented, his tone softer now. He closed the cap of the bottle with a click so it couldn't spill anymore, the small sound louder than normal in your ears. He set it on the counter, just inches beside you, careful not to make any sudden movements that might trigger another reaction. "Just saying, this won't help you," John turned to leave, his shoulders slightly hunched as he exited your bathroom.

You still heard him in your bedroom, his heavy footfalls marking his path as he made his way to your door, giving you the space you so desperately needed. You grabbed the bottle and flicked the cap open again, ignoring his warning. The sharp scent of peroxide filling your nostrils once again as it insulted you. At the sound, his footsteps paused somewhere beyond the bathroom doorway, then came back towards you.

"God, you're just helpless aren't you?" John grunted and took the bottle from your hands, his weathered fingers brushing against yours momentarily. "I told you this won't help." His voice grew more stern, taking on that familiar authoritative tone as he poured the bottle down the drain, the harsh chemical disappearing slowly through the narrow cap. "No wonder you're always so grumpy. This is what you put on everything..."

"I can handle myself!" You tried to stop him, lunging forward with what little strength you had left, but your weakened state was pathetic compared to his unscathed body. Your muscles trembled with the effort, and you could feel fresh blood seeping through the still untreated wound on your torso.

"Like hell you can. Look at you. You're more blood than person right now." He muttered as he grabbed your shoulders and spun you so he could look at your ribs again, his calloused hands surprisingly gentle despite the firmness of his grip. The bathroom light cast harsh shadows across your injuries, making them look even worse than they felt – and they felt pretty damn terrible.

You tensed as he touched you, every muscle in your body going rigid, reacting before you could think. "Don't touch me! Get away!" The rawness in your voice ripped through your throat like sandpaper, leaving behind a burning sensation as you forced yourself away from his touch. The sudden movement sent pain shooting through your side, and you almost slipped on the puddle of spilled peroxide on the floor. John grabbed your forearm and prevented you from smacking your face on the bathroom tile, his reflexes too fast for your own.

"Sit down. I'm not giving you a choice anymore." He was firm, and you knew by that tone that he wouldn't leave until he felt like it. As much as every bone in your body wanted to be defiant and challenge him, your exhaustion betrayed you. You slumped down and you sat on the toilet seat, arm still covering your chest as your other held the counter for support.

The room seemed to tilt slightly as you settled, the harsh light amplifying the pallor of your skin. Even sitting, you felt like you would pass out - blood loss or exhaustion. Or both. The throbbing pain pulsed with each heartbeat, your powers stressed and surging beneath your skin like static.

He shuffled through your first aid kit, looking at each item before setting it aside. It seemed like everything was in there because he made no backhanded comment about what you had. The soft clinks of metal instruments against plastic filled the quiet bathroom, you managed to swallow and speak through the haze. "Why did you even come in here..." You muttered, your voice slightly slurred.

You watched him through half-lidded eyes, his hair was messier than usual, falling in unruly waves rather than his typical controlled style. He was probably freshly showered like you too. Loose pieces fell over his forehead, creating soft shadows across his furrowed brow. He wore an old army shirt that was somewhat loose around the torso but hugged his biceps and highlighted years of training. Relaxed joggers hung low on his hips, exposing a peak of the navy blue boxers snugly fit beneath them.

It was weird seeing John out of his uniform, or even just compression clothes he wore to work out or train in. The domestic version felt out of place, like seeing a tiger lounging on a living room couch. Seeing John in this setting was almost disturbing, a glimpse into a side of him that existed beyond the boundaries you maintained.

"Because I knew you were hurt. You left your seat on the jet completely soaked, but you ran off before any of us could comment." His voice was matter-of-fact, practical in a way that somehow made your defenses rise even further. "I knew you were going to try to tend to yourself, and normally I wouldn't try to come in here like this. But the amount left behind, I knew you were more hurt than you would let on." John turned to you, bar of soap in hand, he gestured to your ribs with it. "It will be easier to wash that if you get in the tub."

"Go to hell." You grumbled, the words coming out with less heat than you intended. Your head felt increasingly heavy on your shoulders as you fought to maintain consciousness. "I'm not getting naked just so you can wash the cut." The thought alone made your cheeks feel hot despite your pallor, embarrassment temporarily overriding pain.

"That is not what I said at all." He replied with narrowed eyes, a flash of exasperation crossing his features as he moved closer. "I said get in the tub so the water doesn't get on the floor. You don't have to take your shorts off." His tone softened slightly at the end, watching your head lull slightly. “I’ll be quick.”

Your desperate longing for the comfort of your bed compelled you to give in. You managed to stand up, though your legs trembled violently beneath you, feeling like jello with each step you took toward the bathtub. The effort required to simply move across the short distance was almost overwhelming, but somehow you forced yourself to continue, wincing with every movement.

John noticed your struggle and moved to assist, reaching for the shower-head and turning on the faucet. He held his hand beneath the stream, patiently waiting as the initially cold water gradually warmed to a comfortable lukewarm temperature. "Try not to move," he instructed, "I'm just going to let the water run directly over the wound and then use some soap to thoroughly clean it out."

"Fine...just please hurry up. I feel like I'm about to pass out at any second." You barely managed to respond, your voice weak and strained as you leaned your weight against the cool tile wall of the shower for support so your legs wouldn’t buckle beneath you. He set to work, the lukewarm water cascaded over your ribs, rivulets streamed across the angry laceration, washing away the blood and debris you failed to get in your previous attempt.

You watched with a strange detachment as crimson tendrils swirled down the drain, the steady stream of water slowly revealing the true extent of the wound beneath. John lathered the bar of soap between his hands until a rich foam formed, then applied it around the perimeter of the cut, careful not to touch the open wound directly.

You flinched when he touched you, but forced your body to remain still. He didn’t comment, he just waited before he touched you again and continued when you didn’t flinch a second time. He allowed the soap suds to flow into the laceration, providing the cleaning it needed without the pain that direct contact would have caused.

Once he had cleaned the wound, John reached for a clean towel and used it to dab the area dry with light touches wouldn’t further irritate the injury. "Here, take this and apply pressure to the wound," he instructed, his voice dropping to a murmur as he handed you the towel. "I'll go find you some new shorts to replace these wet ones."

You nodded, "Bottom dresser drawer," you managed to direct him, your voice slightly stronger now that the immediate pain had somewhat subsided.

John disappeared briefly into the bedroom, returning moments later with the requested garment clutched in his hand. "Let me help you take those off and put these on, I can -"

"No, for god's sake...I'm perfectly capable of putting on my own shorts," you interrupted, a flash of your usual independent spirit breaking through the haze of exhaustion, your voice tinged with annoyance at the suggestion that he dress you.

"Not without risking reopening that wound and making it bleed all over again," he countered firmly, pointing directly at the freshly cleaned laceration with obvious concern. "Just let me help you. I promise I won't look at anything I shouldn't," he added, his tone softening slightly in an attempt to make the situation less awkward for both of you. “Like I said, I’ve done all sorts of stuff like this when I was in Iran -”

"Okay, okay, fine…” You exasperated, “You're so weird about this stuff," you groaned softly with resignation, but ultimately complied with his request. You allowed the wet shorts to fall unceremoniously around your ankles, then hastily attempted to dry yourself with the corner of the towel that wasn't pressed against your wound. You couldn't help but feel humiliated, being dressed like a helpless toddler simply because he was overly concerned about your bleeding.

You were already bleeding, and his insistence on helping seemed excessive and unnecessary. You couldn't understand why he was being so adamant about helping with such a simple task, or at all, since you two fought like a snake and mongoose. You assumed he would find a way to bring this up again, probably using it to tease you or prove some point about being right about your behavior. That is what irked you more than anything.

You tried to ignore the blend of evergreen and cedarwood that enveloped your senses as he moved closer, his careful hands helping you step into your shorts. Why did he have to smell so good? Why did you find yourself enjoying it so much? Fighting against the conflicting urge to both lean into and shove him away, you reluctantly used his sturdy shoulders to steady yourself while awkwardly stepping into your shorts.

His hands were gentle but efficient as he pulled them up for you, and once they were securely in place, he moved back to create distance between you. "Are you going to sit still while I suture it?" He asked directly, making eye contact with you. "Because I will hold you down if necessary."

Why did his eyes have to be so goddamn blue? Like the clearest summer sky reflected in mountain water.

Why were they so pretty that you couldn't look away?

"Yes," the grumbled word escaping through barely parted lips, your fingers still instinctively gripping his forearms for much-needed support, feeling the solid muscle beneath your fingertips. His skin was warm to the touch, it felt nice on your palms.

He had you carefully lay down on a clean towel he'd positioned for you. You maintained a protective arm across your chest as he knelt beside you with the needle and surgical thread. He peeled away the blood-soaked towel, examining the wound with scrutiny.

"You know how serious this is? How serious it could be? Any deeper and it would've punctured into your lung cavity. The angle they attacked you from could've easily allowed the blade to slide between your ribs and puncture straight through to your lung and you would’ve suffocated." His assessment came without emotion as he carefully positioned his index finger and thumb around the edges of the gash, applying just enough pressure to bring the torn flesh closer together, narrowing the wound's opening in preparation for the first stitch.

You felt pressure, then a distinct tug, the sensation traveling across your skin like a whisper of discomfort.

You didn't like it, but it wasn't extremely painful as you had initially anticipated. More so just an uncomfortable sensation that lingered beneath your awareness, the fact that the wound itself was throbbing with each beat of your heart provided significantly more pain than the actual stitches being sewn.

John worked with quiet concentration, his calloused hands moving a gentle way you never could’ve expected. He didn't bother making small talk, clearly noticing that you were just on the verge of passing out, your consciousness wavering like a flame in the wind. But your lingering anxiety from being half naked in front of him prevented your body from allowing you to pass out.

Before you knew it, he finished with the wound on your side, using the fresh gauze he set out earlier and medical tape to secure the protective covering over the neat row of sutures. He helped you sit up into a slumped position, "Hey, hey come on...stay with me." He muttered calmly, his hand coming up to gently tilt your head to assess your alertness. "Just a little bit more, come on. I know you can do it. You're stubborn as all hell, just a few more minutes." His words carried a hint of encouragement that seemed almost foreign coming from him.

John took your wrist, eyeing the jagged cut that stretched across your palm. "This is going to feel weird.” He used the small soap dish to fill with water, the soap that clung to the dish mixing to make the cleanser he needed. Then, he gently dabbed the wound with soapy mix before he started to drag the needle through the parted flesh. The thread followed obediently, helping to pull your skin together with each stitch. You took in a shaky breath that rattled in your chest, and without meaning to, your head fell forward heavily against his shoulder, seeking stability in your dizzy state.

He didn't sit you up or correct your position, allowing you this small comfort. He wasn’t sure why it made his chest flutter, either. "Come on, stay up for me..." His voice reverberated through his chest, the vibration traveling through to your forehead where it rested against him. Your face scrunched up as each puncture of the needle felt like a sharp sting, the persistent tugging of thread through your flesh made waves of nausea roll through your stomach.

Somehow, through stubborn refusal lingering behind your vulnerability, you managed to stay awake through the entire ordeal. Though your consciousness remained a fragile thing, threatening to slip away with every second.

When he was finally done with the needle, he wrapped up your hand. The soft gauze felt comforting against the sting and rhythmic throb of your wounded palm. He secured it all again with medical tape, ensuring it would stay in place, and then gently pulled your head from its resting place on his shoulder to get a proper look at you. His eyes scanned your face with an intensity that felt almost like concern. "Jesus...you look like shit," he spoke under his breath, the words lacking their usual sharpness. “Come on, I’ll help you to bed.”

When your legs refused to obey, he swiftly hooked his arm behind your knees and carried you. Your body instinctively curled against his chest like it were the most natural thing in the world, finding unexpected comfort in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the warmth radiating through his shirt. He pretended not to notice this unconscious gesture, and you likewise feigned ignorance, mentally attributing your uncharacteristic behavior to your weakened, possibly delirious state.

He laid you in bed, pulling the sheets back with one hand while supporting your weight, then covering you with the soft cotton blanket once you were settled. Your mind raced wildly, confusion and underlying anger taking over your thoughts. Why was he, of all people – the very person whose presence typically irritated you to no end – now here helping you when you were most vulnerable and why were you letting him?

Why him specifically, out of all the teammates you had developed actual friendships with over the months? Why did he take it upon himself to come in unannounced, and why was he so insistent on helping you when you'd barely exchanged civil words before today?

You wanted to voice these questions aloud when your stomach betrayed you by growling loudly, the embarrassing sound cutting through the silence of the room. He paused mid-motion, his eyes traveling slowly from your face down to your belly, his expression shifting subtly. "...did you even eat anything today?" John asked, his normally gruff voice was softer now, no longer tinged with that signature growl.

Your mouth opened to respond, perhaps with some defensive retort, but nothing came out – no words, no excuses, no explanation for your self neglect. He shook his head disapprovingly, the gesture somehow lacking its usual judgment. "Figures...I'll be back. Don't pass out while I'm gone," he all but ordered as he left your bedroom, his footsteps fading down the hallway.

You took the moment of isolation to think about what just happened, realizing that your feelings toward him were different than normal. It felt strange, why his presence suddenly felt comforting rather than aggravating, why you enjoyed his attention and concern when you'd previously gone out of your way to avoid it. The contradictory nature confused you, leaving you staring at the ceiling.

John returned within five minutes, carrying something carefully cradled in his large hand. He approached your bed, you could see he held two perfectly ripe fuzzy fruits, their skin a gradient of soft sunset red ombres transitioning to a golden orange at the bottom, each featuring a characteristic cleft running down one side. "Got these last week when I went to Georgia to visit my grandmother. They're fresh, perfectly ripe, and ridiculously juicy," he explained, his voice carrying an unusual hint of enthusiasm. “Georgia peaches are the best. Trust me.”

He sat on the edge of your bed as if he had done it a hundred times before, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight as he reached into his pocket for a well-worn pocket knife he had clipped to his heather-gray joggers. He flicked it open, the blade catching the light from the bedside lamp as he began to carefully cut perfect slices of the fragrant peaches.

You loved peaches.

And you were so hungry there was no way you were going to deny fresh ones straight from Georgia.

You took a slice, biting it and chewing slowly, savoring the moment as the sweet, fragrant juice filled your mouth and cascaded lovingly over your taste buds. The perfectly ripened fruit was so sweet, its nectar oozing with each careful bite, the tender flesh practically melting against your tongue as you experienced its sun-kissed sweetness. It was delicious beyond words, unlike anything you'd tasted before.

A soft, appreciative moan involuntarily left your mouth, causing John to look over in your direction and give a small, knowing smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Told you," he said with just a hint of pride in his voice, clearly pleased by your obvious enjoyment.

"I didn't doubt you..." You muttered with a slight shake of your head, already feeling a renewed sense of energy flowing through you from the small bite you had taken. The fruit's natural sugars seemed to work their magic, revitalizing your tired body enough to allow you to speak again. You held your hand out toward him, silently asking for another slice. Instead of quipping at you, or making some kind of teasing comment about asking nicely as he might normally do, he silently acknowledged your request and carefully cut another piece from the ripe fruit, handing it to you.

"Growing up, my mom would make all sorts of things with peaches from our backyard tree. Cobbler and crumble with a golden brown crust, homemade jams and jellies that we'd store in the cellar for winter, she even made infused sweet tea with peach slices she gave us on hot summer afternoons," he recollected, his voice taking on a softer quality as memories of his childhood washed over him, the distinctive taste of the fruit clearly nostalgic to him.

"Might try to replicate some of her recipes sometime soon, if I can handle everyone's teasing about my kitchen adventures." He paused before looking back at you as you continued to eat the juicy slices he patiently fed you, one after another. His eyes met yours, "Think I can handle it? The cooking and the teasing?" He asked with a hint of playfulness in his voice.

You listened attentively, savoring each bite of fruit while allowing his voice to wash over you like a gentle stream. His voice now felt comforting, his steady tone creating a sense of calm you hadn't felt in some time. As you finished the last piece and watched him collect the remnants - nothing remaining but two pits resting in his upturned palm - he shifted his weight forward, preparing to stand and leave you to rest and recover in solitude.

Something inside you suddenly protested at the thought of being alone again. Before you could fully process what you were doing, your uninjured hand darted out and wrapped firmly around his wrist, surprising both of you with the urgency of the gesture. "Wait..." The word escaped your lips as a gentle, yet unsure plea.

He halted, his body half-risen from his seated position as he turned to look back down at you. His eyebrows drew together with curiosity, creating faint lines across his forehead. Your unexpected behavior clearly caught him off guard, the confusion in his eyes mirroring your own internal surprise. "Yeah? What?" he asked, his voice dropping to a softer register as he studied your face. "Need some painkillers? I forgot to look in your bathroom. But I can grab you some."

"No." You mumbled, heat rising to your cheeks as embarrassment settled in at having to voice your request aloud. Your fingers loosened slightly around his wrist but didn't release completely. "Can you just...stay and talk to me for a while longer? I don't know why..." You paused, searching for the right words to explain the calm his presence seemed to bring instead of raising your negative emotions. "But I feel less stressed out right now when you're talking. Your voice somehow makes everything quieter in my head."

His eyebrows rose slightly as he processed your admission. For a moment, you feared he might decline or make some excuse to leave, but instead, he gave you a small but genuine nod. "Sure," he agreed easily, settling back into his previous position. "Not a problem. But let me toss these pits and wash my hands first. Don't want them to get all sticky and make a mess of your things."

John extricated himself from your grasp and crossed to your bathroom. You listened as water rushed from the faucet, ran for several seconds, then shut off with a small squeak of the handle. He returned to your bedside moments later and lowered himself once more, adjusting his position to get comfortable for what might be an extended stay. By no means did he expect to sleep over, but he did sit more comfortably next to you.

You turned, elevating the pain on your wounded side and laying on his chest, just barely - but enough. He didn’t move, didn’t shove you off, instead he stayed still and let his arm come behind you to support your body so you didn’t roll away and potentially hurt your stitching. His thumb brushed the bandages, the sore flesh beneath throbbed but you trusted him. In this moment, you trusted John.

"How about I tell you about when I got caught stealing from an orchard as a kid?" he offered with a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, his eyes carefully watching your reaction to gauge your interest. "It's funny, I promise. One of those childhood stories that's embarrassing enough to be entertaining."

You responded with a soft nod, feeling the heaviness of exhaustion pressing down on you despite your desire to remain awake. His voice seemed to be the only thing keeping you tethered. "Okay, so, I was about seven years old at the time," he began, settling into the rhythm of storytelling. "We lived in this small town near a large orchard that supplied most of the local area with fresh fruits throughout the season. My mom bought from there regularly, but the farmer charged quite a premium since everything was home grown and organic before that was even a marketing term." He chuckled softly at the memory, his hand rubbing up and down your back and side idly.

"My mom complained about the prices getting higher every season, saying something about highway robbery for a simple bag of peaches. So naturally, being the helpful child I was, I decided to take matters into my own hands and solve her problem..."

As John continued, his voice began to grow more distant and dreamlike to your ears. The cadence of his words formed a soothing pattern that lulled you deeper toward sleep. You slipped away like sand through loosely clasped fingers, but unlike previous nights, there was no fight against it.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the constant, uncomfortable surge of electricity that pulsed just beneath your skin was completely silenced.

The familiar, overwhelming chorus of anxiety and paranoia that typically screamed through your thoughts had quieted to nothing more than a whisper before disappearing in exchange for John’s voice.

For once, you were surrounded by the gentle rhythm of his continued story and the warm presence of someone who asked for nothing in return.

For once, you felt safe.

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑰𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝑷𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎.

[frothy-tart]

lessons in lovemaking [part five]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fingering, kissing, making out, kitchen sex/foreplay???, reader guiding bucky, praise, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, stake-out mission, wow! they're actually doing their jobs this chapter!!, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey not doing good, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, gif does not represent reader's appearance, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 13.9k

A/N: it's finally here! this was... a fucking beast to write. only took a month of agony. this got so, so long, i ended up cutting an entire scene near the start so hopefully it doesn't jump around too much. let me know if you enjoy! on a more personal note, just wanted to give you all an update. i had put a few posts mentioning how i've been very unwell mentally and physically. it's made it really hard for me to write while also studying full time. but um yeah basically i was diagnosed with a?? kinda scary?? chronic disease lol?? which explains why i've spent the last 6 years of my life exhausted and feeling awful, and turns out my depression/anxiety is likely a result of this. but yeah, after all these years of dismissal and misdiagnosis, i know what's wrong so i'm getting medicated for it. i'm hoping it gives me a big energy boost to juggle uni and my hobbies (like writing) more efficiently. anyway, this authors note is so long, if you have any questions or thoughts on this chapter, reblog or send me an ask! thank you all so much. as always, sorry for any typos!

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Bucky didn’t respond at first.

His jaw ticked, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. From the way he shifted, feet planting wider, shoulders drawing back just enough that you almost suspected he was bracing. Not for a conversation, but for a hit. As if he expected you to launch across the balcony, heels and all, and pummel your fist directly into his face. 

As absurd as it was, it almost didn’t surprise you. You’d become strangely used to his defensive reactions, the expectation of raised voices and violence, the way he always prepared his body for pain, like he expected even you to punish him.

And maybe the worst part was that deep down, he thought he deserved it.

Maybe you could’ve hit him. Pounded against his chest or disarmed him with words, if nothing else. You could’ve demanded, snarled questions as to why you were some secret mistake he didn’t dare let anyone see. Why are you ashamed to be around me? Why are you embarrassed?

Do you even care about me?

Do you care about me in the same way I care about you?

The ache in your chest flared thinking about it. Deep down, you knew the answer. 

So, you held yourself back. Quiet, still, observing. Not because you weren’t angry, not because you weren’t hurting, but because you had become disturbingly good at packing that raw pain into tidy boxes and sealing them away. 

Bucky adjusted the wrist of his leather glove, tugging it tight like it gave his hands something to do other than shake. You lifted your chin.

“Alright.” He spoke finally, voice a little hoarse, and for a split second, you wondered if he had been crying. “Talking… that’s usually where the trouble starts, isn’t it?”

His attempt to be light-hearted, to gauge your reaction, was short-lived. You met him with silence, exhaling slowly from your nose as you looked him up and down. He immediately folded, metaphorical throat bared as he met your gaze with his signature puppy-dog eyes.

For all your guilt, for the sadness and longing you had felt these past weeks, you still had enough self-respect to keep it together. You’d spent too many years of your life making excuses, compromises for those around you. For once, you would stick up for yourself, for once, you’d let someone other than yourself know you were hurting. You weren’t sure if that was a strength or a weakness. You were sick of being the one who met insults with sarcasm, tired of being the one who shouldered every blow and sting for the sake of others' comfort.

For once in your life, you would take the teeth you were born with and learn how to bite.

“You hurt me.” 

Bucky’s fidgeting stilled instantly, face taut, his eyes searching yours already wide with creeping dread. “I—”

“Let me finish.” You cut over him, and his mouth clamped shut.

“I know this…whatever it is between us is complicated. There isn’t exactly a rulebook for this stuff. I know it’s messy, I know we never defined anything, and maybe we should’ve talked more…” Your body shuddered as you sighed, hesitant as you decided on your slow wording. “But what I understood, what I thought we both understood, was that there was trust. If there wasn’t anything, there was always trust… and what you said, that broke it.”

You paused, trying to steady your voice. Bucky had gone deathly still across from you. You watched his expression crumble. Guilt bled into every crease on his face, each of your words weighing down on him.

“I know that I lied to you about Nat, and I’m sorry. I know I should’ve said something, but I was scared that you’d react badly. That you’d react in the way that you did. I’ve never pretended to be easy to be close with. I know that I can be guarded, cold, or distant but…” You hesitated, sucking in a sharp breath. 

The words burned behind your teeth.

“I always cared. I do care.” Your voice softened momentarily, despite the bile rising in your throat. “I gave you my time, my trust, I took you seriously, Bucky, I told you things I haven’t even really told anyone, not even myself, I—”

You crossed your arms over your chest, fingers digging into your sides. You could feel that stone in your gut, tears pressing just behind your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. You’d say your peace, lay it all out before him and see what he did with it.

“I get that you’re scared. I get that you feel shame, shame that you don’t quite understand. I understand that you have an instinct to protect yourself, to control how others see you because you’re afraid to push it too far, afraid to upset anyone…” The words tasted bitter, but they kept coming like a flood, hot and vile even as Bucky looked across at you like he was seconds away from crumpling to the floor. “But what you said was cruel. It hurt me. I just need you to understand that. I need you to understand that whatever it is we’ve been doing, friendship, lessons, whatever… It was never a joke to me.”

As you met his gaze directly, he flinched, jaw clenching so tightly that a muscle in his cheek twitched.

“You acted like I was beneath you, like you needed to downplay all that has happened for the sake of saving face. I understand you want to keep things private, I respect that, but a desire for privacy is very different to belittling me in front of Steve.”

Bucky’s shoulders slouched, his entire body shrinking in on itself. You half expected him to drop to his knees then and there from the way his eyes locked onto the balcony, too ashamed to meet your eye.

“I can be your secret, I can help you, but we are equals,” you muttered, quieter now. “I won’t chase after you, begging for scraps of decency. I’m not going to accept you pretending I’m invisible, that you’re disgusted by me the second someone important walks in the room.”

You looked away, breathing deeply through your nose as you willed the weight pressing on your chest to leave. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, god knows I am anything but that. I just need you to understand that I’m… I’m sick of making myself smaller just so other people can feel comfortable. I’m sick of the constant judgment, the way people don’t think I realise. I’m sick of all of it.”

When you finally looked up again, he looked like he had been punched in the gut. Not physically, but in that hollow, breathless way that left someone stunned and struggling to stand upright. Like every word you’d laid out between the two of you had knocked the air clean out of him.

His mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring past you without actually seeing. You could see it written across his face, the guilt, the lingering panic, the way his whole body trembled. It was the slight hitch with each inhale, the way his shoulders rolled tight beneath the strain of his suit jacket like he wanted to crawl out of it, crawl out of his own skin.

He was close. Too close, seconds away from spiralling into the kind of anxiety that devoured everything in its path.

So, you gave him space. Silent and steady, let him work his own way through it. 

The breeze stirred around you, catching a few strands of loose hair. They tickled against the nape of your neck. Below you could hear the hustle and bustle of the city nightlife, the chatter, the cars. The muffled sound of the party music just beyond the glass windows separating the balcony from the rest of the tower. 

Bucky’s chest rose, then held, then he released it slowly. You watched him, silent, as his eyes flicked around. One smell, two things he could feel, three things in his line of sight. Good. He was grounding himself.

You watched without interfering, letting him work and find his own rhythm. You could practically read his mind now, how the cogs turned, each minuscule mannerism telling you which step he was at. You’d coaxed him through enough of these moments to know the signs. And maybe there was something bittersweet about it, the fact that he was steady enough to guide himself, no longer dependent on the comfort of your voice to guide him through.

“You’re right,” Bucky said at last, the words rasping out like they had been lodged in his throat for hours. “You’re right, I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

His hands flexed at his sides, fists curling and releasing as if unsure of what to do with them. A flicker of movement crossed his face, a wince, maybe, and then he lifted his eyes.

“I was a coward.” He continued, voice hoarse. “I’ve been replaying it in my head every day since. Over and over and… thinking about you. About how I made you feel.”

He took a half-step forward, caught in the pull of wanting to close the gap. His foot faltered mid-air, stopping him. He planted it back on the ground, shoulders locked, as if he was worried you’d dash if he closed the distance between you.

“I should’ve apologised that day, the second it left my mouth,” he muttered, words almost lost to the breeze. “I should’ve followed you instead of hiding and hoping it would fix itself.”

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “And I know it’s not an excuse… I was just so afraid.. Afraid that I had fucked up so badly that I would lose you. Guess it didn’t matter in the end because I lost you anyway—”

“You didn’t lose me,” you cut in, firm but soft. “I’m right here.”

He blinked hard at that, as if he couldn’t believe what you were saying. His chest trembled as he dragged in a sharp inhale.

“I’m sorry.”

There. That was it, the moment you’d been waiting for, the thing you’d needed from the very beginning. Not grovelling, not guilt, not the sight of him unravelling, just understanding. You hadn’t wanted to watch him spiral or flinch beneath the weight of his own remorse. That was never the point. You only wanted to be seen. For him to see you, the ache you’d swallowed, the silence you’d worn like armour.

You weren’t the kind of person who held pain like a weapon, who dangled forgiveness just out of reach. But you were tired, bone-deep tired, of being stepped over, of shrinking yourself to keep the peace. Tired of wearing humour like a mask, sharp and dry, to cover the bruises he couldn’t see. All you’d wanted was for him to get it. And now… now he did.

All you ever wanted was for someone to listen to you. Truly listen. 

“Yeah?” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself. 

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry. I’m not embarrassed by you, if anything, I’m embarrassed about how I acted—”

“Bucky…”

“And don’t you dare say it’s okay,” he interrupted quickly, almost desperate. “Because it isn’t. I should never have said that, never have even thought that. After all you’ve done, after all the kindness and patience you’ve shown me, and I repay you by shaming you—”

“Repayment…” You cut over him, rolling the word slowly over your tongue, head shaking. “You don’t owe me anything, remember? That’s how it works with us, yeah?”

He exhaled hard. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Handle all this so gracefully…Have such a pure heart despite everything.”

“If I were to describe my heart,” you said with a dry little huff, “it would not be pure—”

“You’re killin’ me here—” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and for the first time in days, the edge of your mouth twitched into a smile. Sly, wicked, and entirely involuntary.

His gaze caught it instantly, and his breath stilled.

You took the initiative, closing the distance between you in a handful of steps, until his breath hitched slightly, his eyes locking onto your face.

“I am sorry.” He murmured, voice less desperate now. “Seriously. I don’t expect forgiveness, hell, I don’t want forgiveness unless you really mean it, and you’re not just saying it to spare my feelings—”

“Bucky—”

“No, don’t say it—!”

“Bucky.” You breathed his name. Your hands found the front of his tie, fingers curling around the black silk. You wondered if it was the same tie you had blindfolded him with, if he had subconsciously chosen it to feel closer to you. You nearly smirked at the thought, a warmth in your belly despite the surprised expression flooding his features. You tugged gently, and he didn’t resist. He leaned into the pull, breath catching again as you drew him in close, close enough for your foreheads to nearly touch, for your breath to ghost across his lips. “I forgive you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like the words had struck him physically. “I don’t know if I deserve you—”

“Bucky.” You hummed, almost scolding. “If I’m honest, I forgave you weeks ago.”

His eyes opened, a spark of confusion flickering.

“I was just… sabotaging myself,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Because that’s what I do when things get complicated. I cut people off, I burn bridges, I destroy my own life. I convinced myself that you hated me, because I lied to you about Nat.”

He quickly shook his head. “I could never hate you.”

And there it was.

You exhaled, something soft breaking inside you, not the kind that shattered and left shards punctured into your heart and lungs, but the type of crack that let the light in. Your hand slid from his tie to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. Beneath your palm, it thudded unevenly and wildly. 

“Stop looking at me like I’m not real,” you muttered.

“I’m not—”

You shook your head with a snicker, fingers tracing across his shirt to the lapels of his suit jacket. You tugged at it, and he stiffened in surprise, but didn’t stop you as you twisted around him, easing the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged it off wordlessly, leaning into your guidance, and you knew he was secretly relieved to be rid of the thing. 

“I know you hate these things,” you murmured, voice teasing. “Can’t move properly, too tight around your shoulder ‘cause Tony never gets them tailored right.”

Bucky blinked at you, lips parting slightly, some of the tension still lingering in his brows.

“You remembered that?”

“Of course,” you smiled faintly, smoothing the sleeve as you folded it over your arm. “You know, at this point I think I remember more about you than I do about myself.”

His lips curved at that. “Tell me something then?”

“Like what?”

“Something I don’t know about you. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

You blinked, caught off guard. For a long moment, you just stared at him, stunned into stillness. No one had ever asked you that before. Not really. Not with that quiet, open curiosity. Not like they actually wanted to hear the answer. People were always eager to talk, to fill the silence with their own stories and needs. But here he was, waiting, willing to listen.

It left you a little breathless.

There were still entire corners of your life shrouded in fog, moments you hadn’t unpacked, parts of yourself you hadn’t dared to explore. You’d spent so long watching others, peeling back their layers, learning what made them tick. It was instinctual how you kept yourself safe. Quietly observant, always listening, always careful. You didn’t mean to be secretive. It wasn’t some deliberate act of mystery. It just… never came up. No one had ever made space for you like that. No one had ever lingered long enough to want something beyond the surface.

Until now.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, gaze dropping. “I guess… I guess pick at my nails when I’m nervous?”

He let out a soft, almost fond huff of laughter. “Yeah, I picked up on that one months ago.”

“Shit. That obvious?” You glanced down at your hand, suddenly extra aware of the damage. The nailbeds were raw and uneven, the skin around them puffy and inflamed from restless fussing.

Then Bucky did something unexpected. He reached out, slow and careful, the soft creak of his leather gloves barely audible. His gloved fingers brushed against yours first, the cool and smooth material almost foreign in feeling. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he gently threaded his fingers between yours.

“Maybe a little,” he murmured with a quiet snort, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Without a word, he began to tug a glove off, leather resisting slightly before giving way. You swallowed and helped him, pinching the fingers and easing them free, and then repeated with the other side. 

His bare fingers closed gently around yours again, his palm warm and calloused. Your jaw snapped shut as he traced his thumb over the jagged cuticles in a comforting, rhythmic motion.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you breathed in, sharp and shallow, and shrugged in a small, embarrassed motion. “Well… I don’t know, then, I’m probably an insomniac who relies too heavily on coffee to get by.”

That earned a proper laugh from him, and warmth pooled in your belly like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

“You and me both,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

You hesitated then, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as your faint smile faltered. Your mind turned inward, digging past the surface, searching through the fog for something true, something buried a little deeper. Your brow furrowed as your gaze dropped again, fingers twitching faintly in Bucky’s grasp like they wanted to pull away but didn’t quite make it.

“I’m claustrophobic,” you admitted at last, so quietly you didn’t think he had heard you.

His laughter cut off mid-breath, a soft sound dying on his tongue. The stillness that followed was immediate. His hand stopped mid-motion, thumb frozen against your knuckles

You forced yourself to keep going. “I don’t like small spaces. Feeling… trapped. It’s why I never take the elevator. It’s why I… freaked out on you at training the other week.”

“I’m sorry—” he began, voice already thick with regret.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head quickly, eyes flicking away. “You didn’t know. It just… it just reminds me… reminds me of things I’ve tried to bury.”

His free hand rose then. You didn’t flinch as his fingers brushed your chin, tilting it upward with such deliberate tenderness that it made your breath catch. His touch was featherlight, and when your eyes met his, the air sucked out of your lungs.

“I understand.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry that I freaked out on you. I should’ve—”

“No.” His tone deepened, firm but gentle. “It’s okay. You don’t apologise to me for that. Ever.”

His voice was low now, so low it vibrated in his chest, a soft rumble that thrummed through the narrow space between your bodies. “You never have to apologise for setting boundaries.”

The words hit you square in the chest, like the impact of something you didn’t see coming. Your knees weakened, just slightly, and you gripped his wrist to steady yourself, though whether it was to anchor you or to keep from moving closer, you weren’t sure.

For a moment, everything else faded, the hum of the distant city life, the soft swish of the breeze, even the bass from the party. All that remained was him, warm, close and achingly sincere.

A part of you wanted to kiss him. Badly. The urge bloomed like heat in your chest, climbed up your throat, burned behind your lips. But then your gaze flicked, just briefly, to the giant pane of glass windows behind him, floor to ceiling, offering a clear view into the party beyond. You were almost certain Steve and Nat were watching from somewhere, probably with popcorn.

So instead, you smiled, small and almost rueful, and didn’t move. Didn’t lean in.

But he did.

His hand, still cupping your chin, shifted just slightly, tilting your face upward with a touch so gentle it barely registered as pressure at all. His eyes searched yours for a heartbeat longer, as though committing you to memory, as though asking are you sure? without even speaking a word.

And then his lips met yours.

Every nerve in your body buzzed, and his lips were warm and plush against yours. You could feel the way he held himself back, like he was afraid of falling too deep into hunger. 

His hand hovered at your waist, fingers brushing your side, hesitant to pull you closer unless you gave him a sign. The other remained at your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it in a gentle rhythm, anchoring you. His breath mingled with yours, sweet with the faintest trace of spearmint, his chest rising and falling unevenly against the few inches that still lingered between you.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes blinked open as though waking from something half-dreamed. A breath of laughter broke from your lips, soft and stunned, and you shook your head slightly. Still, you didn’t move far, fingers tangled loosely in his tie. “People could be watching, you know—”

You were beginning to think that none of it mattered anyway, not when he looked at you like that.

“Let them.”

You didn’t even flinch as he pressed in again, slow and exploratory, the faintest drag of his lower lip over yours, testing the shape of your mouth with a tenderness that sent a ripple down your spine.

But something in him had shifted, restraint thinned, weeks of built-up tension bleeding into a desperate need. 

His mouth moved with more certainty, lips parting yours just slightly, enough to deepen the kiss without taking too much. He coaxed rather than claimed, a subtle tilt of his head aligning you closer, a soft press of his tongue just barely tasting the seam of your mouth. 

Your fingers curled tighter back into the front of his tie, tugging him closer as that familiar rush of heat flooded your chest and belly. You responded, parting for him, letting him in, and the reward was a low, pleased hum from deep in his throat, vibrating through his chest and into yours.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, the slick warmth of his mouth lingering, his gaze was heavy-lidded, pupils dark, lips parted just slightly. A faint smear of your lipstick sat crookedly above his upper lip—evidence, as obvious as a lovebite

You blinked at him, lightheaded, dizzy in the best way, like the floor had dropped out from under you and all that held you upright was him. And then, to your own surprise, you giggled. Actually giggled, breathy and unguarded, a sound you hadn't heard from yourself in far too long.

“They’re going to be insufferable now, you know that?” you said, grinning against the glow that refused to leave your cheeks.

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Who?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Steve and Nat.”

“Because their little scheme worked?” He snorted. “Shit, you’re probably right.”

“I’m already bracing myself,” you muttered, mock-exasperated. “Nat gets this tone in her voice when she’s feeling particularly smug. It’s the worst, she doesn’t even try to hide it. Drives me crazy, I swear—”

“Sam knows too,” Bucky said, a little too casually, but his voice dipped just enough to betray him, quiet like he almost hoped you wouldn’t catch it.

Your smile faltered. “Oh?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly away. “Yeah… after the little, uh… slip-up in training, he knows everything now.”

“Everything?”

Bucky winced, shoulders hunching slightly. “Yeah. I may have told him and Steve the whole story.”

You gaped at him a moment, speechless, before you found the sense to speak up. “The full story… as in, lessons and everything?”

“Maybe…” He gave you a look so sheepish it bordered on boyish. “Do you wanna know what Sam said when he found out?”

You groaned, almost too afraid to ask. “What?”

“‘That sounds like an HR nightmare.’”

You broke into laughter, a real, bubbling laugh that rose out of you before you could stop it. “Shit. We’re in deep now.” 

He watched you, fondness etched into every line of his face. His expression had softened again, that rare, open version of him shining through. You pulled back enough to look up at him properly. His eyes were gentle, amused, but earnest—so goddamn earnest it made your chest ache. 

“I feel… good about this,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice struck you deep. It rasped low, his tone threaded with a sort of rough certainty that made your stomach flutter.  “For the first time in… I don’t know. I feel good.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide and a little dazed. Warmth bloomed steadily in your chest, curling beneath your ribs and climbing up your throat. It spread like honey through your limbs, soft and molten, loosening something inside you that had been wound tight for far too long.

“Careful, Bucky.”

“I’m tellin’ the truth, doll.” His hand brushed your arm, knuckles grazing like static, his eyes trailing down your body as if you were committing you to memory, curve by curve, inch by inch.

“Keep talking like that,” you murmured, “and I might kiss you again.”

His smile curled slowly, crooked and dangerous. “Oh yeah? Just kissing?”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drop to his mouth. “Maybe more… if you’re lucky.”

He laughed, a low, husky sound that vibrated through you. Then he took a single step closer. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, once, then again, just to see the way his expression shifted. Bucky let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, one hand snaking around your waist as he pulled you in again for just one more kiss.

—

After the disaster that had been the training session—where you and Bucky had gone so hard it probably qualified as attempted murder in at least three jurisdictions—Steve, Natasha, and Sam had clearly smashed their heads together and prayed they could cook up a plan to get you two talking again. The infamous balcony had been plan B, and to their endless delight (and your mutual dismay), it had actually worked. But that small victory left them scrambling, because now they had to try to cancel the other contingency plans they’d set in motion, like overexcited matchmakers who’d gone past their pay grade. 

God only knew how many schemes they’d cooked up. From your current predicament, it seemed they’d well and truly scraped the bottom of the barrel. Because here you were, wedged into the backseat of a car far too small for three muscled idiots, on what was technically a stakeout, but what felt more like slow torture. You were hours into waiting for some crypto-genuis kid, Karpin’s pet money launderer, to finally come home. And the whole reason you and Bucky were here at all? Steve and Sam had begged Fury to approve your presence on this op, convinced this was plan C, the masterstroke that would fix things between you two if the balcony gambit failed. 

But the balcony hadn’t failed. The balcony had worked spectacularly, and now Steve and Sam were left trying to undo their apparent meddling, scrambling to pull you off the mission. Too late, Fury had signed off, likely with one of his signature scowls and a clever quip. Everything was greenlit. No take-backs. 

You’d managed to pry this information out of Steve within the first three hours, much to the absolute dismay of Sam. Now both of them were currently avoiding your gaze like their lives depended on it, and you were simmering, imagining at least five creative ways to end them before the kid even showed up. 

“So this was your brilliant plan C, huh?” you hissed, exasperation curling through every word as you craned your neck forward, arms braced on the back of Steve’s seat, peering between him and Sam in the front. The centre console dug uncomfortably into your ribs, but you hardly noticed over the heat pricking across your skin. “Cram us into this metal coffin and hope the awkward tension does the trick?”

Steve still kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the street ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel like he might snap it in two if he had to endure one more minute. The muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing. Sam, slouched in the passenger seat, had perfected the art of looking like he wasn’t there at all, staring out the window, face blank, like maybe if he wished hard enough, he could astral project somewhere far away from this cramped nightmare. 

Beside you, Bucky had sunk so low in his seat you half expected him to disappear into the upholstery. His arms were crossed tightly, his long legs awkwardly angled to avoid pressing too much against yours. Though your thigh and shoulder still touched, the contact was warm and sticky. Secretly, you didn’t mind it that much. 

“Are you gonna bring it up and whine about it every 5 minutes or—” Sam finally drawled, and you leant over to smack the back of his seat in warning. You could’ve sworn the jolt made his eyes roll harder. 

“It wasn’t my first choice—” Steve spoke at last, voice strained, and you scoffed, flopping back into your seat. You shot a glare up at the rear-view mirror, where Steve steadfastly refused to meet your eye. You resisted the urge to kick the back of his seat. Sam’s lip twitched, and you weren’t sure if he was fighting a smirk or a grimace. 

“Yeah, yours was the training session, wasn’t it?” you muttered, shifting in your cramped seat, your thigh brushing Bucky’s. “The one where we nearly killed each other?”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Steve protested.

“You paired us against each other—!”

“I thought it would help work out the tension—!”

“Oh, genius move, Cap. Almost as subtle as the balcony stunt. Remind me…” You said, glancing between the two of them with an exaggerated patience. “How much money did you lose to Nat over us making out within twenty minutes?”

Bucky choked on air beside you. 

“Nope,” Sam cut back, smirking, eyes on the windshield but clearly enjoying himself. “She made me promise not to spill what she put down.”

“She cleaned up, didn’t she?” you said, grinning despite yourself.

“Let’s just say I owe her a drink…or five,” Sam muttered.

“And you two just went along with it. And when that actually worked,” you went on, voice rising as you gestured vaguely at the cramped space around you, “you didn’t think to, I don’t know, maybe… cancel this mission?”

Steve gave a long-suffering sigh, “I already said we tried—” 

You blinked, turning to Bucky, who was doing his best impression of a statue. His ears were pink. God help him, he was blushing. “Are you hearing this?”

“Loud and clear,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the upholstery like it was the most fascinating thing in the car. “I’m starting to think we’re the mission, not the kid.” 

Sam barked a quiet laugh at that, then immediately tried to hide it behind a cough. 

You smirked, leaning back just enough to make your knee knock into Bucky’s. “At least someone finds this funny.” 

“Oh, I do,” Sam didn’t even try to hide his grin now, eyes glinting in the rearview mirror. “You know, Buck folded like a lawn chair after that training room mess. Didn’t even need to interrogate him, he just started confessing.”

You blinked, glancing sideways at Bucky, and sure enough, his shoulders tensed, jaw tight, face flushed red. Yeah. You’d heard about that. After you and Bucky had practically torn each other apart during that disaster of a sparring session, it hadn’t taken long before Bucky caved. All it took was one pointed look from Steve, and he’d apparently spilt everything. The lessons. The gala mission. The whole messy, complicated truth. He hadn’t wanted to hide it anymore, and they hadn’t judged him. If anything, they’d been supportive, but god, had it given Sam and Steve endless material to work with.

“I didn’t fold,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face, trying to hide the red creeping up his neck.

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh no, you practically snapped in half. ‘It’s not what it looked like! I swear!’”

Steve, who had been studiously pretending to focus on the rows of beach houses, finally let out a quiet snort.

Sam continued his onslaught. “He was trying so hard to be chill. Said something about ‘It’s not like she was giving me sex lessons or anything!’ Swear to god, I thought you were about to write us both a formal apology letter.”

Your brow shot up, heat blooming warm and easy in your chest. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Jesus, can we not—”

“So…” Sam began, tone too casual to be innocent. He swivelled half around in his seat, arm slung over the headrest. “What exactly do these lessons involve?”

Bucky shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Not talking to you about this.”

“Right. Right, of course.” Sam nodded solemnly, lips twitching. “Just curious. Is there, like… a syllabus? A final exam?”

Sam looked over to you, and you rewarded him with a blank, unbothered expression. All of his attempts to get under your skin so far had fallen flat. 

“I swear to God, Sam—” Bucky huffed. 

“Okay, okay!” Sam laughed, hands raised in surrender. “Damn, Barnes. Touchy!”

Bucky grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to physically wipe away the heat creeping across. He exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to collect himself, jaw working like he was biting back another groan.

The moment stretched, the car settling into a beat of silence.

Then Bucky leaned back, voice dry as bone, as if he was looking for punishment, “I still haven’t forgiven you for not packing snacks, by the way.”

It earned a sharp bark of laughter from you before Sam twisted around, indignation written all over his face. “You were supposed to pack snacks!”

“You’re the reason we’re here in the first place!” Bucky shot back, arching a brow, the edge of a smirk threatening his mouth.

Sam groaned, tipping his head against the headrest like a man resigned to his fate. “God, please. Can you just shut up—?”

“You’re the one who has been talking this entire time—”

“Eyes up.” Steve’s voice cut through the bickering, sharp enough to snap the tension like a taut wire. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as his gaze fixed out the windshield.

You straightened instinctively, pulse kicking up, the lingering humour of the quarrel evaporating as your attention followed his line of sight.

A sleek, silver car, a little too flashy for the neighbourhood, rolled up the driveway of the house you’d been watching for hours. The low purr of its engine smothered the quiet hum of distant gulls in the air. The driver door swung open, and out stepped a kid who looked like he belonged more at some overpriced frat party than tangled up in Karpin’s operation. Early twenties, hair artfully messy, sunglasses pushed back onto his head like he thought he was some kind of tech mogul already. His clothes screamed new money, designer labels, logo-heavy, just subtle enough to look casual if you weren’t paying attention.

From the back of the car, the trunk popped, and a scruffy golden retriever leapt out with a thump, tail wagging like mad as it bounded up to the kid, nearly bowling him over. The kid laughed, ruffling the dog’s ears, before slinging a backpack over one shoulder and heading toward the front door.

“Target’s home,” Steve muttered, already shifting into command mode. His voice went flat, but with that edge of anticipation that always crept in when the waiting was over.

Sam sat up straighter, his earlier grin gone, eyes sharp. “Finally.”

Bucky leaned forward, his knee brushing yours, the tension humming back into his frame like a coiled spring. “What’s the play?”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off the house. “We move in quietly. Sam, you cover the back in case he spooks. Buck, I’ll need you two with me at the door. No heroics. We’re here to talk, not smash up his house.”

You gave a tight nod, hand already sliding to the door handle. “Copy that.”

“Let’s move,” Steve said, and the car doors clicked open almost in unison, the stale warmth of the vehicle giving way to the salty breeze as you slipped out into the early afternoon air.

— The dog’s tongue lolled out of its mouth as it bounded after the tennis ball you lobbed down the yard for what had to be the fiftieth time. The poor thing was all enthusiasm and no aim, skidding through flowerbeds and trampling what was clearly someone’s expensive landscaping project. You didn’t have the heart to stop him. The quiet thunk of the ball hitting the fence made you sigh, shading your eyes with one hand as the retriever scrabbled to chase it down.

The house loomed behind you, modern, sleek, soulless, and through the open patio doors, you could hear muffled voices. Mostly Steve’s, low and steady. Occasionally, Sam’s sharper edge cut through, exasperation bleeding into his tone. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. This was dragging. Of course, it was dragging.

You glanced at the sky. How long had it been? Too long. Definitely too long. 

The dog trotted back, panting, ball slimy with slobber, and you took it with a grimace, wiping your palm on your thigh before tossing it again.

The screen door creaked, and you turned just in time to see Bucky step out, rubbing the back of his neck. His jacket was off, henley sleeves rolled to his elbows, expression carved from tired frustration.

“Well?” you asked, arching a brow, catching the ball one-handed as the dog dropped it at your feet.

Bucky exhaled, dropping onto the steps beside you. “It’s not going well. Kid’s a wreck. Just keeps freaking out, throwing out half-baked lies, hoping we’ll get bored and leave him alone.”

You smirked, tossing the ball lazily. “He doesn’t know those two very well then, does he?”

Bucky’s lips quirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re trying for a good cop, bad cop thing… don’t think it’s going too well.”

You dusted off your hands, straightening. If this dragged on any longer, it would be nightfall, you were entirely sure there was a better and faster way to get the kid to spill. “It’s my turn to play cop, don’t you think?”

Bucky looked up at you, wary. “You sure? He’s on the verge of passing out.”

“All the more reason to cut the bullshit.” 

The living room was too clean, not lived-in, just staged, like everything else in this house. The kid sat on the edge of the pristine white couch, hunched over, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His chest hitched, breathing fast and shallow. Steve was standing nearby, voice soft, like he was talking him down from a bridge. Sam loomed near the window, arms crossed, scowl in place.

You didn’t bother asking. You just dragged a chair across the floor, the legs screeching deliberately against the polished hardwood as you flipped it around and straddled it, resting your arms along the back. The kid’s red-rimmed eyes snapped up at the sound, wide with panic, sweat beading at his temple.

“Okay, everyone, let’s take a breath.”

Steve shot you a sceptical look, brows knitting together like he wasn’t sure if you were serious. Sam, arms still folded tight across his chest, arched a brow, glancing at you like, really? The kid—Brandon, that was his name, you remembered now—just looked outright bewildered, as if the suggestion was the most alien thing he’d heard all afternoon.

“One deep breath. All of you.” You spoke pointedly, daring a glare over at good cop and bad cop respectively. You dragged in a slow inhale through your nose, filling your chest until your ribs ached, then let it out in a long, audible exhale. You exaggerated it, not for theatrics, but to show there was nothing complicated about it. Just air. Just calm.

Steve, bless him, always the good soldier, mirrored you next, drawing in a slow breath like he was trying to set an example. Sam followed reluctantly, like he hated admitting that maybe you had a point. His chest rose and fell, but he kept side-eyeing Brandon the whole time.

Brandon hesitated, his gaze flickering between you all like he was waiting for someone to yell gotcha! His knee bounced erratically, fingers twitching. You half expected the kid to bolt—not that he’d make it far, you were sure either of the three men would take absolute delight in tackling him to his shiny, expensive floors.

“C’mon, Brandon,” you coaxed, leaning forward just slightly, head tilting. “You’ll feel a whole lot better. Just one breath. Try it.”

For a beat, you thought he might refuse, too locked in his panic to even try. But then his shoulders sagged a fraction, and he sucked in a shaky breath, a wet, uneven sound that hitched halfway through. He let it out in a rush, but it was something. 

“There we go,” you murmured. “Better, huh?”

Shit, maybe you were good cop. 

He stared at you, wide-eyed, chest still shuddering from the uneven breath he’d managed. Like he couldn’t quite believe the panic hadn’t immediately swallowed him whole. 

You didn’t rush him. Instead, you took another slow, deliberate breath, and with just the faintest glance to the side, you caught Steve doing the same. Bucky too, silent and steady at the doorway, setting the rhythm without a word. Even Sam, though he tried to look like he wasn’t following your lead, let his shoulders loosen as he exhaled through his nose.

“Good,” you murmured after another long beat. “Let’s just stay right here for a second. Was getting far too tense in here, wasn’t it?”

Brandon sucked in another breath, still ragged, but at least it wasn’t the frantic gasping from before. His hands were still trembling on his knees, but they weren’t clenched into fists anymore.

“Okay. Let’s rationalise this, yeah? One step at a time.” Your voice dropped low and warm, the kind of tone you’d use with a skittish animal. The type of tone you used with Bucky when he was spiralling. 

“Do you know who he is?” You tilted your head toward Steve.

Brandon hesitated, but his eyes flicked to Steve, and he gave the smallest nod.

“Say it out loud for me,” you urged gently, fingers drumming softly on the back of the chair.

“H-he’s Captain America,” Brandon whispered, voice weak, almost like he wasn’t sure if saying it would make it more real.

“That’s right,” you said, offering a small smile. “Good. That’s good, Brandon. You’re thinking straight.” You pointed with a lazy flick of your finger at Steve. “And do you really think Captain America of all people is going to hurt you?”

“No.”

“Good. But those other two—” you jerked your thumb toward Sam and Bucky, your voice dipping into dry humour, “—those ones you wanna watch out for. Absolute wildcards.”

It earned you a quiet snort from Sam, and Bucky’s mouth twitched, but Brandon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. His face was pale, but some of the sheer panic had started to ease at the edges.

But the hyperventilating wasn’t gone. His chest was rising too fast again, his eyes darting around the room like he couldn’t help it.

“Hey, hey. Just breathe.” Your voice stayed patient, casual but focused, like you had all the time in the world. “I just need to ask you a few questions. Can you handle that?”

Brandon’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His wide eyes glistened beneath the overhead light, flicking between you and the silent figures of Steve, Sam, and Bucky like a cornered animal. Though, it wasn’t the wild panic of a man about to bolt. It was something else. Defeat, maybe. The heavy, sinking weight of realising he was out of moves.

His mouth opened, shaky. Closed. Opened again. He wet his lips, voice barely a whisper.

“They’re gonna kill me if I snitch—”

“Who’s gonna kill you?” Steve’s voice cut in, instinctively taking a step forward.

You lifted a hand, a silent hold up, and Steve froze mid-stride, eyeing you warily but ultimately submitted to your lead.

You exhaled slowly, studying Brandon, the trembling hands on his knees, the sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his leg bounced like he might still have been weighing the odds of making a run for it. Your head tilted, voice dropping just a hair softer.

“How about this,” you hummed thoughtfully. “I tell you what we know… and you help me fill in the gaps, hm?”

Brandon blinked, uncertain, but you saw the subtle slump of his shoulders. “O-okay…” he croaked.

“You’re from a middle-class family. Did well in school. Kept your head down. Got all A’s in college, IT, tech stuff, right?”

His eyes widened. He glanced at Sam like maybe he’d confessed those details without realising. Sam just arched a brow, impressed despite himself.

“You got into cryptocurrency to make a little money on the side…” You continued, your tone easy, conversational. “And that’s when Karpin found you. Asked you to help him move his money until it was basically untrackable. Paid you more than you’d ever seen in your life to keep quiet and work with his buyers.”

Brandon’s mouth parted, but nothing came out. 

“You probably don’t even know what he’s really selling,” you added, shrugging lightly. “Just that it’s illegal. Because you’re smart, you could see it a mile off. But you didn’t ask. Why would you? You’re making more money than you ever dreamed of.” Your gaze swept the room, the expensive furniture, the sleek floors, and the view of the ocean just beyond the windows. “Beachfront property? At your age? You’re making more than most people see in a lifetime.”

Brandon gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.

“But now you don’t want to talk. Not to us. Not to anyone. Because Karpin’s dangerous, right?” You softened the words further. “Because he told you as much, because you know you’re in deep…Because he threatened you. Maybe even people you care about, said if you ever ratted him out, it wouldn’t end with just you?”

That hadn’t been in the brief, but you’d spent enough time in Karpin’s club, in his VIP rooms, hanging off his arm like his latest pet to know his game.

You didn’t even need to hear the confirmation from Brandon, just one look in his glassy eyes told you the truth. You were right. Your eyes flickered over to Sam and Steve, watching as they exchanged a look.

Bucky hadn’t moved, leaned quietly against the doorway, face carefully neutral. But his eyes—oh, his eyes tracked every word, every shift of your body. And though his mouth was set in a firm line, there was something under it. A shameless flicker of pride. That soft, secret warmth, like he was quietly glad to see you work your magic.

Brandon’s breath rattled, his fingers fisting the fabric of his shorts. His wide eyes darted from you to Steve, then to Sam, as if one of them might swoop in and end this interrogation—or maybe mercifully his life. His voice cracked as the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I didn’t know, I swear! I mean, I knew—I knew it had to be something illegal, but not this illegal! I thought it was just drugs or something!” His chest heaved, breath coming fast again, panic starting to claw its way back up his throat.

“Hey.” Your voice cut through the rising spiral of his fear, leaving no room for argument. “We’re not here to decide if you’re guilty or not. That’s not why we’re here. We want to talk to you about one of the buyers, the one Karpin does the majority of his sales to. Do you know who I’m talking about? The Russian?”

Brandon hesitated, throat working as he swallowed. “Yes…”

“Good.” You hummed, slow and encouraging. “I need you to tell me anything you know about him. A name, a bank number, an address. Anything you can give us.”

Brandon’s shoulders hunched, his head shaking, wild-eyed. “I can’t—”

“Why?” you pressed.

“Because… because they’ll kill me!” He burst out, breath hitching again. “If it’s this bad, if it’s really this bad, I know they’ll hunt me down if I say anything—”

“They’re not going to be able to reach you, Brandon.”

His head snapped up, desperation shining in his eyes. “How can you guarantee that?!”

You sat a little straighter, drawing in a slow breath yourself. You knew the feeling currently roaring through Brandon’s veins, you recognised it like an old enemy. The panic, the sick weight of fear coiled tight beneath your ribs. The terror of the unknown. It was like wading blind through pitch-dark water, searching for a foothold, for anything solid to cling to, with no promise of light ahead. You’d felt it too many times before, felt it in your bones, felt it define you. And like every time before, your mind scrambled to make sense of it, to wrestle the chaos into something you could control. But how could you, when you didn’t even know the shape of the fight you were facing? How could you rationalise the storm without knowing where it might end, or if it ever would?

If only, you thought bitterly, if only you’d had the foresight back then. The knowledge. The map that would’ve let you navigate those shadows instead of stumbling through them, bruised and broken.

You knew exactly what the kid needed to hear.

“Do you want me to explain what’s going to happen to you after this conversation?”

Brandon nodded wordlessly.

“The police are going to come.” You reassured, recognising the instant dread in the kid’s wide eyes. “They’re going to arrest you, not hurt you. They’re going to keep you in custody while Karpin and his buyers are investigated, tracked down, and arrested. You’ll be safe. No one can get to you inside.”

“You’ll hire a lawyer,” you continued, voice even, matter-of-fact. “And that lawyer is going to tell you to take a plea deal. That means you’ll testify against Karpin. The deal might mean you walk free under witness protection, or maybe you serve a few years, but nowhere near as much trouble as if you stonewall us now.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward, lowering your voice to a comforting hum. “Brandon, all you need to do is cooperate with us.”

He blinked hard, tears threatening now, though he fought them, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I’ll be protected? Will my family be protected? You’re sure?”

“If you help us?” You shrugged, glancing at Steve and Sam. “You’ll be protected. So will your family. By the people we work for. There’s no shame in having made a mistake, Brandon. You think we’re innocent?” 

Your grin tilted, dry and a little wry as you thumbed toward the guys. “These three destroy half of New York every other week, and you think people are just fine with it?”

Sam gave a short huff of laughter, shaking his head. Steve smirked faintly, arms crossed over his chest, watching the way you worked with no small amount of admiration.

“We can do what we do because we have the right friends in the right places,” you went on, gaze locked steady on Brandon’s. “If you tell us what we need to know, we’ll make sure you and your loved ones are protected. That’s a promise.”

Brandon let out a shaky breath, the tension bleeding from his frame, if only slightly. He swiped the back of his hand across his damp face, voice rough as he finally nodded.

“O-okay. Okay. I’ll help.”

—

The mission had wrapped up without much fuss once Brandon finally cracked. A little breathing room, a few well-placed reassurances and the kid had spilt more than you’d hoped for. And after a long morning of waiting and watching, the team had been cleared to stand down. The beach house, a backup in case the op had dragged on, was yours for the night. No one had expected things to go so smoothly, but no one was about to complain either. 

Now, with the sun bleeding gold over the horizon and the promise of an early flight hanging over your heads, you were determined to steal a few hours of peace. 

You lay stretched out on a sunbleached towel at the base of the porch, toes buried in the warm sand. The last of the afternoon rays bathed the world in honey light, glinting off the waves as they lapped the shore. The ocean breeze lifted your hair and carried with it the brine of the sea, the faint tang of salt settling on your skin where the sweat had dried in the heat. You tilted your face up now and then, soaking in what little warmth was left, letting your eyes fall half-shut.

The beach house itself was small and sweet, worn blue paint with white trim, seashells lining the windowsills, wind chimes and catchers swaying and singing softly in the breeze. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to the sea as much as to the people.

On the porch steps, Bucky sat like a man trying to blend into the scenery. His arms rested heavily on his thighs, his boots planted solidly on the wood. There was tension in him, subtle but sure. He watched the waves, mostly. Sometimes he watched you. His gaze would flicker your way when he thought you weren’t looking, then back out to the horizon like it could give him answers. He’d tried the sand once, made it a few steps before muttering something about not wanting it grinding into the plates of his arms. The steps were his compromise, close enough to be near you, far enough to avoid what unsettled him. 

Steve and Sam had gone into town, promising a dinner worth eating—something fresh, not from a takeaway joint or gas station, which was the usual menu for missions, especially stakeouts—before you all shipped out at dawn. The house, the beach, the world itself felt hushed in their absence. Just the occasional cry of gulls, the gentle crash of waves, and the music of chimes above. 

It was Bucky who broke the quiet first. His voice was almost tentative, as if he’d been sitting with the thought some time before letting it out.

“You were good with that kid today.”

You cracked one eye open, shading it with your hand from the sun. The breeze caught his hair, tugged at the soft cotton of his shirt, ruffled the hem where his sleeves strained over the gold and black glint of vibranium. 

“You’re good at talking to people,” he went on, not looking at you now, but at some fixed point beyond the waves. “Understanding them.”

A soft, tired huff escaped you. You let your eyes fall closed again, the sun warm on your cheeks. “What I understand about people is that everyone wants kindness. That’s all. They want to be seen, heard, given a little grace.”

You let your head loll to the side, gaze following the slow roll of the sea. His eyes were on you again, you could feel it, watching, like he was trying to piece you together, to see past the practised ease of your words. 

“How did you know all that?” he asked after a beat, quieter now. “About lawyers, plea deals, witness protection?”

Your lips curved, a wry, sad little smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I lied.”

You felt him shift. His boots creaked against the steps, his spine straightening. “You lied?”

You rolled onto your back, brushing the sand from your skin, fingers playing idly at the tie of your bikini. “I told him what I knew he wanted to hear. That’s all. A kid like that, scared, cornered…He responded well to knowledge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know what they’re gonna offer him, maybe they will offer him a plea deal, but at least he won’t feel like he’s in the dark.”

The breeze tugged at the chimes again, the gentle clatter filling the quiet that followed. Bucky didn’t speak, just watched you, thoughtful, a crease between his brows. His gaze was steady now, no longer flickering away like he was seeing something in you that you didn’t want him to.

“I just…” His voice was gentler now, but insistent. “I just think that version of you, the one who talked that kid down, the version I know... sometimes I think it’s the real you.”

You turned to him properly then, one hand propping you up, the other shading your eyes against the glare. “The real me—Jesus. Are we doing this right now?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. 

“I think they’re still in your head,” he said simply. “The same way… the same way H.Y.D.R.A is still in my head. You just wear the mask better. Pretend better. It took me too long to see it, but now I do, and I can’t unsee it.”

The air left your lungs like you’d been tackled from behind, a cold rush tearing through your veins, leaving you sick and hollow at the centre. H.Y.D.R.A. Bucky almost never said it aloud. That name lived in the shadows. But now he had given voice to it, like he was fucking invoking it.

You stared at him, heart tight, the sincerity in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. He was right. Of course, he was right. There had been far too many occasions where he had seen through you, seen through the walls, the humour, the deflection—and for what? For you to be afraid, to continue to pretend, to deny him entry to the truth you both knew he had already discovered?  

“What are you trying to say, Bucky?”

He hesitated, just for a breath, as if he was weighing his following words before he went all in. “Why are you still in this job?”

Your pulse spiked.

“Because it’s what I’m good at?” you snapped back, a little too fast, a little too brittle. 

“Bullshit.”

You sat up fully now, towel forgotten beneath you, heat rising to your cheeks. Whether it was anger or shame, you weren’t too sure anymore. 

“What do you want me to say?” Your hands lifted, fingers splayed in frustration. “This is all I know, this is what I was trained for. There is no other alternative, and you of all people should understand that.”

There was a pause. A longer one than you expected. 

“Do you know what Sam said to me after today?” His eyes met yours, sharp, intent, almost fierce in their focus. It pinned you where you sat. “He said, ‘I think I finally get what the hell those lessons were about’. He saw it. He saw you. The way you connect, the way you see people. I think you’re far more than what you limit yourself to.”

You let out a breath that tasted of defeat, bitter at the back of your throat. Or maybe it was a laugh. You couldn’t tell anymore. “I do this job because I want to make a difference, Bucky. Maybe I want to make a difference because no one ever tried to help me, or Nat or Yelena. We had to help ourselves.”

“And you think the only way to do that is by tearing yourself apart in the process?”

You snorted, shaking your head, though the motion felt heavy. “Tough words coming from you.”

He huffed his own small laugh, but there was no humour in it. 

“I just…” His voice was lower now, the edge of frustration softening into something that sounded almost like pleading. “You really plan on doing those missions forever? The ones where you use your body to get information? I see how it weighs on you. How it tears you down piece by piece.”

You dug your fingers into the towel beneath you, staring at a seashell half-buried in the sand—anything to avoid the look in his eyes. 

“What am I supposed to do instead, huh?” Your voice was tight, controlled, though you could feel the cracks forming, the storm just below the surface. “I’m good at what I do. That’s why I do it. I know how to get what the team needs. I know how to play the part, no one expects me to be anything else. So I stay in that box, because it works. End of story.”

Bucky was shaking his head before you had even finished your stubborn spiel. 

“I think you have more potential. I think you get people. Really get them, in ways none of us do. You always say the right thing, know how to calm a room, and make people feel seen. I think you’re wasting that, wasting you, because you’re too afraid to ask for more.”

You forced a laugh. “Bucky, just because I’m nice to you doesn’t mean I’m good with people—”

“Steve told me what you said that day,” Bucky cut over you, quiet but unyielding. “What you said when he walked in on us. He told me how genuine you were. How much you cared. Said he never expected it, not from you.”

For a moment, your throat closed up tight as your mind skidded, fishtailing toward anything that might sound coherent.

“This all just sounds like you’re the one who’s got a problem with my line of work,” you said finally, trying for lightness, humour, anything to take the weight out of his words. “What, you jealous or something?”

But the joke fell flat between you. Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice carried an assured edge like he was giving up hiding behind anything. “No. I think you have a problem with it.”

Your breath snagged, ribs pressing in tight like you’d sucker punched.

“I think you’re destroying yourself,” Bucky went on, tone stripped bare, nothing left but truth. “I think, deep down, you’re punishing yourself. And I don’t know why. Or what for, but I know the signs, doll. Because I do the same damn thing.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. The wind stirred between you, the gulls cawing above and the hush of the surf. The world felt too still, too intimate, like the air itself was holding its breath.

“Where is this coming from?” you managed, voice smaller than you intended.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because watching you today, watching you work, impressed me. I know it impressed Steve and Sam. Maybe it just got me thinking about how things could be. How things should be.”

“I don’t want things to change,” you said, too fast, too sharp. “I like it how it is now.”

“Oh yeah?” His gaze still unflinching. “And what about all this makes you so happy?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Swallowed hard. 

“You,” you said quietly, bitter as the ocean air. “You make me happy. I like helping you and talking things out with you. I like lessons, or when we just hang out.”

Your voice softened, as if that could make it truer. “I’m comfortable. I’m happy.” But even as the words left your lips, they curdled. They felt wrong. Hollow, like smoke in your mouth, like ash on your tongue. And you knew—God, you knew—he could see it. He could see right through it, through you.

Deflect. Deny. Subvert. The old playbook. Your armour, your sanctuary. The instinct that came too easily, a reflex honed by years of keeping the world at bay. You reached for it like a lifeline, tried to wrap it around yourself before he could press further, before he could dig up what you’d buried so deep even you barely dared look at it. Anything was easier than letting him see the soft, frightened parts. Anything was easier than letting him reach them.

You sat still for a heartbeat longer, the weight of his gaze heavy as a hand at the base of your throat. And then you moved. You pushed up from your towel, brushing sand from your palms as you crossed the short distance to where Bucky sat, stiff and watchful on the porch steps, his eyes lifted to yours, wide and unsure, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d strike him down or pull him in. 

You lowered yourself, just enough to meet him, just enough to cage his face between your sand-dusted hands. You knew the grit would drive him a little mad, would catch in his stubble, smudge across his cheekbones, probably lodge itself somewhere in the joints of his vibranium arm. But you did it anyway. You did it because it was the only way you knew how to say what wouldn’t form on your tongue.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you murmured, voice low, breath hitching in your chest. The wind tugged at your hair, lifting it from the damp heat of your neck. Your thumbs traced his cheekbones, light as the breeze. “Is that okay?”

His lips parted, maybe in a silent plea. “Yes.”

It wasn’t neat or gentle. It was messy, hungry, your mouth slanting over his, tongue sliding past his lips as he groaned low in his throat. His hands came up, tentative at first, like he didn’t know where to touch you. Then the dam broke, and his fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, his other hand bracing your hip. The taste of him was salt and heat, the faint bitterness of coffee from earlier lingering on his tongue. Your breath mingled, quick and uneven, as you poured everything into it, the frustration, the fear, the need.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. The windchimes clattered softly, like they’d been eavesdropping on the whole thing.

You gave him a look—part promise, part challenge—and turned, heading inside. You knew it was wrong. Christ, maybe he knew it too. Knew that this was what you did when the truth got too close, when his gaze stripped you bare and the panic rose sharp beneath your skin. You’d reach for what you knew worked. The kiss, the heat, the distraction. Anything but the raw honesty of what was unfolding between you. 

Your bare feet padded across the worn wooden floors, the little beach house warm with the last of the sun’s heat. You shook out your towel by the door, brushed sand from your legs and arms as best you could, then made for the tiny kitchen, rinsing your gritty hands under the tap. 

You were just reaching for a towel to dry your hands when you felt him behind you, the silent, solid press of his body, the familiar weight of his hands wrapping around your waist. His fingers splayed across your bare skin, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to be but couldn’t stay away. His breath was warm against your ear, his nose brushing along the curve of your neck as he nuzzled there, the stubble of his jaw rough but welcome.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Bucky murmured, voice low and earnest, the words vibrating against your skin. “I’m not trying to argue. I just care about you.”

“I know.” The words barely made it past your lips as you turned in his arms.

His hands framed your face, his mouth on yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, his other hand slipping down to your waist like he knew the shape of you by heart. The scent of salt air clung to him, to you. The kitchen felt impossibly small, the world shrinking down to just this. Just him, just now.

When he finally pulled back, breath warm against your lips, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “You make me happy too, you know,” he murmured, an honest confession. “More than I think you even realise.”

Your heart gave a traitorous lurch, and you swallowed hard, your hands still resting at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t say things like that,” you whispered, but there was no bite to it, no real protest.

“Why not?” His mouth quirked into a soft, crooked smile. “’Cause you might believe me?”

You let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh, leaning into him. “Hmph…”

His mouth found yours again, slow and searching. His thumb kept stroking your cheek, tenderly, while his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around the curve of your hips as if to steady himself as much as you.

The worn floorboards creaked softly beneath you both as you shifted, as he nudged closer, fitting his body to yours like a puzzle piece. The scent of him—spearmint, sea salt, the faint leather tang of his jacket still clinging to him—filled your senses, dizzying in its familiarity.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the hard lines of muscle beneath the soft cotton. His heartbeat thudded steadily and sure beneath your palm.

Without thinking, without planning, you found your back hitting the edge of the counter. His hands followed the movement instinctively, guiding, steadying, as you hitched yourself up onto the worn wood.

Bucky stepped in, between your parted legs, his hands finding your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles over your skin. His lips sought yours again, deeper now, as if he couldn’t get close enough. And you let him, you gave yourself over to it, to him. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, greedy for his touch, his taste.

The kiss deepened, your breath mingling, your pulse thundering in your ears. Your hand skimmed lower, a slow, teasing path along his stomach, until your fingers brushed under the edge of his waistband, intent on taking control the way you always did, the way that felt safe and predictable. A soft sound escaped you, half a plea, half a groan.

He stopped you, catching your wrist gently just as your palm began to slip beneath the fabric. When you looked up, his blue eyes met yours, dark with heat, yes, but steady. Sure. 

“No,” Bucky said, voice low, roughened by want, thumb brushing your wrist. “I want to make you feel good.”

You stilled.

Pure, unfiltered, raw panic slammed through your gut like a punch you didn’t see coming. It rose fast, too fast, thick and all-consuming, choking the breath in your throat. The edges of the kitchen blurred, vision tunnelling to just him. The closeness of his body, the heat of him, the solid press of the cabinet at your back—

You dragged in a breath, but it scraped through your chest ragged and raw. Metallic fear coated your tongue, your pulse roaring too loudly in your ears to even think.

Your free hand twitched, half-formed in the start of that signal—the three taps. You could feel the ghost of it against his arm already, your fingertips itching to retreat into that small mercy, that lifeline you’d always given each other without question.

But you didn’t. God, you didn’t.

Because if you did, this would change. He would see. He would know. And then the questions would come, the soft ones, the careful ones, the ones that peeled you open in ways that scared you more than anything. And what then? What would become of you?

No. No, you couldn’t let that happen. The thought made your heart pound harder, made your throat burn. You needed to do this. Needed to show him, show yourself, that you were fine. That you weren’t broken. This was different. He was different. That you could be the person he saw when he looked at you, brave, whole, unflinching.

Even if inside you felt like you were unravelling at the seams.

Your breath shuddered as you forced it deeper, trying to steady the wild beat of your heart. You blinked hard, trying to clear the haze creeping at the edges of your vision, trying to quiet the voice in your head screaming. And you clung to him, to Bucky—

Your Bucky.

He could never hurt you. 

You swallowed hard, trying to drown the panic, trying to push it down where he couldn’t see. You could do this. You would do this. You trusted him. More than anyone.

“Can I make you feel good, doll?” His voice was soft, low, threaded with something that almost sounded like hope. His palm glided slowly up your forearm, warm and steady, the rasp of his calloused skin grounding. He didn’t see the storm behind your eyes, didn’t feel the stone lodged deep in your gut.

“Is that what you want?” You whispered, your voice hoarse.

“Yes.” The word came out on a breath, “more than anything.”

And for a moment—just a moment—fear loosened its grip.

Your mind spun back, unbidden, to all the nights you’d lain awake wanting this, wanting him. The ache of it. The sleepless hours where your hand found your own skin, your own heat, and you pretended, just for a heartbeat, that it was his touch. You thought of the months you and Bucky hadn’t spoken, how that want had burned hotter because of it, how his absence had left you hollow and restless.

And now here he was. His body so close, his hands gentle where they held you. And you remembered every time he had touched you. His hesitance, his tenderness, his devotion hidden in the brush of knuckles, the graze of fingertips.

It stirred a molten heat in your gut, one more welcome than panic. 

“Yes.” The word tore from you roughly, your forehead tipping to his, your eyes fluttering shut as frustration and need coiled tight inside you. 

You felt his breath hitch, felt the tremor, the hesitation in his hands even as they touched you, almost shy as they smoothed along your exposed thighs. His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips hovering just near your jaw, like he wasn’t sure he had permission to go further, like he didn’t trust himself to do this right.

“Bucky…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, coaxing him to look at you. His gaze flicked up, blue eyes wide, the vulnerability in them making your heart squeeze. His palms were broad and heated where they held you, but they trembled ever so slightly, like the weight of wanting was almost too much to bear. “Are you sure?”

“I—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

The honesty in his voice, the way it cracked around the edges, nearly undid you. You cupped his face, feeling the prickle of stubble under your palms and the tension coiled in his jaw.

“You won’t,” you murmured, stroking softly beneath his eyes. “You can’t. Just… touch me. However you want. I’m right here.”

Something within him eased, you felt it against your mouth as you leaned in, trying to pour every bit of reassurance into the slide of your lips. His hands roamed more boldly, exploring the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. It felt like worship the way he took his time, mapping your skin, committing it to memory.

The heat built between you, slow and consuming, and the edge of panic drowned out. You arched into him as his mouth followed, kisses pressing into the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, down the line of your neck. The small kitchen disappeared, the world narrowing again until it was just him, just this. His hands moved as if guided by instinct now, though there was still that delicious edge of hesitance that made every touch precious. His hand skimmed lower, calloused pads slipping beneath the thin band of your swimsuit bottom. You gasped, fingers fisting in his shirt. 

And for the first time in far too long, maybe in your entire life, fear didn’t spike. You didn’t choke, you melted—

His breath stuttered, and he froze just over your mound. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his voice uncertain. “Tell me what to do, doll. I want to—I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You smiled, the kind of soft, private smile only he ever got to see. Your fingers found his wrist gently, guiding his hand down, slipping it fully beneath the fabric, where you were already warm and wet for him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. You’re perfect. Just… slow. Start slow.”

You saw his lips part, saw his pupils blow wide, felt the tremor in his fingers as they touched you where you wanted him most. His gaze flicked to yours, awed, wrecked.

“That’s good,” you breathed, the words tumbling out on a shaky exhale as your heart thundered against your ribs. Your hips moved instinctively, chasing his touch, tilting into him, desperate for more. “That’s so good, Bucky…”

His fingers trembled, tentative but eager as he explored. He traced the slick heat of you, learning every reaction, every way your body responded to his touch. Your hand slid over his, guiding him gently.

“Here,” you whispered, voice thick with want. His breath stuttered as his fingertips grazed your clit. “Feel that? That’s where I want you.”

A shaky breath left him, and he followed, so careful it made your heart ache. Your own nervousness forgotten, you arched a little, legs falling open wider, encouraging him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. I promise. I want this. I want you.”

That seemed to steady him. His fingers slid through your slick heat, finding your clit again. You shivered. But still, he hesitated, waiting, watching your face.

“Circle it,” you murmured, voice low and pleading, your hand tangling in his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently urged him on. “Gently. Like this…” You rocked your hips, showing him the rhythm, slow and steady, letting him feel how you moved beneath him. And God, he followed, so tentative at first, testing, learning, then growing surer as he felt your breath hitch, your body tense, your pulse race beneath his hands.

“That’s it,” you gasped, pleasure building, slow and deep, coiling low in your belly. “Good. Fuck, that’s good Bucky.”

The praise tumbled from your lips, and it only seemed to fuel him. His fingers moved with more purpose now, every breath, every sigh from you making him more confident. His thumb found a rhythm, steady and sure, as two fingers slid inside you, filling you, and the low groan that broke from him when he felt you clench around him made the heat bloom hotter, deeper.

He buried his face against your neck, nose brushing your skin, breath warm and ragged in your ear. You kept guiding him, your voice cracking as a pleasured sob bubbled in your chest. “That’s good—Please just…You’re doing so well, Bucky. So well.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself just feel. Let him take control, knowing he would never misuse it.

Every time you gasped or sighed his name, you felt him react, his body pressed closer, his kisses growing hungrier, his fingers more confident. His vibranium hand anchored at your waist, holding you steady as he worked you. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re… so beautiful like this,” he managed, voice rough, as if the sight of you unravelled him.

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, the world outside the two of you blurring to nothing. The kitchen, the sea breeze, the clatter of seashell chimes, all of it faded, lost beneath the crash of pleasure building inside you. His thumb kept that perfect rhythm, his fingers filling you, stroking you. Your hips rolled, chasing him as you found yourself already trembling on edge.

You tried to keep guiding him, tried to tell him how perfect it was, how right, but the words blurred as the pleasure built, as he guided you through every tremble, every sharp breath, every subtle roll of your hips. 

“You feel so good,” he muttered, voice wrecked, lips brushing your jaw, your ear. “So fuckin’ good like this…”

And then you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he pushed you over the edge, his name falling from your lips in a broken moan, toes curling, back arching, body trembling apart under his hand. Your breathing was ragged as Bucky’s fingers kept moving, slow and sure, guided by every gasp, every shiver he coaxed from you. His forehead pressed to yours, fingers gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. His focus was absolute, blue eyes darkened, intent, watching you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing. And you were. To him, you always had been.

“I think I get it now,” he murmured, voice rough-edged, low like a secret.

Your lashes fluttered, your mind hazy with the pleasure he so patiently built inside you. “Hm?” you managed, head tipping forward. You opened your eyes to find him watching you, like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.

Then, softly, with that mix of wonder and affection that always, always undid you, he spoke.

“Why you like watching me finish.” His voice was a rasp, reverent and wrecked all at once. And before you could reply—before you could even think—you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth, slow and purposeful, tasting you, sucking his fingers clean with a soft, satisfied hum.

It was obscene. 

Your body nearly gave out. You gripped the edge of the counter for support, chest rising and falling, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of the sea and the chimes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, dragging a shaky hand through your salt-tangled hair, trying to catch your breath. The strands clung to your damp skin. Your bikini bottoms were twisted at your hips, darkened with wetness, your thighs still trembling from the slow burn of his touch. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

---

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[frothy-tart]

practice

john walker x ex widow!reader

"Was that your first kiss since your divorce?"

"That bad, huh?"

"I didn't say that."

word count: 4.2k

author's note: imagine the conversation between steve and nat in the winter soldier but make it reader and walker 🤭

warnings/tags: 18+ only, kissing and suggestiveness, sensuality, tension, bickering, canon level violence, undercover couple trope, no use of y/n

“I swear to God, Walker. You're making this so obvious. Stop staring.”

You kick his shin beneath the table where you sit across him. The two of you are nestled in the corner of the overcrowded room full of party-goers, trying your best to remain inconspicuous.

You're trying your hardest to remain inconspicuous. Your partner, on the other hand, has been ogling the target from across the room for the last half hour.

He shoots daggers at you with his eyes. “Oh, I'm sorry,” he spits under his breath. “Is that not what I’m supposed to be doing? Keeping an eye on the target?”

“There’s a difference between keeping an eye on someone and eye-fucking them,” you hiss.

Walker scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m not eye-fucking him. Jesus. We don’t all have backgrounds as highly trained spies, you know.”

Maybe you’re being a little too harsh on him. This is his first true undercover operation since the formation of The New Avengers. He’s a soldier, after all – not a spy. It's no secret that he hadn’t exactly been jumping at the bits to put on a fancy suit and pretend to be your date tonight, but at least he’s kept his bitching and moaning to a minimum.

Despite his little staring problem, he’s otherwise played his part well. Touchy enough for it to be believable that you’re here as each other’s dates, but not too touchy. An arm around your shoulder here, a light hand on your waist there. Hesitant, and a little awkward, but you’re the only one who notices – everyone else here is too busy stroking each other’s dicks to read into your forced public displays of affection.

You lean over the small table, taking his hand in yours in an effort to play your part. “Just glance in his direction regularly,” you advise lowly. “We aren't here to analyze his every movement. Until he goes to meet the seller, we can relax.”

Which is exactly what you’ve been doing since you first arrived at the estate this evening. Mingling, sipping on mocktails to keep up appearances, just trying to blend in while keeping watch on the man that you’d been tasked to spy on.

This entire party is supposedly a cover for the owner of the estate to meet up with a vibranium arms dealer – based off of the limited information Valentina had provided, the owner of the estate, Alexander Sokolov, had arranged for a meeting with a vibranium arms dealer to take place here tonight. Your and Walker’s objective – wait for Sokolov to excuse himself from the party, follow him, and eavesdrop. Valentina wants you to find out who this dealer is and when this deal will go down.

To sum it up, you’re only here for intel. As long as things go according to plan, there should be no reason for either of you to get your hands dirty tonight.

“I’m just a little on edge. I’m not used to missions looking like… this.” He nods down at where your hand holds his, and then vaguely gestures with his free hand to your surroundings – the grand piano in the corner of the room, the full service bar, the extravagant décor and all of the ridiculously rich assholes in attendance.

His lack of experience in this area is exactly where you come in, you suppose. Undercover ops, taking on someone else’s identity – you’ve been there, done that more times than you can count. It’s second nature to you.

Normally, you’d be right in your element. But this – holding hands, soft touches, close whispers, exaggerated longing looks with a teammate, a partner, someone that you actually care about – is brand new territory.

You’re just a little better at hiding it than he is, is all.

“Just look at me more than you look at him,” you suggest lightly. “Like it or not, I am your date.”

He snorts a laugh, then lifts his drink to his face in an effort to conceal the light blush on his cheeks. “I’m a bit out of practice, I guess. I haven’t been on a date since—”

“He’s leaving,” you interrupt him, your eyes trailing after Sokolov as he struts to the opposite side of the room. You stand up, not dropping Walker’s hand. He follows your lead, rising from his seat.

He's been a little unsure of himself so far this evening, so it surprises you when he puts his hand on the small of your back and begins to guide you across the floor. No one seems to notice that Sokolov exits the room, except for a security guard that follows him when he exits.

“Remember,” you murmur as you make you way through the throng of people, “If anyone asks where we are going, we are just looking for the bathrooms.”

“The bathrooms are in the opposite direction. There’s only about a dozen signs for them,” he hisses under his breath.

“Well, we better not get caught, then,” you retort through gritted teeth as you poke him in the side with a saccharine smile, just in case anyone is looking your way.

He responds with an exaggerated laugh that earns glances from a group of older women congregated by the door that Sokolov had just walked through moments before.

“Smooth,” you grunt as soon as the two of you are out of ear shot of the other guests. Sokolov and the guard turn left as they reach the end of the long corridor, leaving it vacant except for you and Walker.

As silently as possible, you both follow them, unsure of exactly where they are headed within the mansion. You assume a private room; an office or a study – but then they exit the house completely through a door on the opposite side of the house from the party.

You peak out of a window as Walker stands obnoxiously close to your backside. You’re unsure if it’s due to nerves or general lack of spatial awareness, but you bite your tongue and focus on the scene at hand.

It's dark outside, but there’s enough flood and path lights to see that Sokolov and his guard are standing in the middle of an extravagant courtyard garden. A moment later, a third man appears from an entryway on the west side of the courtyard. You don’t recognize him as a guest of the party, but Sokolov obviously knows him well by the way he greets him with a chummy grin and enthusiastic handshake.

“Any idea who he is?” You whisper to Walker.

“Not a clue,” he grunts lowly, close enough that you feel the vibration of his chest against your back. “How should we proceed?”

It takes you by surprise that he asks for your direction. It goes against Walker’s nature to take orders from anyone, and being the shoot first, ask questions later kind of guy that he usually is, you halfway expected him to forget that you're only here for intel and charge at the guy on sight.

“Can you hear anything that they're saying? Read their lips?” You ask hopefully, glancing around dark room - an open floor kitchen and dining room – to brainstorm. Your regular human hearing and eyesight can’t make out the first word from inside the house, but you hold out hope knowing that the super soldier serum that courses through Walker’s veins heightens his senses.

“No,” he sighs. “They’re too far away, their voices are mumbled.”

If the two of you were to attempt to exit out of the same door they did, you’d be spotted right away. But to your right, on the other side of the dining room, there’s a sliding glass door. If you can ease it open, you'll be able to sneak outside and listen from behind the exterior wall of the house.

Walker follows your gaze, noticing the door and realizing what you’re thinking without you needing to say a word. You walk as quietly and quickly as you can manage in your heels, flipping the lock to the door and slowly easing it open until the there's a big enough opening for Walker’s large frame to squeeze through. It creaks a bit, but Sokolov and the seller keep talking, oblivious to your presence.

Right at the edge of the house, there’s a large potted plant that helps to conceal you both. You stand the closest to the plant, with Walker right behind you, still close enough for his chest to brush against your back. You listen in silence, waiting for Sokolov or the seller to mention anything of value. They talk lowly – still too quiet for you to make much out other than a random word here and there.

“Next weekend,” Walker whispers next to your ear. “Deal’s going down next Saturday night. Over two million in vibranium weapons.”

“Have they said where?” you whisper back. “What about a name? We need to get an ID on this guy.”

He shakes his head, exhaling in frustration.

Goddammit. They aren’t making your jobs easy.

You open your clutch, reaching inside to retrieve your cell phone. If you could just part the branches and leaves on this plant enough, you could zoom in to at least get a photograph of the seller’s face to run through facial recognition programs…

“Shit, shit, fuck—”

As you’re trying to zip the clutch closed so that nothing falls out of it, you lose your grip on your cell phone and it falls out of your hand, onto the cement pavement at your feet. It makes a loud enough noise to cause both you and Walker to freeze.

Sokolov and the seller both go silent. There’s no way they didn’t hear that.

“Let’s go—”

“No time to run,” Walker cuts you off.

“Who is there?” Sokolov’s voice booms from a few yards away. “Show yourselves!”

Their footsteps grow louder as they walk towards your and Walker’s hiding spot. You have maybe five seconds to think of a game plan that doesn’t involve shooting your way out of this –

“Don’t kick me in the dick for what I’m about to do,” Walker mumbles, shaking his head.

You open your mouth to ask him what he’s talking about when he maneuvers you up against the side of the house. Your back collides against the wall, and his large hands caress the sides of your stomach. You gasp in surprise, but the noise is muffled by his lips capturing yours.

Oh. So this is the game plan, then.

You run with it, knowing there’s no time to flee or think of any plausible explanation as to why the two of you are so far away from the party, in an off-limits part of the estate.

Your hands instinctively fly to his head, your fingers weaving through the short tufts of his blond hair. It’s rushed and messy, his tongue dancing with yours for dominance. For a split-second, you forget where you are and why this is happening. There’s no fear or worry at the fact that you’re seconds away from being caught – there’s only the scruff of his beard tickling your jaw, the musky scent of his cologne that infiltrates your senses, and an undeniable heat between your legs.

His movements are uncertain yet enthusiastic – you’re sure it’s due to the rather unusual predicament that you’ve found yourselves in, but there’s a part of you that wonders if the kiss would be the same under different circumstances.

You can hear voices yelling at you, masculine and angry, but you can’t make out what they are saying over the deafening rush of blood in your ears. Walker pulls away with a low groan that snaps you back to reality.

There’s a small voice in the back of your mind scolding you for actually enjoying that, but you’ll have to process that later. When you're far the fuck away from here and Walker isn’t still gripping your hips like a lifeline. Your eyes meet for the briefest of moments, just long enough for you to see his dilated pupils and then kiss swollen lips before the gravity of the situation sets in.

“Can you two not fucking hear?” Sokolov yells. “I said who the fuck are you and what are you doing here? This area is off-limits to guests!”

Sokolov and the seller both stand several feet behind Sokolov’s security guard, who has a Glock 17 pointed right at the two of you. You recognize the pistol right away – its little sister, Glock 19, is concealed in your clutch.

“Oh!” You exclaim, feigning shock and embarrassment. You smooth down your dress where Walker’s hold had bunched up the fabric, and then wrap your arms around his bicep as the two of you turn to face the three men. “We’re so sorry. We were on our way back to our car when we saw the garden and just couldn’t help ourselves—”

“Right,” Walker agrees, nodding a bit too enthusiastically. “We apologize. We just lost track of time. We’ll be going—”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Sokolov barks. “I asked you a question. Who the fuck are you?”

You feel him tense beneath your hold on his arm. You give him a reassuring squeeze as if to say don’t escalate. Before you can attempt to bullshit Sokolov further with your undercover names, the seller steps forward with a look of apprehension.

“I recognize you,” the older, paunchy looking man grunts at Walker. “I’ve seen you somewhere. What's your name?”

You glance up at your partner to see that he looks like a deer in the headlights. It takes you back to the time you had first met him – when you’d been tasked with killing him, only to join forces with him, Yelena, Ava, and Bob in an effort to escape the warehouse facility Valentina had sent you all to burn alive in. During the attempt to steal a Humvee while in disguise, you had been asked to identify yourselves.

Walker’s response to that demand had been “no”.

Perhaps lying under pressure isn’t his strong suit.

“My name is Isobel Callaway, and this is my date, Mason Aldridge,” you answer when Walker hesitates for an awkward amount of time. “I have our invitations right here, if you’d like to see—”

“He wasn't talking to you,” Sokolov snaps. It takes everything in you to not pull your pistol from your clutch and end this all right here and now, but if Walker can manage to keep a level head, then so can you.

“No, he’s right,” Sokolov muses, stepping forward to take a closer look at Walker. His lips contort into a sinister smile. “I know you. You’re that knock-off Captain America. Well, you were. What the fuck are you doing creeping around my property?”

Another brief moment of awkward silence, and then Walker lunges forward, wrapping his hand around the barrel of the security guard’s pistol. The guard fires a shot, but Walker easily overpowers him in strength and the bullet goes flying towards the night sky. Within seconds, Walker takes the gun and sends the guard flying backwards from a mere punch to the sternum.

Walker grabs you by the arm as Sokolov and the seller both start scrambling to retrieve their own firearms from the their coat pockets. You run as fast as you can to keep up with Walker as he all but hauls you across the courtyard, all while internally cursing the fact that you’d chosen to wear the pointiest stiletto heels that you own.

Both men fire a series of bullets in your general direction, but they only succeed in hitting Sokolov’s garden statues. Right as the parking lot comes into view, you see several more guards running towards you and Walker from the opposite direction. You scramble to retrieve the car keys from your clutch, tossing them to Walker as you dive into the passenger seat. He wastes no time throwing the car into reverse, speeding away from the estate as dozens of bullets bounce off the vehicle’s bulletproof windows.

“Damn it,” you breathe. Adrenaline courses through you as you try to catch your breath. The security guards and the estate grow smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. “That was a bust. Val is gonna be so pissed at me. And I left my phone. That phone was brand new, too…”

“Who gives a shit about Val,” Walker grunts in what sounds like discomfort. “We’ll tell her that the seller never showed and Sokolov spent the evening getting shit-faced off of his expensive bourbon collection.”

His response takes you by surprise – you had been bracing yourself for him to bitch you out for dropping your cell phone and biffing the entire operation. You side-eye him, noticing that his face is contorted into a grimace.

“You good?” you ask, angling your body to get a better look at him. It’s too dark to see him very well, but judging by his facial expression, he’s in some sort of pain.

“Yeah,” he hisses, removing one hand from the steering wheel to turn the car’s interior light on. “I’ll be fine, just got graz—”

“Holy shit, John!”

He pulls back the right side of his coat, revealing his white button-up shirt to be dyed bright crimson across his abdomen. He yanks the fabric upwards, revealing a bloody gash where a bullet had skimmed his right side.

“We need to get somewhere safe,” you tell him, trying not to panic. It doesn’t appear to be too deep, but he’s already bled quite a bit. It needs to at least be cleaned and dressed, if nothing else. “You need to apply pressure to that. There’s a first aid kit in the trunk—”

“I’m fine,” he interrupts you. “The bleeding will slack off soon enough. Let’s just get back to the Watchtow—”

“No,” you shake your head with finality. “We’re three hours from Manhattan. We're stopping for the night. There’s a safe house twenty minutes from here.”

You put the address to the safe house in the GPS, and to your surprise, Walker doesn’t object any further. You consider offering to drive, but you know he'll insist that he’s fine – and he will be fine, thanks to the super soldier serum that causes him to heal quicker than most would. But he’s still human, so it's still important that he bandages a fucking gunshot wound.

That’s your rationale for insisting on stopping at the safe house for the night, anyway. It doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that him pushing you up against the wall and kissing you like your lives depended on it is clouding your judgment.

It was for the mission. He never would have kissed you otherwise. You know this, and yet you can't stop replaying it in your head. The scruff of his beard, his hold on your waist, the slightly awkward yet eager way his lips moved against yours…

You clench your thighs together where you sit in the passenger seat, internally cursing yourself for even thinking about Walker in the way that you are. He’s bleeding out beside you, and you're getting worked up over a fake kiss.

After what feels like an exceptionally long car ride, you arrive at the safe house – though it can hardly be called a house – it's barely bigger than a shed. You’ll be lucky if there's one bed, let alone two.

Walker goes inside while you retrieve the first aid kit from the trunk of the car. When you enter a few moments later, he's already shed both his jacket and button-up. He sits on the couch, blood caked across his abdomen.

No one should look that good covered in blood. It isn't right.

“See?” He sighs as you lock the door behind you. “It has already stopped bleeding.”

“Good,” you hum, breaking your stare on him. You glance around the small kitchen for some additional supplies to distract yourself from how warm your face feels. You manage to find a singular hand towel, which you run under warm water to use to clean the blood off of him.

When you walk over to him with the first aid kit and towel, he reaches out to take the supplies from you. You sit down beside him on the small couch’s limited amount of space, shaking your head.

“Let me,” you insist. “It’s my fault this happened, anyway.”

He stares at you for a moment, his expression indecipherable, and then nods. He raises his right arm to give you access to his side, resting it on the back of the couch.

You delicately swipe the damp cloth across his stomach, starting with the dried blood matted in the hair around his belly button. The intimacy of the situation isn’t loss on you, but you don’t let yourself dwell on it. He’s perfectly capable of cleaning himself up, but there’s something compelling you to be close to him.

You clear your throat after a minute of thick silence. “I have a question for you. Which you do not have to answer – I feel like if you don’t answer it though, you’re kind of answering it, you know?”

He exhales in annoyance, though his stare is curious. “What?”

“Was that your first kiss since your divorce?”

He chuckles, throwing his head back against the couch to stare up at the ceiling. “That bad, huh?”

You shake your head. “I didn’t say that.”

“Well, it kind of sounds like that’s what you’re saying.”

With his skin now clean, you move onto dressing the wound. Any normal person would have definitely needed stitches, but the gash already looks smaller than it did when he had first showed you in the car. Still, you proceed with applying an antibiotic ointment before bandaging it.

“It was,” he sighs. “My first kiss since the divorce. First kiss in almost two years. Guess I’m kind of out of practice.”

You pause, looking up at him. He meets your gaze again, his cheeks slightly pink in embarrassment.

“It wasn’t bad,” you assure him sincerely. A heavy ball of nerves settle in the pit of your stomach. “Really, I mean… despite the circumstances, I enjoyed it. I don’t exactly get a lot of time for practice myself,” you laugh awkwardly.

It's true. Maybe it hasn’t been almost two years like it has for him, but this line of work doesn’t exactly leave you much time for dating or even casual intimacy.

“That makes two of us, then,” he chuckles softly, and then leans in closer to you. The already too small safe house suddenly feels even smaller, and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

“I’m sorry, though,” you murmur with a small smile. You avoid his gaze, staring down at the bloodied towel in your hand. “I hate that your first kiss in years had to be wasted on a fake mission kiss.”

He snorts. “Sorry? Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who kissed you, and I’m definitely not sorry. Unless, of course, you didn’t enjoy it or it made you uncomfortable or my breath was bad or—”

“Jesus, Walker,” you groan, shutting up his rambling by leaning forward and pulling his face to yours for the second time tonight.

For a second, he’s still. Just when you fear that you’ve imagined the tension between you and wonder if you should pull away, his lips begin to move with yours. The same enthusiasm from earlier is still present, though there’s now less uncertainty in his movements. His hands once again settle on your sides, pulling you closer to him.

Now that the two of you are alone, and there’s no threat of dangerous men shooting you at any given moment, you quickly see that he had been holding back earlier. In the privacy of the secluded safe house, he doesn’t hesitate to pull you onto his lap. You straddle him, being careful not to brush against the wound on his side.

Your hands trail down the expanse of his bare chest and his do the same to your back. He groans into your mouth, deep and guttural, and the heat between your legs flares once more. Your dress is hiked around upper thighs, allowing you grind down against the growing bulge beneath the smooth material of his pants.

You break the kiss, feeling light-headed and hazy, and look down at him. “So…” you hesitate, sweeping the pad of your thumb over his kiss-swollen bottom lip. His eyes flicker between your eyes and lips, his hands planted firmly on your hips, keeping you rooted against him.

“Is there anything else you’d like to practice, while we’re at it?”

☆☆☆☆☆☆

thank you for reading!! as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated 🥰💕

[frothy-tart]

all swinging- john walker

summary: after your last mission, you’ve been avoiding john at all costs. what happens when he confronts you in the gym, late one night?

pairing: john walker x reader

word count: 2.4k

content: reader being a lovesick fool for john, yelena being a menace, feelings are eventually shared. fluff and hint of romance. some swearing.

A/N- this is written as a part two to ‘guns blazing’ which can be found here. may be able to be read alone, but probably makes more sense with the last fic. enjoy!

It had been a week since you last spoke to Walker.

The last time you’d talked, it was in the elevator post-mission, bloodied and bruised, exhaustion hanging heavy in the air.

The distinct ‘ding’ of the elevator had cut through the stillness, announcing your arrival to the top floor of the New Avengers tower. You spared a small glance over at John, who to your surprise, was already looking at you. You couldn’t quite make out his expression, though, his eyes guarded. He gave a smile, tight and calculated before he stepped out. You thought he was going to keep walking then, leave things unsaid. But then he stopped, turning back to you. 

“Look after your side,” he said, voice low and oddly sincere. “Change the gauze every few hours.”

You nodded, the corners of your mouth twitching into a tired smile. “I know what I’m doing, John.” 

He huffed a quiet breath. “And I know what you’re like. Don’t make it worse.”

And with that, he left. 

Now, you were basically hiding from him. Before, you might’ve searched for him in the hallways, cornering him to tease him about the way he had lost out in training to Bucky, or laugh about the way Yelena had caught him listening to Taylor Swift in his bedroom the week before. But everything felt wrong to you now, your demeanour too forced and fabricated around him. You stopped calling him names, stopped bickering back at him. And slowly, you started to refuse to be alone with him, always finding an excuse to leave when it was just the two of you. 

Simply put, you were avoiding him. Like the plague.

You didn’t know why you were suddenly so enamoured by him. You were supposed to be rivals, after all. You should hate him. You felt pathetic, like a giddy schoolgirl. It was something in the way he had grabbed you without second thought, hands working softly over your bloodied torso- hands you swear you could still feel ghosting over your hip days later. You saw a different side to him, one that didn’t mock you for how you ate your eggs or liked your coffee. It was all-consuming, how much you liked him now. You tried your hardest to push it down, to keep hating him for how much he got under your skin. But whatever you did, it wasn’t enough. Your disdain for him had melted away, simmering into something else entirely. It was driving you crazy. 

And, to make matters even worse, Yelena was beginning to suspect something was up with you and John.

“What is up with you and Walker?” You almost choke on your coffee, coughing violently as you place your mug down on the countertop. You frown, trying to play it cool. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean I’ve seen the way you look at him, when he’s not looking. I thought you hated him?”

“I do.” You answer too quickly, voice not entirely convincing. Yelena nearly laughs in your face.

“You’re a shitty liar. Plus, you don’t even talk to him anymore, you just stare longingly at him. It’s… creepy. Not that I’m entirely complaining, though, because it is nice to sit in the kitchen without your constant arguing.” You roll your eyes, mouth opening to speak. 

“Lena-”

“-And don’t think I haven’t noticed how you dart out of a room when you’re left alone with him. Do you know how annoying it is to be paired up with him in training? He’s insufferable. And throws hard punches. He comes out all swinging.” You swallow, trying and failing to school your expression. “I mean, god. What happened on that mission? Did you finally hate-fuck?” 

You actually spit your coffee out this time, coughing so hard you have to brace yourself against the counter.

“Yelena!” You gasp out, hot coffee dropping down your chin. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “What the fuck?” You feel your cheeks heat up, and it’s suddenly very clear you’ve not been as subtle as you thought about your newfound feelings for John.

“Actually, no. Don’t tell me if you did” She screws her nose up, pulling an over-exaggerated face. “I don’t want to imagine John like that”

“Like what?” 

You freeze. 

John’s voice comes from behind you, all rough and American- his appearance painfully timed. You swear you feel your heart stop, wanting nothing more than the ground to swallow you up whole. You shoot Yelena a look that said ‘If you say a single word, I swear-’

“Nothing” You squeak out, not even attempting to look over at John. If you did, he’d see your bright red cheeks and the embarrassment coating your eyes. You can feel Yelena’s gaze burning into the side of your face, the way her chest heaved with a barely restrained laugh. 

John isn’t convinced by this, though. “You’re a terrible liar, Cupcake.” 

That fuck-ass nickname. He had penned it for you after you had managed to nearly burn the whole tower down when making (what was supposed to be) cupcakes with Bob. You wished you could click your fingers and disappear right about now. 

Yelena, however, was grinning like a Cheshire cat, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Ah, Walker we were just talking about how you two-”

“I have to go”, you blurt out suddenly. Your voice comes out too loud, cutting into Yelena’s teasing tone. “I- I need to talk to Val. Official avengers business, you know.” You couldn’t sound any less convincing if you tried. You didn’t wait for a response, turning on your heel and practically sprinting out of the kitchen into your room. You bang your head against the wood of your door, internally groaning. 

Smooth. Real smooth.

It took you another week to recover from the embarrassment of that interaction.

Another week of avoiding John like your life depended on it, and another week of glaring at Yelena when she made ‘subtle’ off-handed comments to provoke you, like:

“Walker, have you been working out more? You look stronger. Don’t you think so, __?”

Or,

“Your suit looks good today, __. Walker, tell her she looks good” 

It was starting to drive you mad. John didn’t seem to bat an eyelid at Yelena’s behavior though, which made you even more infuriated. You decided you needed a way to release the tension that had begun to build up, hating the way it spread through your body like a wildfire. 

This was how you found yourself in the compound’s gym, late one night. 

It had gone past 1AM, and you hadn’t slept at all- mind on override. You had tried to ignore it, clenching your eyes shut and willing yourself to sleep. Needless to say, it didn't work. You had even considered meditating or praying to whoever was out there, begging for a release from this love-struck wedge you had driven between you and John. This felt stupid, though, so you opted for a different solution: the gym. 

Before all of this, you would usually be in here with John, hair stuck to your face with sweat and breaths coming in quick pants as you dodged his hasty attacks. Now that you sparred with Yelena or Ava, sessions felt different. Flat. There was no thrill, no tension surfacing. You hated how much you missed it. 

You decided to channel your rage into the boxing bag that hung in the corner, fists rebounding against the worn leather. You knew you probably weren’t swinging in the way John had taught you to, or keeping your legs just the right distance apart for ‘optimal damage’, as he had said. You didn’t care though- not with all the images swirling behind your eyes.

His smile. Punch.

His eyes. Punch.

The way his shirt clung to him after training. Punch.

The way you wanted to grab him by the shoulders and ki-

“Your posture is all wrong” 

Your heart nearly fell out of your ass. You spun on your heel, eyes wide. “Jesus Christ, you scared me.” 

There, hovering in the doorway, was John. He was dressed casually, black sweatpants hung low on his waist. It took every ounce of your strength not to gawp at him. His hair was messy in the way it was after he showered, and you could smell his body lotion from across the room. God, he looked perfect.

“What are you doing up? Thought it was past your bedtime” He watches you from where he stood, a smug smile on his face. You rolled your eyes.

“Ha-ha. Very funny” You stepped away from the punchbag, swiping at your water bottle. You tried to ignore the way John was staring at you. 

“Seriously, though. You do know it’s 1:30? Odd time to be working out, don’t you think?” His voice had found that aggravating tone again, seeping with arrogance.

“Yes I’m aware of the time, Walker. I can read a clock, believe it or not” It was uneasy, how quickly you fell back into your old routine- all teasing and sarcastic. It then occurred to you that this was the first time in two weeks that you and John had been in the same room together, talking. You swallowed thickly, moving back to the punching bag. 

You hit at it again, harsher this time. Your knuckles were already red and you could see the skin beginning to peel, but you pushed through it. John hadn’t moved since he appeared, eyes locked onto the back of your head. You felt like a test subject, squirming under his gaze. 

“You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep punching like that” He said matter-of-factly. You bit back another retort, hands continuing their assault on the leather. You heard Walker make a disgruntled noise and suddenly he was behind you, his cologne invading your nostrils. 

“Stop.” It was murmured out, his breath hitting the back of your neck. The hairs there rose, and you faltered. “You know how you should punch. Show me.”

You felt delightfully trapped, his chest only inches from your back. It reminded you of how it felt to be in his arms, his strong hold keeping you tight against his body. You let out a small breath, your body working slower than your mind. Walker seemed to notice this and with an exhale, brought his hands out to help guide your position.

“Here. Your arms should be bent just slightly, and step apart. You want optimal damage, remember.” His fingers danced over your skin, the warmth of his freshly washed body enveloping your own. You could’ve passed out, there and then. You felt dizzy with it all. 

You clear your throat, assuming the position he gave you. You take a few swings at the bag, hits landing better than before. “See? Better. You’re doing good”

His praise was like music to your ears.

“Hold on a second” You stop, twisting your head around. John’s face was mere centimeters from yours, expression unreadable. He steps forward again, now basically pressed up against you. His hands drop down to your hips, grip somehow both strong and soft. He moves them slightly, adjusting your position again. “Go again”

You stutter, unable to even think straight. You could feel your cheeks burning and when you lifted your hand to punch, it shook lightly. John made no effort to step away, however, his big hands still planted firmly against your hips- the very place they had been just two weeks prior. 

“Come on, Cupcake. Don’t get shy now.”

You moved. Again and again, until you were throwing your fists with precision at the punchbag. John was smiling behind you, fingers flexing out over your hip bone.

“Good”

And then, 

“Good girl” 

You stopped then, completely flustered. John moved away with that stupid smug smile on his face. “What? Something I said?” You let out another hard sigh, hands raking over your hair. 

“Shut up, John”

There was a beat of silence, the air thickening between you. 

“Make me.”

Your jaw moves, mouth hanging open slightly. You didn’t know whether to kiss him or swing at him. 

“Fine”. You launch forward, hands connecting with his chest. You use all of your strength to push him back, and he stumbles into the fighting ring. 

“Game on, Walker”

You take a swing at him and he ducks out of the way, arms coming out to grab at your legs. You manage to kick them off, and with a twist, lay him down flat on the floor. You stand over him, chest rising and falling rapidly. He jerks forward, pulling you down with him and flipping you over on your back to straddle your waist. 

“You’ve been avoiding me all week. Why?” You struggle against him, bucking up slightly. He presses his forearm against your collarbone. 

He’s got you pinned down underneath him, his blue eyes boring down into yours.

“What is it, huh? You’ve been weird with me ever since I patched you up” 

“Get off me-” You strain, hands shooting out to punch against his chest. He doesn’t budge. 

“You’ve gotta hit harder than that, Cupcake. Come on, I know you can do it”. 

You grit your teeth, and by some miracle, manage to move him. You flip yourself over him, your thighs locking around his own. 

“Stop calling me that, Walker” He lets out a low laugh and shuffles underneath you and this time you advance forward, pinning your arm against his collarbone. Your face is the closest it’s ever been to his, and you find yourself looking down at his lips. 

Neither of you speak. The room is deadly quiet, only the sounds of your laboured breathing filtering through the air. 

Then, 

You rush forward, pressing your lips against his. It takes him by surprise and you’re certain he nearly stops breathing, hands flouncing against your hips. He presses his lips against you harder, and you reciprocate the action. He’s the first one to pull back, pupils blown wide and chest panting erratically.

“That’s why.” You’re panting too, hands balling into the fabric of John’s shirt. He looks confused for a fleeting second, but then a knowing look falls over his face. “Oh”

You swallow, a sense of dread beginning to build up your spine. Oh good, or oh bad?

John shatters this illusion though, voice coming out raspy. “I was wondering when you were going to do that” And then his hand finds your neck and he pulls you down into another kiss. 

“Too irresistible, huh? If I’d have known all it would take was to patch you up, I would’ve stabbed you myself” 

You snort out, rolling your eyes. 

“Shut up, Walker” 

all work is my own, i do not give permission for this to be reposted elsewhere without credit. you may not copy or claim as your own.

tag- @okbutiambabygorl

[frothy-tart]

"sugar sweet jealousy"

pairing: John Walker x fem!reader

words: 6.2k

summary: during a undercover mission at a night club, some unexpected jealousy hits John full force. luckily, there's an empty lounge room and he can show you who you belong to.

warnings: age gap (John is in his late 30s, reader is in her early 20s), suggestive dancing, jealousy & possessiveness, dirty talk, oral sex (f!receiving), wall sex

a/n: i'm back again with another story about John and his girl! 🤍 this is set in the same world as "problematic tower romance", but can be read as a stand-alone! i have a few other ideas for this AU, so there might be another part if you are interested! thank you for all the love and everyone reading, I hope you'll enjoy this.

ao3 version

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God, it felt good to be loved by him.

When you were younger, you had dreamed about something like this, the sweet kind of life with someone you were crazy about. Back then, you just hadn’t known it was going to happen to you like this; your perfume on his bathroom counter and your clothes in his dryer. A polka-dotted hair tie that smelled like your shampoo around his wrist and his favorite pizza toppings memorized in your mind forever.

It really was the simple things with John that made your life effortlessly light and happy these days.

It also helped that the man was an absolute fool for you.

Of course, every newly established couple had a honeymoon phase, but right now it felt like this one was never going to end – not that you wanted it to. Ever since John and you had gotten together, you only continued to get to know each other and as time passed, you discovered how much of a softie your super soldier really could be.

And John had stayed true to his word that he didn’t want casual.

He wanted to fall asleep with you safely tucked against him and take you out on legit dates where he’d pay and order your favorite dessert for you. He wanted to know you were happy and cared for and listened to. He wanted to be a gentleman and get his shit together for once and until now, he had kept this promise.

He could handle your silly little jokes about the fateful fifteen years between you and him as long as he got to see your sunshine smile close up for another day.

And you were happier than ever.

Being in love looked good on you. The two of you looked good together.

And, it had to be said, the sex was incredible.

It was like John couldn’t get enough of you and you couldn’t get enough of him.

There still was a hot-headed urgency in the way he loved you, like he was afraid he was going to lose it again in the blink of an eye. You weren’t made of glass and could handle everything he gave you, but often you’d end up completely boneless once he was done with you, body limp and tired out in his arms while his come still leaked from between your thighs…

You shook yourself from these thoughts as you got out of the cab at the foot of the watchtower. Tonight, you had spent some time with Yelena and Ava outside of your new home’s walls.

Girl’s night. A tradition you had established and was very much needed with this much masculine energy around you twenty-four-seven. Usually, you’d find a cute little restaurant where you could eat and chat in peace. (Thankfully, the girls had gotten over the point where they riddled you with questions over why the hell John held your heart.)

After a quick midnight snack in the kitchen and stifling your laughter as Yelena made jokes, you said goodnight to the girls and went to your quarters.

You tiptoed down the corridor, past John’s closed door where he was most likely sleeping safe and sound. Smiling to yourself at the thought, you slipped into your own room and softly closed the door behind you.

To be honest, it had been a while since you slept on your own. There wasn’t a need for it anymore when you had a bulky super soldier who used you to sleep like you were his personal plushie. You yawned to yourself as you slipped out of your clothes and got ready for bed, the sight of your full shelves in the bathroom so different from John’s few belongings.

Just as you settled underneath the covers with a happy little sigh, you heard the door open and close again with a small click.

You listened to bare feet making their way across your room, shoulders relaxing when you came to the conclusion that you weren’t in danger. The steps were too careful to mean trouble and too heavy to belong to one of the girls.

You looked over your shoulder and squinted at the tall figure standing beside your bed. The room was painted in silver by the moon, illuminating him. 

“John? What are you doing?” You mumbled sleepily.

He looked like he had tried to sleep before, but ended up tossing and turning. He wore those grey joggers you liked to see so much on him, hanging low on his hips and his shirt was all wrinkled. He looked like a big teddy bear, the imprint of a pillow visible on his cheek where a fresh cut was healing.

“Why didn’t you come to my room?” He whispered with a small frown and you discarded the teddy bear image and settled on an oversized puppy instead.

“I just got back.” You whispered back. “It’s the middle of the night. I didn’t want to wake you.”

He shook his head. “I’m not sleeping without you.” John said it like it was self-explanatory, leaving no room for contradictions.

You smiled at him in the dark. As enticing as it would be to get carried back to his bed by him, you were sleepy. So, you lifted the covers in invitation and John wordlessly climbed into them, his strong arms sneaking around your waist and pulling you against him.

There was his immediate warmth, something so comforting even your own blanket couldn’t provide anymore. He had ruined you for anything else – but so have you ruined him.

He spooned you snugly with a little huff, getting comfortable and relishing the feeling of your smaller body against his. These were the moments where John couldn’t remember anymore what life had been like without you.

And he never wanted to find out again.

You stroked slowly through his hair as he cuddled you close, listening to the sound of your combined breathing. Pressing a small kiss to his temple, you hummed contently to yourself. “You can be pretty soft when you want to be, did you know that?”

John thought about it for the moment.

All his life, he had been a lot of things.

Soft wasn’t a word he was usually described as.

“Only for you…” He mumbled against your skin. “You had a good time?”

“Yeah…” You yawned once again and he chuckled behind you. “Love you. Sleep now.”

“Love you too, honey.” And he did, more relaxed than before with the familiar feeling of you in his arms…

One of the things you liked to do that made the tower feel more like home was baking.

It had started before John, a way to relax and sometimes to blow off steam outside of the gym. You made little cakes and cupcakes and it was always nice to have a self-made treat closeby.

Somewhen along the way, the others had joined in.

“Everyone got a minute?” Bucky looked into the round with his hands on his hip.

The kitchen looked a little…used.

At the counter, Alexei was currently kneading dough like it was an Olympic Sport he intended to win gold in. Yelena and Ava were sitting next to each other on the counter, fingers deep in some raw cookie dough with chocolate chips. John was dutifully measuring whatever you handed him and you were coordinating this perfect little chaos around you like you never did anything else.

The only one working quietly was Bob, who was not going to be on the mission, but nodded encouragingly at Bucky anyways.

“Alright.” Bucky rubbed his face, tired but not surprised by the lack of a general attention spawn in front of him. “This Saturday. There’s this club downtown, secretly housing an underground basement involved in a black market for weapons. Valentina wants access. We’re going in there to get it. It’ll be packed and we don’t want any attention on us or trouble which is why Alexei and Walker are going to stay outside, keeping watch.”

The two men mentioned groaned in protest.

“Dad, you’re too old for a club anyway.” Yelena reminded Alexei.

“C’mon Bucky, you’ll need me in there.” John argued while handing you the tube with pink glitter you’d been looking for.

“For once we’re intending to avoid fights so no, John, I really don’t need you in there.”

Sensing this argument was far from over yet, you handed Bucky a new spoon with some of your dough which he wordlessly took. “What will we do?”

“Tastes good.” He gave you a quick smile. “You, Yelena and I are going in, disguised as guests. Ava is assisting us from the roof, because we suspect there’s a shaft leading to the basement.”

You frowned at Ava.

“I’ve been there this morning.” She explained to you, shaking her head in disappointment. “The hidden entrance in the club doesn’t let me through. There’s some kind of mechanism built in it that recognizes my ability.”

“So we’ll do this the old-fashioned way?” Yelena furrowed her brows at Bucky. “Let me guess. The club owner has the card for the door?”

Bucky nodded grimly. “Yes, but there’s actually four of them. All brothers, but only one access card. And we don’t know who keeps the card on them. Which is why…we need to get close to them.”

There was a beat of silence in the room. Bucky and you shared a look and from what you were seeing, he didn’t like this part of the plan at all, but there was no other way to get it done without involving violence.

“Okay.” You said after a moment and nodded. “I can do that.”

“Wh- Wait, what did we just agree on here?” John wanted to know, a notch too loud.

Alexei – thank god – finally stopped his assault on the dough in front of him and smiled proudly at you. “The weapons of a woman. You have my full admiration.”

Yelena rolled her eyes and took another sample. “Alright. When will we be leaving?”

“Woah, woah, woah, no.” John raised a hand, willing everyone to slow down for a second as you looked at him in surprise. “I don’t like this. There’s gotta be another day without her having to do that.”

“I can handle myself.” You told him softly.

John let out a deep breath. “I know you can. But I know these assholes can’t.”

“I’ll be fine-“

John turned to Bucky, as ice cold as steel as a man with rainbow sprinkles on his shirt could look. “I want to be teamed up with her. I’m not gonna leave her out of my sight.”

You suddenly felt a little breathless, looking at the girls for help. While Yelena sighed dramatically, Ava hid her amused grin in another dip of cookie dough. You looked back at John, who was still staring at Bucky. In that moment, it hit you that you didn’t know if you were offended or incredibly turned on.

Bucky sighed. “If I say no, will you let this go?”

“No.”

A warm shudder went through you.

Bucky and John continued their stare-off until Bucky eventually sighed and shook his head. “Fine. But stick to the plan.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitched arrogantly. “I will. But if someone disrespects her, I will step in.” He announced darkly, jaw all tense and stance determined to protect what was his. “I don’t care if I blow our cover. Everyone who comes too close to her is a dead man.”

Yelena, Ava and Bucky looked like they regretted every decision in their lives that had led them up to this moment. Bob let out a low, impressed whistle. And you stood in the middle of them, cookie dough spatula paused mid-air as you felt the overwhelming urge to drag him out of this room and suck him off until he’d black out from pleasure.

“Ah, young love.” Alexei mused with a dreamy smile.

There was a beat of silence before Ava calmly pointed out: “Well, John’s not so young anymore.”

“I hate you all.” John grumbled and pulled you close by the waist as you snickered.

So, this was settled…sort of.

The club was bursting at the seams on this Saturday night.

It hadn’t been easy to get in, all four of you having split up before the bouncer looked at your fake IDs. There were hidden coms in your ears that kept you connected, but that was about it. Now, each of you was on their own.

“I still don’t like this.” John had told you back at the tower.

He stood behind you in front of the mirror, zipping your cocktail dress up and brushing your hair away from your nape. A small kiss followed, soft and caring.

“I know.” You turned around, your hot pink heels making you almost match his height for once. “But you have to trust me, trust the team. I’ll be safe and it’ll be over as soon as I get my hands on the card.”

“I know you got this.” He said quietly. “I’m just not sure I can control myself for that long.” A vision in red flashed through his mind; another blinding hot rage he couldn’t shake out of, so many eyes watching him in terror and shock. You, looking at him with fear in them.

“You’ll be fine.” You said simply, scaring away the dark clouds hanging over his mind with an assuring smile of yours. “And maybe…if you’ll behave…” You walked to the door, letting his silk tie slip playfully through your fingers.

John groaned, gaze inevitably fixed on how you swayed your hips. Fuck, you looked so good leaving, although he hated it. “What? Ah, come on, finish your sentence-“

You had been mingling for a while now, ordering yourself the occasional sweet cocktail as you ignored offers to buy from guys around you. The atmosphere around you was bubbly and you almost couldn’t remember a time anymore where you would’ve been one of those dancing people.

All these people and lights around you and yet, you only saw him.

While Bucky and Yelena were standing together close by at the bar, John had kept himself obediently in the background, walking around the edges of the club as the four of you tried to seek out the brothers who were in possession of the access card.

He was not more than a shadow, yet he radiated your life.

You leaned back against the counter for a moment, catching the exact moment he noticed you. He almost looked out of place in this crowd, uniform all gone and traded for a suit you had last seen him in in Rome. His hand kept flexing at his side, like the absence of his shield was a bodily itch he couldn’t scratch quite right. John was feeling vulnerable and the fact that he wasn’t allowed to go near you only made it worse. You looked at each other, a silent understanding shared between you.

Give him something to distract him.

You innocently blinked at him, your hand finding the cocktail glass beside you. Without a care in the world, you lifted it to your lips and without breaking eye contact with him, licked the sugar rim like it was fucking icing.

Even from where you stood you could see John’s pupils dilating, his breath faltering for a moment before he regained composure again and smirked at you deviously. Knowing exactly how he couldn’t do what he longed to do to you right now.

“They’re here.” Bucky informed the team over the coms.

Time to get to work.

You looked at John one last time before you moved, your mind quieting until you only thought of the mission. Be the distraction, get the card. Get the hell out of here.

You stopped only when you reached the middle of the dance floor.

You looked over your shoulder at John one more time, throwing him a devious little wink. Then, you slowly lifted your arms up in the air, effortlessly falling into the role you were supposed to play and closing your eyes in bliss.

In the mass of people surrounding you, you were just another neon light, bright yet one of many. But you knew how to stick out just as much as making yourself invisible. And like it was the easiest thing in the world, you fell into a rhythm, moving with the bodies around you and letting your own drift while your mind stayed sharp as a blade.

You had cast the rod.

Now, you only had to wait.

You counted the minutes in your head as one song shifted into the next and promptly decided to be brave as you looked up to where John stood. He still hadn’t moved, frozen to the spot as his eyes were trained on only you.

Moth to flame.

John gripped the glass in his hands so tightly, it was about to break. He couldn’t look away if he wanted to, completely mesmerized with the ethereal vision you made. Your soft hair was illuminated by the flickering lights above you and he wished nothing more than to run his fingers through it, to have his hands on you as you sensually moved along to the music.

Your breath hitched in your throat at his hot gaze. Who said this mission couldn’t be at least a little fun? 

Keeping your eyes on him, you let your hands glide down over your curves, neck tilted back and glossy lips softly agape.

You were putting on a show.

And he was the only spectator you cared for.

It didn’t take long for the sharks to bite.

You felt his presence before you saw him, a foul kind of warmth radiating at your back. Your eyes darkened as you stared ahead, your eyes briefly meeting Yelena’s across the room. With a short nod, confirming your guess, she turned back around at the bar.

Before you knew it, someone pressed himself against you, one hand splayed out on your stomach like he had any right to do so. The wrong kind of possessiveness. So damn predictable.

There you are.

You felt absolutely nothing as hands now touched your waist, roaming over the silky material of your dress. There was an odd calmness in you, knowing exactly that your friends were watching and were ready to step in. But you needed to get the card without causing any fuss.

You turned in the man’s arms, not even slightly surprised when you were met with one of the club owners as you smiled at him. Slowly, you put your arms around his neck and swayed to the beat of the music. He followed the lead.

It was a wordless exchange between you, yet his intentions for you were clear as day. You knew men like this one, who took without asking and thought the whole goddamn world belonged to them.

“You know, usually…” You leaned forward until your lips almost brushed his ear. Your hand rested on the pocket over his chest. No card. “…you ask a woman if she would like to be touched.”

The man chuckled, cold and arrogant, nothing like the warm chuckle John let out when it was only him and you. “Sometimes words aren’t necessary.”

Prick.

You forced yourself to giggle and let your hands roam freely, gliding over muscles and down as you concentrated on your search. The card had to be somewhere on him. And if this one didn’t have it, you were in for a repeat performance with one of his brothers.

Where was the damn card?

You felt his smelly breath fan over your lips just as your fingertips found the outlines of the access card in his back pocket. A second later, a hand was on your ass. 

And out of the sudden, the guy let out a choked sound and went limp, almost collapsing on you. You gasped, stumbling, but then, John appeared behind him and lifted him from you, raging fire burning in his eyes.

“Wha- John, I almost had him!” You hissed, trying to keep the guy between you upright.

Your eyes darted back and forth, the crowd around you oblivious to what just happened. With all the strobe lights flickering over you, it looked like you were simply holding a tired friend in your middle and not like John just knocked the shit out of him.

“Yeah, I know.” John huffed, placing the guy’s arm around his shoulder so roughly, his jaw clicked painfully, making you cringe. “And he was about to fucking grope you.”

You fished for the card, quickly taking his other side and swiftly carrying your target over to the side of the dance floor where Yelena and Bucky were waiting. “I could’ve handled it. God, you’re such a mother hen-“

“Not discussing this with you right now.”

“You didn’t like watching me dance?” You asked sarcastically, blinking up at him through your lashes.

John shook his head, serious. “Not with him. Never with someone who isn’t me.”

You softened at his words, your initial anger vanishing a little. How would you have reacted if you had to watch him dance with a woman like that? Maybe the man between you should count himself lucky he still had his hands.

Yelena and you quickly shielded the guys as they dumped the club owner in a blind spot of the dark club. 

Without any bravado or patience, John took the card from you and put it into Bucky’s hand. “There you go, we’re done.”

“This wasn’t the plan, Walker.” Bucky said darkly, quickly tucking it away in his pocket as Yelena quickly spoke with Ava over the com.

John shrugged. “It worked though, didn’t it? And it could’ve worked like this from the beginning on. I made it clear before the mission. No one touches her like this and doesn’t suffer the consequences.”

“I thought I’d like to punch him right now, but he actually has a point.” Yelena muttered, slipping past you with a wink.

“Make sure to stay together now.” Bucky said over his shoulder, dismissing the both of you. Nothing easier than that. “His brothers will notice his absence soon enough. We will all leave in five.”

You nodded at him and gone they were, leaving John and you alone at the edge of the club. The night had barely started. John kicked the passed-out dude’s shoes one more time, making sure he was really out cold before you crossed your arms in front of you, an alluring smile on your lips.

“So…should we go back?” You asked him sweetly, your fingers trailing over the fine fabric of his suit. “I think we have time for one more song.”

You could imagine it already, luring him in far enough for him to lose the tension and just give himself over to the music and you.

Something dangerous sparkled in John’s eyes. “Nah. I know how we can use those five minutes way better, honey.”

John grabbed your hand and led you into the shadows, leaving the guy behind some big plant vases where no one would find him until you’d be long gone. You let out a surprised gasp as John pulled you right into the closest room.

Darkness surrounded you for a moment before a switch was flipped and the lounge before you was cast in a red and pink glow. There were a few couches with a pole in their middle, a disco ball lazily spinning over your heads, leaving no guesses over what this kind of room was used for.

A breathless laugh left you as John turned around to take you in, his hair still a little messy. He looked like he wanted to eat you alive. Right here, right now.

“I hated seeing you with him.” John said, the dull bass of the music vibrating through the thick walls.

“I know.” You replied. “You don’t ever have to again.”

“Good.” He growled and in the blink of an eye, John pushed you against the wall and kissed you.

He stole the air from your lungs like it belonged to him. John towered above you, his large hands cupping your face and caging you in and you could do nothing but moan happily as his tongue licked fire into your mouth.

“We don’t have much time.” You gasped between kisses, fumbling with the collar of his shirt and unbuttoning it with shaking hands. You felt too hot, too riled up from when you had first danced for him. Only for him.

“Don’t need much time to rock your world, honey.” He mumbled arrogantly and you scoldingly bit down on his bottom lip for his cockiness. “Guys your age don’t know how to treat you, do they?”

“Guys my age don’t fucking interest me.” You bit back, grabbing his jacket forcefully and pulling him down to you again for a scorching kiss. Your back arched as his hands slid over you, knuckles caressing the side of your boobs and his mouth latched onto your neck.

Seeming satisfied with your answer, John kissed your sensitive neck like he was trying to make out with it. You buried your hand in his hair while his traveled lower, goosebumps rising where he let his fingers ghost over your thigh. The seam of your dress slipped up as he grabbed your leg and lifted it over his hip, pressing forward until John could grind against your clothed core.

“John…” You whispered, lashes fluttering closed at the sudden friction.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” He muttered against your skin, peppering wet kisses all over your cleavage. His hips rolled into yours just right, the two of you hissing as the outline of his hard dick slid over your core. “’gonna show you, gonna make you mine, honey.”

“Already yours.” You whispered back, tilting his chin up so you could kiss him again. You never had enough of his mouth, the way he consumed your senses so thoroughly, you always pulled back dizzy. And so fucking ready for more.

You were taking too much time, both of you knew it.

While you didn’t care, John seemed to want to make good on his promise.

Your man went down on his knees before you.

He looked up at you like you were a goddess and he intended to pray at your altar, devotion and lust shimmering in his blue eyes. You were breathing hard already, heart beating wildly in your chest as he smoothed his hands over your thighs, your shaky ones holding onto his shoulders.

You watched in anticipation as John slid up your dress, groaning at the sight of your wet panties that he quickly pushed down your legs. He steadied you as you kicked them away, leaning your shoulders back against the wall and pushing your hips forward for him.

“Jesus, you’re soaked.” John said between kisses on your inner thighs, letting his finger drag through the slick wetness between them as you shook above him. “All for me, huh? Or did that guy back there excite you?”

You nearly growled at him. “Hell no.”

John clicked his tongue in approval. “Thought so. My good girl…”

He leaned in, letting his hot breath fan over your needy core for a moment before your breath hitched and he surged forward.

Your back arched like lightning had struck you, every nerve in your body alight with pleasure as John licked your pussy, the flat of his tongue spoiling your folds before he got to work and closed his lips around your clit.

“F-fuck-“ You bit your lip, your naked thighs two snug pillows on the sides of John’s head as he continued to lap at your sweetness, his deep groans at your taste sending delicious vibrations through your core. “Don’t stop, please, I-“

“Not gonna.” John looked up at you, his eyes a shade darker than before, already cunt-drunk as he grabbed your ass with one hand and pulled you closer, his knuckles brushing over your clit in admiration. “I’d say take what you need, but you know only I can give it to you like that.”

You mewled in pathetic agreement, reduced to whiny sounds and gasps as he ate you out like a starved man. There was no finesse or strategy in his actions, just pure hunger for a high that was already simmering under your skin, your hands trying to find purchase on his shoulders to keep you upright.

John seemed to be everywhere at once; his fingers teasing your slit, thumbs digging into your hip bones and that sinful tongue of his, swirling and licking and sucking over every inch of your needy pussy. And you were losing it, your instincts taking over your senses as you met the strokes of his tongue with your hips, carefully trying to grind against his mouth.

“You look so pretty grinding down on my face, honey.” He mumbled, your belly doing a summersault at the sight of his glistening beard, his tongue darting out to taste your juices on his lips. “But I know you look even prettier on my cock.”

Fuck. Yes.

John stood, his hands not moving away from where he steadied you by the waist. Your legs felt more than unsteady as he towered above you, his thumb softly caressing your chin before he suddenly hooked his hands under your thighs and hoisted you up in his arms.

Not. Much. Time.

Your back met the wall once again and your breath hitched as you looked at him with wide eyes, feeling yourself dripping as he quickly pushed down his pants with one hand. Your mouth watered at the sight of his neglected cock, the tip all red and leaking and as John caught your greedy gaze, you couldn’t help but smirk.

“There’s it again, that devious little grin.” He kissed you one more time as he adjusted your position until you felt his tip nudge at your soaked entrance. “I’m gonna fuck you so good, I’ll have to carry you out of this stupid club.”

You suddenly realized no matter how much you enjoyed this, John needed to do this.

Whatever possessive haze was shooting through his veins right now, he needed to ride it out.

And god, how ready you were to be his little outlet…

“Fuck me then, Walker.” You gasped, feeling his tip nudge at your soaked entrance. “Show me who I belong to.”

“You’re mine.” He growled and you moaned in agreement, tugging at his earlobe with your teeth and nearly drawing blood as he pushed into you in one smooth slide. The way he stretched you out made you see stars and you clung tightly to his shoulders.

But you’d been ready for him ever since you licked the sugar from your cocktail glass.

“Ready?” His voice was husky, wrecked by the tight feel of your pussy around him.

You nodded and held on to his shoulders. “So fucking ready.”

John grinned and snapped his hips up into you, fast and sharp as you threw your head back and just let yourself feel.

John didn’t give you any more time to adjust.

The second you shakingly breathed out into the thin space between your lips, he thrust up into you. A strangled moan left his chest at how wet you were and he couldn’t help but bury himself balls deep, eyes fixed on your blissed out face to make sure you could take him.

You groaned in satisfaction as he set a steady rhythm, his hips rolling desperately into yours while he held you up against the wall. There was not a single place where you didn’t touch, not an inch of your skin he wasn’t covering with kisses or his big hands. You could smell sweat and sex and his cologne that drove you crazy and when he moved you downwards, your clit would brush against his hard abs every time and you were in heaven.

“That’s it, just what you needed, huh?” He huffed.

A clever remark died on your tongue – you weren’t the only needy one here – as John pulled down the strap of your dress and bra and sucked your rosy bud into his mouth, never losing the pace of his sharp thrusts.

You ran your fingers through his hair, trying your best to match his thrusts, but becoming more overwhelmed with pleasure by the second. It was exactly what it meant to be consumed by John Walker.

“Shit-“ You squeezed your eyes shut as his cock brushed over your most sensitive spot and John saw it, angling his hips so he’d continue to fuck over your sweet spot perfectly. “’m close already…”

“Yeah?” John breathed cockily, not letting up. He did that to you and he was nothing if not a man who finished what he started. “You’re gonna come for me, honey? Gonna gush all over me like I know my good girl can?”

You whimpered at his praise, dizzy and almost drooling on his shoulder as you held on to him. You felt your slick run down your thighs, ruined by his fucking and wound so tightly, you felt as if you could snap in two.

“C’mon baby girl, let me feel your pretty pussy when you come. I know you’re so close, you only have to let go.” He purred in your ear and reached down to rub your clit, the combined friction of his fingers and cock sending you right over the edge.

You shattered into a million pieces and bit down on his shoulder to stifle your scream. 

Nearly choking on a sob as John continued to fuck you, your legs shook on each side of his hips and it only took a few more sloppy thrusts until John shuddered bodily and emptied himself inside of you. His thumb still drew perfect little circles over your twitching clit and you whined in overstimulation, trying to blink away the tiny stars in your vision.

“Jesus…” John said hoarsely, dropping his forehead onto your naked shoulder and you laughed quietly, the overpowering orgasm leaving you only slowly.

You tightened your legs around him, unwilling to let him pull out this soon. John muted his guttural groan against your chest as you milked him, surprised by the powerful aftershocks shooting through him with you in his arms.

“Fuck…” He muttered again and let the sound of your tired giggle next to his ear consume him. Your soft hair fell over his shoulder as you snuggled your cheek against his shoulder and it was so perfect right then, it didn’t even matter where you were and that there was a world outside of these walls.

The only thing that mattered was clinging onto him, seemingly not wanting to let go and John got the message. He smoothed a hand down your half-clothed spine and slowly walked over to one of the velvet couches. “You doing okay, honey?”

“Mhm…just need a moment.” You mumbled and kissed his stubbly jaw as he sat down with you, still buried inside of you like he had no intention of ever leaving you empty again. John and you were touching everywhere, his warmth not leaving you once as you recovered.

Sluggishly, your surroundings came back to you. The soft velvet against your knees, the music from the dance floor, John’s hand softly drawing circles on your back.

“All good?” John asked and kissed your temple.

“Yeah…how are you older than me and yet the one who didn’t even break a sweat?” You wanted to know as you softly cupped his cheek.

“Oh, believe me, I’m wrecked. You were so hot, so beautiful out there.” He let out a deep breath, his fingers playing with your hair as he tucked your pretty dress back into place. After a while, he added quietly: “I…don’t do good with jealousy. I thought I’d outgrown emotions like that, but here we are.”

You knew what he didn’t say. After the divorce, John hadn’t thought he’d ever fall this hard again and a small part of him was still terrified of it.

You placed your hand over his heart.

It beat wildly underneath your fingertips as if it was answering your call.

“I’m keeping you, you know?” You told him quietly, in all honesty. He looked silently back at you, waiting for what you had to say, needing to hear it. “I’m not going anywhere, John. I meant what I said. I’m yours. Are you mine?”

He looked at you with the kind of smile only you were allowed to see.

Unguarded.

Soft.

“I’m yours.” He said truthfully. “Only ever yours.”

Your hair was a mess and John’s neck and shoulders were full of bite marks. Somewhere along the way, you had lost a shoe and a button was missing on John’s jacket. Yet, in the quietness of the lounge, it was a perfect moment between him and you.

Then, there was a soft crackle over your coms before Bucky’s voice ordered everyone to meet outside.

The mission was complete.

It was time to go home.

And John and you looked as fucked-out as you’d get…

You – but mostly him, really – were never going to hear the end of this.

────୨ৎ────

taglist: @mandoloriancookie @gonzo-induced-gender-crisis @calzone-d @allhailbuckybarnes

[frothy-tart]

Are we out of the woods yet?

Pairing: John Walker x reader. Word count: 6.2k

Description: John Walker and you are nothing more than two idiots who can’t stand each other. But when a mission goes wrong and you fall through cracking ice, he does everything in his power to keep you alive.

Warnings/Tags: Enemies to ‘you saved my life, what are we now?’, hurt/comfort, drowning in frigid water, CPR, body heat. You might fall in love with him. Thunderbolts make a cheeky appearance.

Notes: This was the most voted option for my next fic, it’s uh … it’s a bit long, yeah 🤭. Enjoy 🫶🏼

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You'd lost a stupid bet to Yelena, so stupid you couldn't even remember what it was, but you were currently living the consequences of it.

Which meant being paired on a mission with none other than John Walker.

Yes, the myth, the legend, the annoying, all star american asshole.

You'd managed to avoid being paired with him for a while. After all, the last few missions you were together had ended in setbacks, for the simple reason you two just couldn't get along. We're talking about a history of missed targets, blown covers, a few stray bullets aimed in each other's general direction, and maybe ... one crashed jet.

So Bucky and Yelena avoided it at all costs when planning for missions.

That was until now, all because Yelena had gotten bored. A lost bet landed you back on another jet with him of all people.

Mission site was in the middle of a frozen forest, where sunlight hadn't touched the snowy ground in years. Even inside the jet, you could feel the cold creeping through the metal walls as you got closer to the drop point.

You were sent to retrieve intel from a highly guarded facility that had made enemies with Valentina. Maybe eliminate a few targets if it came to that. Quite standard, even easy if you actually knew how to work together as a team.

The worst part? Their security perimeter stretched for miles. Which meant you had to go through a rough landing between the trees, far away from the base, and then hike through thick snow and unforgiving cold just to get in there.

Any enhanced teammate would've been better than you. Either Bucky or Alexei ... maybe they just didn't want to stroll around for miles with Walker either.

Couldn't blame them.

So Yelena, influenced by Bob surely, thought it would be funny to send you. Now that was the worst part, doing all of it with him.

You didn't even know what it was about Walker that riled you up so badly. Maybe it was his superiority complex. Maybe it was his agressiveness when he didn't like the way you planned things. Or how he never took the blame when things went sideways, even when he'd done something reckless too. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way he looked a little too good when he was pissed at you, those veins in his neck, chest heaving, strands of sweaty hair sticking to his forehead—stop.

Let's go back to 'You simply don't get along'.

It was easier to hate him than to name ...whatever the hell this was.

"Can you stop doing that? I'm trying to land this thing, or are you looking to crash another plane?" Walker snapped from the pilot seat, not even turning to look at you.

You stopped for a second, realizing you'd started pacing in the back of the jet. It was the only thing keeping your body warm, and your mouth shut.

Until he had to open his.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Is the super soldier getting distracted?" you said sarcastically. "Maybe if you actually paid attention to the plane this time, you won’t crash another one."

"We crashed because you couldn't sit still for five seconds … like right now."

"Wow, you're right. I brought it down with my bad attitude. My apologies, Cap."

You noticed the way his posture tensed on the seat, knuckles immediately flexing on the controls ... why was he so easy to rile up?

And why the hell was that kinda ... No. Stop it.

John didn't know what it was about you that riled him up so bad either. Maybe it was the constant defiance, that bratty attitude he just couldn't allow. Maybe it was how you never followed his orders, even when he was right. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way you kept running your mouth and he could only think about his mouth on yours to shut you up—no.

He just hated you, that was it.

"Just sit your ass down and put on your belt. We're about to land," he muttered, trying not to sound like he wanted to throw you out mid flight. "I don't know how bad it's gonna be landing into the woods."

You figured it was better to comply, not for him, but because the mission hadn't even started yet and part of the bet with Yelena was to finish the mission successfully, without killing each other in the process.

A lost bet was a lost bet, after all.

You plopped down into the copilot seat beside him, letting your eyes roll as you buckled in. John just side eyed you.

"Good girl," he muttered under his breath, but loud enough for you to hear.

You went upright in your sit, looking at him with disbelief. "What the hell did you just call me?"

All you saw was a half smirk on his face, but before you could unbuckle and force him to say it again, the jet landed harshly into the snowy woods, trees scraping against the reinforced windshield as the aircraft rolled for some distance until it came to an abrupt halt.

You groaned when your head knocked hard against the leather copilot seat. From the corner of your eye, you saw his head snap toward you.

"You okay?" he asked, already unbuckling his belt.

If you really looked into it, it sounded a bit off from someone who had made very clear how much he didn't care about you. But apparently he seemed to have forgotten that for a moment, as he walked over and knelt in front of your seat, fingers working quickly to unbuckle you as he scanned your face for any signs of a concussion.

And for a moment you believed the hit gave you one, because there was no way in hell this was real.

John Walker...being nice to you? Caring?

You blinked a few times at the sight of him crouched at your feet, heart thumping so loud on your chest you were sure he could hear it. John's eyebrows furrowed to your lack of response.

You considered faking the concussion so you could blame your dazed state to that and not to the fact that his large hands rested on your knees like he wasn’t the last person who wanted to touch you.

"I'm good," you finally replied, barely audible, but enough for him to let out a breath he was holding.

Your eyes dropped to your lap, and he was suddenly aware of the placement of his hands. He quickly cleared his throat, standing up to somehow pretend to shrug it off. He grabbed his shield from the floor and tightened it up in his arm, maybe a little too hard so he could control his own heartbeat.

"Okay then … time to go to work."

You cleared your throat too, nodding and trying to ignore the heat that flushed across your cheeks.

Must've been the landing... yeah, just that.

——

The rough landing seemed to had messed with the jet's communication system, leaving you unable to notify anyone back at the watchtower that you'd made it safely.

You barely got two steps outside before regretting every decision that led you to this point. The stupid bet with Yelena. Stupid Bob.

Actually, scratch that ... Yelena was taking the yelling for the both of them.

Even layered head to toe with Valentina's high tech tactical suit, the cold crept in through every seam and zipper. The forest around you was quiet, and too white, just frost covered pines and the sound of boots crunching the snow below you.

And... him.

He walked ahead of you, carrying the map completely unfazed by the freezing air, head high and posture perfect, with that ridiculous bent shield attached to his arm.

"Walker, why do you get the map?" you asked, not even trying to hide your irritation.

"Because I actually know how to read it," he replied without looking back.

You rolled your eyes. Honestly, you didn't even want the map, your crossed arms were staying glued to your chest for warmth. Picking a fight with him was just the most entertaining way to stay conscious.

You walked in silence for about fifteen minutes before you started talking again, not because you had anything relevant to say, but because it kept your jaw moving.

"How much longer?" you asked, not intending it to come out as whiny as it did, but the cold sinking in your bones was making your brain foggy.

"Can't keep up, already?" he mocked. "Want me to take out the Sentry I keep in my pocket? Maybe he can fly us there."

You inhaled sharply, resisting the sudden urge to stab him. No one would know ... right? Mission incident. Just an incident.

You shook your head, you still needed him to get out of there. That didn't mean you couldn't mess with him a little longer.

So you sniffled.

"You're so mean, John," you mumbled, voice laced with fake hurt.

He stopped in his tracks, shocked about two things. First, did you just call him John? And second ... were you sobbing?

He immediately spun around to check, and Jesus, not a single tear. Just a goddamn grin spreading across your face.

His was jaw tight as he turned away, clearly realizing he'd been played.

"You're impossible," he muttered, shaking his head as he began walking again. You laughed.

"I'm actually cold ... not that you'd get it Walker, you're biologically incapable of suffering."

"Can you just be quiet for two seconds?" He groaned. "Maybe shutting up will help you preserve some energy."

"Oh, I'm sorry," you huffed, "Are we saving that energy for all the arguing we're gonna do later?" you were panting now, hating the way your breaths came shorter from the lack of oxygen.

He stopped again, turned just enough to glance at you over his shoulder.

"You good back there, or do I need to carry you?"

There was a part of it that sounded like he actually gave a fuck, but most of it was just him being sarcastic. Or at least that's what you told yourself.

"Oh, please," you scoffed, trudging past him in the snow. "I'd rather get naked here in the cold than be carried by you." He let out a short, dry laugh, and continued trailing behind you.

Yes, fighting with you was entertaining to him too.

The two of you went deeper into the snowy woods for a while, until the trail curved into a clearing. There, a wide, frozen lake stretched in front of you, splitting the path you were supposed to get across. It was lightly dusted in snow, surface thin enough to be a problem but not so fragile you couldn't maybe cross it if you were careful.

If you were careful.

Walker stepped in front of you, eyes scanning the amount of space the lake covered. He cursed under his breath, realizing going around was not an option if he wanted to get this mission done before the night fell and you froze to death.

"I don't like the look of this." He muttered, shaking his head.

It didn't take long for him to get into his I-was-a-soldier-once persona, running through scenarios in his head until he chose the one he seemed to be satisfied with.

Surprise, it was always the same one.

"Okay ... you're gonna have to stay right behind me. I'll check the ice as I go, you step where I step, got it?" He turned to you, lifting his eyebrows expecting an answer while you looked at him with an annoyed expression.

Yes, you knew it was the safest way to do it, he just didn't have to sound so condescending about it.

"Yes ... got it Walker, thank you," you rolled your eyes, eager for him to just go so you could get this over with.

He sighed, and turned his back to you. He adjusted his shield on his arm and stretched his neck from side to side. You snorted, why was he so dramatic all the time?

"Let's go," he muttered, before testing the first step by tapping into the ice with his boot.

You made your way like that, he gave cautious long steps, first putting part of his weight to test it, then all of it, before he could step forward with you behind him. You kept yourself close to him, as much as you told yourself you didn't enjoy it, the broadness of his back covered you from the chill air and his body was so warm you could feel it through his suit.

You didn't notice when he came to an abrupt halt, lifting his right arm up as a 'stop sign' a second too late, causing you to collide against his back.

"What the– ouch!" You cursed when you crashed into him. He didn't even budge from his spot, it was like hitting a wall. A six foot two brick wall. "Do you mind warning me before stopping like that? you are literally made of concrete," you complained, rubbing your forehead.

"I literally signed it when I stopped," he furrowed his brows, pointing the hand he kept in the air. 

"You are supposed to sign it before you stop, soldier boy. Or how about you just talk like a normal human being?"

"Listen, I think this is a thinner section, so we have to walk through slower, s l o w e r, is it clear enough for you now?" he said, spelling the world 'slower' as he made a walking motion with his fingers on the palm of his hand.

God, stabbing him never sounded like a better idea.

"Jesus Walker, do you even hear yourself when you talk? Just because you're leading doesn't mean you have to be a dick about it." You were almost yelling, completely fuming at this point.

"If you don't like the way I lead," he snapped, gesturing sharply in front of him, "then by all means, go ahead, take the lead. Break the ice if you want. I won't catch you if you drown."

You narrowed your eyes at him.

He didn't expect you to actually move.

But you did. Because you'd rather drown out of spite than let him think he had the final word. So you squared your shoulders and strode right past him without hesitation.

His hand shot out to grab your shoulder. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm taking the lead," you shrugged, and he looked at you in disbelief.

"Are you serious right now–"

You yanked your shoulder from his grasp before he could finish. "Dead serious."

You kept walking without testing your steps, John's eye twitched at the sound of your boots hitting the ice. At this point you had forgotten how cold you were, just from the anger at him alone.

"Oh great ... yeah, keep stomping like that. You want me to throw the shield too? Maybe help you break it faster?"

"No, Walker, I don't want your stupid taco shield. Besides, I'm lighter than you."

You kept your pace, ice creaking faintly beneath you, but you ignored it. You were almost halfway through. When his firm hand latched onto your forearm, rougher this time, stopping you in your tracks.

"Stop doing that!" he snapped, holding you firmer so you wouldn't let go. "You can't just walk off and–"

"God, stop stopping me!" you shouted back, twisting violently in his grip. "Let go of me, Walker!"

But this time, he wasn't gonna let you. You exhaled loudly, feeling helpless, so you stomped your foot on the thin ice. Great … you were letting John Walker make you throw a tantrum. He just got angrier at your reckless move.

"I gave you an order!" He finally snapped, making your eyes go wide in surprise to his audacity.

Where the hell does this man get off?

You just stood there in silence for a few seconds that felt like an eternity, his grip still firm on your forearm. Your brows furrowed, chest rising up and down from the confrontation. You swore your head was about to explode.

"You know what, Walker," you muttered, your voice was low because you felt that if you raised it any louder you were about to have a stroke. "Maybe if you used half of the brain inside your big stupid head you would realize you're not the boss of me."

He opened his mouth to talk, but nothing came out. His posture relaxed slightly, letting out a frustrated sigh.

"I'm just trying to keep you alive," he muttered, like he was trying to make you understand something he couldn't quite put into words.

You saw a flicker of something different in his eyes, making you lower your arm to stop resisting against his grip. You wanted to believe him, you really did. Flashes of the way he'd looked concerned about you back in the jet invaded your mind.

But no. You wouldn't give him the pleasure.

"I don't need you to do that," you whispered, and when you noticed a slight falter in his grip, you forcibly pulled yourself back.

The sound of cracking ice didn't even register to him until it was too late. You turned around to continue making your way, planning to ignore him the rest of the mission.

"Wait, stop—" he blurted out, reaching a hand to stop you, but you had already stepped forward.

The clear layer beneath your boots gave way in an instant.

Freezing water swallowed you whole as you lost sight on John, who stood on what was left of the ice on the surface.

It wasn't just cold, it was paralyzing.

Your breath got caught somewhere in your lungs, never making it out. You tried to swim up but everything was so heavy, your limbs, your thoughts ... the world. You could only watch as you were dragged from the light above.

This was it. Your last dumb mission, stuck with him of all people.

John's knees hit the ground hard, scrambling to the edge of the crack you'd fallen in, peering into the dark, freezing water. But he could see nothing.

"Shit—shit ... where are you?” he looked frantically, but there was no way he could get you out like that, the current had pulled you under.

He inmmediatly dropped the shield attached to his arm, the goddamn map, and didn't even think twice before diving in. The cold punched the air from his lungs, but he didn't care, he could take it. You couldn't.

His eyes went wide in the dark, searching through the blurry water for you. Minutes passed, but he refused to acknowledge how long it was taking him to find you, how his enhanced body was already pleading for oxygen.

But then, in the distance he saw something. A figure ... your body, sinking like it didn't belong to someone fighting for their life.

Maybe you weren't fighting anymore.

No. God please—no.

He got to you in three large strokes, grabbed you with one arm, and pushed up, only to be met with thick, unbroken ice above. He cursed, accidentally swallowing some water. He slammed his fist into it once, twice, he didn't know how many it took until it broke wide open, cracks stained with the blood of his hand.

It didn't matter, he would heal.

John bursted through the surface with you held tight to his chest, coughing, ignoring the cold sinking into his bones as he dragged you into a thicker part of the ice like his life depended on it.

Because it did. Because yours did. But you weren't breathing anymore.

"No no no ... hey, hey, come on–" he groaned, laying your head on his lap, gently tapping your cheek, but you didn’t open your eyes. "Fuck."

He cradled your head to place you flat on the ice, and kneeled beside you. You were still, too still, the image of your limp body broke something inside him he didn’t even know was there.

"Don't do this to me," he muttered, as he started CPR with just one blood stained hand so his strength wouldn't crack your ribs on top of everything else. "Come on. Come on, don't– not like this ... I didn't mean it dammit!"

He shook his head, wet hair splashing cold water everywhere, aggressively wiping his eyes with his free hand, before going down to blow oxygen into your mouth.

"Breathe .. please breathe. You're not–you're not allowed to go out like this, you hear me?"

He kept just kept going, didn't plan on giving up, not on you. Compress, oxygen. Compress, oxygen. Over and over.

Until you finally jerked under him.

Water burst from your mouth in a choking cough, body lurching forward, your hands reaching out to cling on something, anything.

John.

He exhaled like he hadn't since he saw you go under the water and immediately scooped you up against his chest, a large hand placed behind your head to steady you. You gasped as you shivered, and he just felt this excruciating pain in his chest.

"Okay ... okay. You're okay," he mumbled, more to himself than you. "You're going to be just fine."

He just stroked your hair, as he kept muttering 'you're okay' 'you're alive'. You coughed a few more times, clinging into the heat of his chest that escaped the wet fabric of his clothes. That's when you realized he was soaking and shaking too, he'd actually pulled you out.

"You ... you went after me," you blurted out.

John wanted to punch himself in that moment. Repeatedly. Why did he have to say all those things to you? He knew damn well he would go after you every time.

He held you tighter, and placed a kiss on your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, voice cracking, something you never thought would hear from him, but man was he holding you like his life depended on it.

You wanted to say something else, but your teeth began chattering uncontrollably. You weakly pulled apart to look at him, maybe to let him know you felt your body giving out, maybe to look at him clearly one last time before your eyes began blurring more. And he saw it, he knew.

"No–no don't do that. Stay with me, alright? Listen to me! Just this once."

You're not the boss of me, Walker, you thought.

He finally stood up, pulling you up into his arms, one hand braced under your knees, the other across your back. "We're heading back to the jet. I need you to stay awake for me."

You just managed to nod, curling against his chest.

He left his shield behind, Val would get it back and if she didn't who cares. That wasn't important to him now, you were.

He miraculously managed to make it out the frozen lake without it breaking again, running right back into the forest path you'd already hiked through.

At this point, he didn't feel the cold anymore.

Didn't feel the bite of ice in his clothes, or the burning ache in his chest as he launched himself through the trees. You were trembling in his arms, he knew you were getting worse the longer he took to get you to shelter.

"Hey," John barked, louder than he meant to, like volume would anchor you to him. "C'mon. Say something, just keep talking."

You wanted to roll your eyes and laugh at him. He sounded way too desperate, for someone who couldnt stand you this morning. "You suck," you managed to blurt out, and you felt his laugh vibrate in his chest.

"Good girl," he replied, trying to get you mad at him like he'd done earlier in the jet, just so you talked to him.

Just so you stayed alive out of pure spite.

But you didn't fight him this time, you didn't want to anymore. He could boss you around all he wanted as long as you could feel the warmth of his body. As long as he kept running through the woods, holding you like you were the only thing that mattered to him.

"Eyes open. Stay with me." He groaned, when he didn't get the reaction he wanted. "Just a little longer, alright? Yell at me, go ahead, just keep saying shit. Insult my haircut. Tell me I ruined your day ... anything."

You made a noise, maybe a word, but it sounded wrong. Your head lolled against his shoulder and your lips were turning blue.

"Fuck," he hissed. "You're not dying on me."

The jet was on sight now, slightly buried in snow between the crashed pines. The second he reached the ramp, he stumbled up with you in his arms, kicking the door open. The inside was less cold than outside, but it was not enough.

He laid you gently on the copilot seat, and turned to the controls, desperately flipping switches to get the jet's heating system going, and fiddling with the comms settings to try to get to the team.

"Bucky? Yelena? Anybody, come in–" he barked, looking at you over his shoulder. "We need immediate extraction."

Nothing came back, the signal was still down.

"Goddammit." He slammed the control panel, a let out a string of curses under his breath.

He finally turned to your figure on the seat, and felt his whole chest cave in. You weren't moving anymore, just breathing shallow and slow. He could hear your heartbeat slowing down as you stared at him with half lidded eyes.

The jet had barely warmed up. It was like being inside a fucking freezer. There was no time, he knew what he needed to do.

"Fuck it."

He stripped off his gear quickly. The heat of his body had already dried off most of it. Still, he got rid of his tactical suit, gloves, the compression shirt he wore inside, until he was left in his underwear, body steaming against the crisp air.

He knelt by your chair, then hesitantly placed his hands on your soaked layers.

"Sorry ... I have to do this," he muttered, as his fingers found your suit's zipper. "I know you hate me. I know this is the last thing you want ... but I need you to live more than I need your permission right now."

His hands were careful. Gentle, even as they worked fast. He took off all layers, except for your underwear. His jaw clenched the whole time as he tried to keep his eyes from looking more than necessary.

He then lifted you off the seat so he could sit instead, placing you on his lap. He pulled you as close as he could, chest to chest, arms wrapped around your freezing body trying to trap as much heat as he could between you. He tilted your face gently, tucking it under his chin.

And God, he was warm.

By this point you had stopped shivering, but he knew it meant you were just at the worst stage of it. Your lips were blue, skin worryingly lifeless, and you couldn't quite figure out what was going on anymore.

"I got you," he whispered, kissing your head like he did when he got you out of the water. But that time you'd gotten back to him. Right now you were drifting away. "I've got you. You're gonna be okay."

"John?" His name came out unsure. Like you didn't remember he was even with you. Like you didn't remember you never called him John.

"Yeah it's me ... it's Walker. You hate my guts, remember? ... come on, stay with me," he held you tighter, wishing there was a way to give you all the serum going through his veins, even if it was him dying instead of you. "I didn't mean it. Any of it. You can punch me when you get better. I'll let you."

His hands tan through your back, your arms, rubbing warmth into your skin, trying to coax you back.

"I'll carry you through another mile of snow. I'll lose all the bets to Yelena if it means you get to yell at me one more time."

He didn't know what he was saying anymore. And it's not like you were hearing him anyways, time got strange after that.

You drifted in and out, sometimes aware of his arms around you, sometimes lost in the static of your own head. But slowly, like fog clearing, your mind began to catch up with your body. You felt heat all around you, like you were wrapped in something solid and safe.

And... bare.

Your cheek was pressed to bare skin.

John Walker's skin.

You blinked against the soft rise and fall of his chest, his heart thumping under your ear.

"...you're warm," you whispered, barely audible.

For a moment, he thought he’d imagined it. But you shifted in his grip enough to let him know that you were there, that you were real again.

Thanks to him.

"You're alive," he exhaled. His hand instinctively cupped the back of your head, fingers threading carefully through damp strands. "Jesus ... you're alive."

"You sound surprised," you rasped, lips ghosting a smirk.

"I watched you fall through the ice." His voice cracked on the word fall. "Yeah ... I'm fucking surprised."

"I can tell ... your heart is racing," you mumbled, voice coming out hoarse from your dry throat.

The adrenaline was still screaming through his bloodstream. He wanted to play it off, crack a joke, maybe roll his eyes and say yeah, thanks for ruining the mission, but none of that came out.

"Yeah ... well," he breathed out. "You scared the hell out of me."

There. He said it. Fuck it.

"I thought you hated me,"

"I tried to.. . God knows, you make it easy."

That made you huff a shaky laugh. He ignored the way his heart skipped to that. You were laughing again. Alive. In his arms.

"You're not exactly sunshine yourself, John."

John. His name sounded so pretty coming out your lips when you were not dying.

"I know."

That was probably the first conversation that didn't end with you wanting to punch him in the face. Something had shifted.

Maybe almost dying was all it took.

It was like the cold had finally frozen the part of your brain that hated John Walker. Or the heat of his body had melted the part of you that still tried to pretend you did.

You nestled your face closer to his neck, trying to soak in the impossible warmth of his skin. "I didn't mean it either ... you know. All the times I said you were insufferable."

He didn't say anything.

"I mean, you are ... but–" You exhaled. "I think I just didn't want to deal with whatever this was."

You felt his fingers twitch against your back, still careful, like you weren't almost naked in his arms.

"Yeah," he said. "Same."

John looked down at you, still cradled to him like glass. You were watching him now, really watching him, and not with the usual disgust behind your eyes. This time it was something... gentler.

And he was close. Too close. You could feel the heat of him everywhere, arms still locked around you like you belonged there. And his gaze had stopped hiding whatever had been buried under all those arguments and insults.

He tilted his head, eyes flickering down to your lips for a second too long. That's when something snapped inside you. You surged forward before your brain could catch up.

It wasn't cute, not at first. It was cold dry lips, desperate touches, and months of pent up tension crashing together. But then he softened, his hand cradled your face like you were something fragile, and yours clung to his neck like maybe if you held tighter, this wouldn't end.

But it did, because he pulled apart, like he was still holding himself back. He shook his head.

"I want you alive first ... fully conscious," he whispered against your lips. "Not ... not like this."

Of course he wasn't sure if this was real. If this was just some kind of 'thanks for saving me' type kiss. Like tomorrow you would wake up and remember you hated him, and he wasn't sure if he could take that.

You shook your head, you have never known what you wanted more than in this moment. Maybe it was the adrenaline wearing off. Maybe it was the brush with death.

"No," you shook your head. "Ive never felt more alive ... and I'm not wasting another second."

John opened his mouth to argue, but you kissed him before he could. You took all the strenght left in your body to kiss him deeper, until it was less about the anger, the insecurities, and more about everything else you hadn't said yet.

And you showed him, with your hands running through his hair, with your tongue playing with his, that this kiss wasn't a just a thank you, it was an apology ... a finally. Because you still didn’t know what the hell this was, but neither of you wanted to fight it anymore.

You pulled back breathless, but you were still so close that you could feel his chest rising and falling against yours. And then ... you both laughed.

Awkwardly. Like you didn’t know what to do with each other now.

"...What on earth was that?" you whispered, smiling through the adrenaline crash.

"I ...I don't know," he muttered, a little dazed.

You knew you should be panicking, overthinking. You should be denying everything that just happened. Yet still, you're both laughing again, naturally, like you didn't spend the last months wanting to stab each other.

Something loosened inside you, and you closed your eyes. His warmth, John was so damn cozy and soft ... almost unreasonably so.

Until he oppened his mouth again. Because he was still John Walker after all.

"So... what was that about you rather being naked around here than letting me carry you?" He allowed himself to tease you, because he could now.

Because everything you said in your stupid argument came true. You just didn't expect him to rub it in. You opened your mouth in surprise, hitting his chest, but this time it was playful.

"Haha, very funny. What was that about you not going after me if I drowned?" you snarked back.

He chuckled, and god ... it felt so easy now. He didn't have to say something mean back this time, too many months wasted on that.

So he just leaned in and crashed his lips against you.

Because you were cold. Because you were warm. Because your lips were right there and he just saved your life. And he was sick of pretending he hated the sound of your voice.

This time what interrupted your little make out you was the voice of someone else.

"... h-hello? ... guys come in. We got your message, Walker. Already on our way. Are you both okay?"

Yelena's voice coming out the jet’s comms made your tongues freeze mid kiss. You split apart like teenagers caught making out in a janitors closet.

You were suddenly aware of your very compromising position ... almost naked.

"Oh my god ... oh my god, John," you panicked, looking at the pile of wet clothes on the floor. "She's not even gonna let us explain it to her."

"Just ... don't answer yet," he hissed. "Give me a second to ... it's just my face, I can't—" He turned away from you.

"Are you blushing?" You chuckled through your panic.

"No ... It's the cold, shut up."

"Guys, do you copy? Hellooo ... this is Yelena … I swear to God if you two are dead, I'm going to be very upset."

You scrambled upright, before she thought about accessing the jets cameras or video calling, and tapped the console to talk to her.

"This is Walker and uh ... me," you said, voice slightly breathless. "We're alive, mission compromised. But we're... okay."

There was a pause, and you thought maybe you saved your asses.

"Why do you sound like you've been making out?"

You didn't answer inmediatly.

"Hold on ..." she hurried, and you panicked.

A white light flickered, signaling image was coming through. A fucking video call.

Before you could launch towards the control deck to cut the communication, a hollogram showed the inside of another jet, and Yelena's face. Or more accurately, Yelena's extremely judgmental face. Her eyes went wide, jaw almost falling to the floor.

"What the fuck are you guys doing?"

John cursed under his breath and reached blindly to get his tactical shirt, laying it over your shoulders to cover what was left of your dignity. Bob's voice came in behind her.

"Wait, wait ... move, lemme see—holy shit,” he covered his mouth with both hands, in half amusement, half disbelief.

Ava shoved herself into frame next, squinting. "Are you guys... naked?"

Bucky just peeked his head in, horrified. "They are."

You covered your face with both hands, muffling a mortified groan. John just tipped his head back and let out the most dramatic sigh of his life.

"I swear to god," he muttered. "We weren't ... we're not—it was hypothermia!"

"And your solution was...?" Yelena teased.

"Body heat, Belova," he snapped, rolling his eyes. "It's called first aid, look it up."

"Well ... clearly you got aided." Ava smirked at you.

Bob's voice chimed in again. "I bet that's not the only thing he—"

"BOB."

Yelena mouthed a sorry to the camera after shutting him up, and gently pushed him to the side. Ava disappeared next to them. Even off frame you could still hear their muffled laughs.

Bucky just scanned your face through the screen. "You okay?"

You nodded, because you were. You finally were. "He's really warm."

John cleared his throat.

"We need evac. She's stable now but still cold. Jet heating wasn't enough, I did the only thing I could."

"Copy that," Bucky nodded, biting his cheek to not say anything. "Reaching your coordinates, just please... put your shirts back on before we get there."

[frothy-tart]

The Color of Sin | Bob Reynolds from Thunderbolts*

Summary: This is Bob’s first field mission, tasked with going undercover alongside you at a high-profile party. The objective is simple: blend in, retrieve intel, and stay invisible. But when the mission forces you into close quarters—and even closer excuses—the lines between cover and craving blur fast.

Warning: NSFW 18+ minors DNI, loads of sexual tension, swearing, explicit sexual content (it's smut), dirty talk, suggestive content, intrusive thoughts, unprotected penetrative piv sex, yearning, mutual pining

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5.3k

Type: Oneshot

Standing in front of a long gilded mirror, Bob stood awkwardly, wearing an expensive tuxedo and with his hair slicked back. He reflected a man who didn’t quite fit the suit—too stiff in the shoulders, too self-conscious in the cut of the jacket, like someone dressed for a life that didn’t belong to him. The bow tie tugged at his throat, and no matter how many times he adjusted the cuffs, he couldn't get them just right.

Valentina circled behind him like a lioness, heels clicking with the sharp, deliberate rhythm of someone who had better things to do. She gave a quick once-over, unimpressed.

“Jesus, Bob,” Valentine muttered, fixing his bow tie. “You’re built like a Greek god and still manage to look like a nervous teenage boy on prom night."

He didn’t argue. Just glanced down at his shoes, which gleamed too much, like he was trying to disappear into the shine.

"You need to loosen up. I know you're nervous with it being your first mission—" Valentina encouraged him.

His head snapped up. “I’m not nervous."

Val raises an unimpressed brow. “You’re sweating through Armani.”

Before either is able to get another word in, the door behind them opens. His eyes lifted on instinct and his shoulders stiffen at the sight. You step in and the room stops. His eyes find you and stay there.

The red dress clung to you like it had been poured directly onto your skin, silk catching the light with every movement, the slit along your thigh threatening to give more away with each step. The lipstick—same shade—made your mouth look like a secret waiting to be confessed. And yet, it was the way you held yourself—elegant, poised, utterly unaware of the fire you were walking into—that unmade him.

Valentina smirked devilishly. “Ah. There she is.”

You stepped inside slowly, running a hand down your hip as if adjusting the fabric, but you didn’t need to. The dress wasn't made to wrinkle.

“Too much?” you asked, smoothing a hand along the curve of your waist.

Bob shook his head slowly, not trusting his voice. “No. Not enough.” He immediately caught himself. “I mean—it’s… perfect. It’s fine. You look…” His voice cracked slightly. “…you look incredible.”

“Red is the color of sin. The color that makes powerful men stupid." Val gave a smug little smile; her eyes still on her tablet. She finally glanced at Bob who stood beside her and took in his dumbfound look. “Case in point.”

"Remind me again why I can't take any of the others with me instead?" You wondered, not taking your eyes off him. He swallowed thickly. He fiddled with his cufflink for the fifth time in under a minute.

“Well, Walker and Bucky are too recognizable—neither of them can step foot into a room full of politicians without someone clenching their teeth. Yelena got burned on a recent operative and Ava nearly shorted out the last comm set just walking into a building. And let’s not even talk about Alexei," Valentina said cooly.

Your shoulders slouched visibly, not from disappointment but more so from the nerves. This was going to be Bob's first field mission: a simple intel retrieval with low steaks meant to ease him into the line of work.

“Mr. Reynolds is a blank slate,” Val said, tapping her temple. “Most of the world doesn’t know whether he’s dead, missing, or a myth. That makes him useful.”

Bob stood a little straighter at that, like the praise caught him off guard.

“And you,” Val continued, turning to you with a half-smirk, “are the only operative I trust to handle both intel and attention.”

You arched a brow. “That’s reassuring.”

Bob swallows but nods slowly in agreement. You catch a flicker of something like pride flash in his expression—just a flicker—before he glances back at you.

Valentina reached into the inner pocket of her tailored blazer and handed you each a slim, nearly invisible earpiece. Both of you stuff the piece into your ear so it sits just right.

Val’s tone softens, just barely. “The others are on standby. We’ll be watching from the safehouse—cams, audio, thermal, the works. So keep your flirting subtle unless you want Bucky and John to start placing bets.”

You arched a brow. “They’re watching?”

“They’re bored,” Val said with a shrug, already back to typing something on her tablet. "So do me a favor and don't give them too big of a show. Otherwise, I'll never hear the end of it."

The two of you shifted to stand in front of her; your shoulders just barely brushing the other. She gave both of you one final once over, nodding in approval.

"Alright. Your car's out front. Don't mess this up," Val sent you a pointed look of warning. "It's time to steal some expensive intel."

The city lights shimmered below the rooftop terrace, glass railings framing a ballroom bathed in warm golden light. Soft jazz floated through the air from hidden speakers, its sultry rhythms weaving between conversations and clinking glasses. Diamonds sparkled on elegant necks like tiny stars come to earth, and champagne glistened in slender flutes, catching the glow from ornate chandeliers.

The ballroom was a sea of smiles and whispered secrets, but your eyes scanned for the unspoken paths—the staff corridors, the service stairways, anything that would lead you to the hallway Val had mentioned.

The two of you moved carefully through the crowd, trying best to blend in with your surroundings. You effortlessly snatched a champagne glass of a waiter's tray and raised it to your lips.

"Earpiece working?” You muttered under your breath so only he could hear you.

"Loud and clear," Bob confirmed. His voice was velvet. He leaned closer, his hand warm at the small of your back, pulling you in as you slipped through the crowd.

Heading up a short staircase, you slipped past clusters of laughing socialites, nodding politely. With Bob trailing behind you, his gaze flickering nervously from one suited guard to another. You began heading towards a much quieter hallway.

“This has to be it,” you recognized the hallway image from the intel in the debrief. "Follow me."

Bob nodded, swallowing hard and nervously looking over his shoulder half expecting to see someone following. Together, the pair continued heading down the quiet corridor that led towards the private suites, leaving behind the golden glow and champaign glasses.

You tapped your earpiece once. "Yelena, walk me through this."

“The intel’s not just anywhere— it’s in the host’s private suite, third floor, fourth door on the left. You’ll need to bypass the hallway security to get there. There’s a guard rotation every fifteen minutes; timing will be tight.” Yelena repeated through your earpiece.

You glanced at Bob, who nodded stiffly beside you. “Got it. Thanks.”

“Oh, look—" Yelena eagerly pointed to one of the monitors after spotting you. "Hi! I see you.”

"How's the crew doing tonight?" You wonder with a growing smile on your face.

Back at the safe house, the entire team crowded around five monitors that broadcast the live camera feed of the mansion. With Yelena and Ava wearing headsets, their fingers were poised over keyboards. Their eyes sharp and alert.

Behind them, John and Bucky stood with arms crossed, still watching the feeds for any sign of trouble or an unexpected complication.

Alexei, ever the thoughtful one, had brought an elaborate arrangement of snacks and drinks. The faint rustle of wrappers occasionally echoed softly through the comms, prompting a few light teasing remarks.

With a quick glance down at his watch, Bob predicted they were right on time. The guards were expected to be switching positions soon, which meant there would be a small amount of time where the bypass would be left unguarded.

"Next patrol should be coming in two minutes," Yelena's voice echoed calmly through your earpiece. "Your window of opportunity is now."

"Hang on," Bucky leaned over the back of her chair, eyes narrowing at the screen. He pointed to one of the guards leaving his post and heading their way. "We've got an early bird. I predict less than a minute out."

"What?" You froze in your place, suddenly panic spiking.

Yelena’s fingers paused over her keyboard. “That’s not in the schedule.”

"You guys have to get out of there," Ava repeated urgently over the comms. "That guard’s coming straight toward you.”

Not only was there very little time to think of something, there was also nowhere to turn to. The narrow hallway offered no covering, no escape, and no options.

"Shit—" you looked around desperately. You looked to him. "What do we do?"

With eyes locked, and in one impulsive motion, Bob grabbed you and backed you into a nearby wall. Before you even had the chance to react, Bob closed the distance between you. His lips found yours in a sudden, heated kiss—bold, unexpected, and impossible to ignore.

You gasped against his mouth, and he took advantage of it, deepening the kiss, angling his head until he completely blocked your face from view. You grabbed the lapels of his jacket, desperately trying to pull him closer.

His body pressed you flush against the wall, slotting one of his thighs between your legs to keep you in place. The guards’ footsteps slowed, hesitation audible as they passed just behind you—too surprised, too caught off guard to react.

His hands didn’t wander, but held you firmly, anchoring you in place as the moment stretched. His lips moved against yours with a deliberate, demanding softness—first a gentle press, testing the reaction, then sliding with slow, confident strokes that melted hesitation away.

Caught in the moment, a soft involuntary moan slipped from your throat—just enough to remind him, to tether the heat to the reality of the mission. He reluctantly pulled away from you: his face flush, breath mingling, and eyes searching yours.

Back in the surveillance room, the rest of the team fell silent as they watched the entire thing unfold on the cameras. Everyone had leaned in a little too close to the screens, jaws slack, eyes wide, not one of them pretending to look away.

“Whoa—what the fuck—wow.” Yelena sat upright. She looked over her shoulder to see everyone else looking just as stunned as she was. Her lips curved into a slow grin before she let out a bright, disbelieving laugh. "Okay, that is fucking insane."

“Wow! In the middle of a mission?” Alexei said, taking a swig from his beer. “Pretty ballsy.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked. His arms crossed tight. “What the hell is he doing?”

John leaned in beside him, his expression a mix of confusion, disgust, and reluctant awe. “I didn’t know Bobby had it in him.”

“He doesn’t,” Ava cut in smoothly, her eyes sharp as she pointed to one of the camera angles. “Look how red he is.”

They all leaned forward again and squinted, narrowing their eyes toward the feed.

“Oh yeah,” Yelena confirmed, laughing again. “Look at that neck. Bright red.”

Back to the corridor, Bob was still trying to catch his breath. The heat of the kiss lingered on his lips and your perfume was still caught in his lungs. His pulse thundered in his ears.

You were still staring up at him with wide, bright eyes, your chest rising and falling in shallow bursts as you tried to reclaim the air the moment had stolen.

“I—I think we’re clear now,” you said softly, your voice not as steady as you probably meant it to be.

He gave a tight, wordless nod. "Right. Clear."

“Come on, Romeo. Snap out of it,” Yelena’s voice crackled in his ear, full of teasing bite. He blinked once, instantly snapping back to reality. He took a step away from you.

You adjusted your dress, squared your shoulders, and gave him a glance that was unreadable. You kept walking down the corridor, knowing he was quickly in tow.

"Wow," Yelena’s voice purred in your earpiece. You just knew she was smirking on the other end. "Bet you liked that. That was some kiss."

“Shut up,” you grumbled, heat rising to your face

Following the team's direction, the two of you navigated deeper through the corridor, moving swiftly now that the hallway was clear again. It wasn't long before you located the host’s private suite where the intel was being secretly stashed.

You knelt without hesitation, picking the lock with practiced hands. The mechanism gave with a satisfying click and the door creaked open slowly on well-oiled hinges.

Stepping inside, you were immediately struck by the shift in atmosphere. The suite was lavish but sterile, all expensive materials and little personality—dark wood floors, tall bookshelves, a marble minibar. There were signs someone had been here recently: a half-drunk glass of scotch, a coat tossed carelessly on the bed, a laptop glowing softly on the desk.

"I'm not seeing a safe," you observed. You cautiously stepped into the room, surveying your surroundings. Your eyes scanned the space with practiced precision—bookshelf, minibar, side table, bathroom door slightly ajar.

Behind you, Bob quietly shut the door with a soft click and remained near it. He stood rigid, back straight, as if expecting the handle to turn at any moment. His eyes tracked you—every step, every movement, every brush of your hand against the edge of the desk.

You rifled through every drawer, moved books aside to look for hidden panels in the walls, and felt the undercarriage of furniture for buttons. You knew you were running out of time; those guards were going to be coming back any moment now.

"Yelena," you pressed a finger to your earpiece. "It's not here."

"It has to be," Yelena insisted. She flipped through some papers to confirm. "This is the room."

The sound of footsteps could be heard coming down the hallway, along with sounds of people talking. Naturally, Bob's whole body stiffened. His eyes blown wide.

“They’re coming.” Bob whisper yelled in slight panic.

A brief flare of panic arose in your chest. Your eyes scanned the room and landed on the half open door that led to the bathroom. Both of you swiftly moved towards the bathroom, slipping inside the tiled room silently.

You heard the door of the suite twisting from the short distance. Without thinking, you roughly grabbed Bob by the front of his suit and pushed him into the bathtub. He landed with a muffled grunt, arms flailing slightly. One leg hooking clumsily over the edge before he managed to fold himself in.

You climbed in after him, nearly slipping in your heels, and fell into the space between his legs, your front pressing into his chest as you yanked the curtain closed behind you. The suite door creaked open and the voices grew louder upon approach.

Bob made a soft “oof” as your knee jabbed into his ribs, but you covered his mouth before he complained more. You held a finger up to your own lips in the dim light, your message clear: Don’t say a word. Don’t even breathe.

You were practically on top of him—your knees bent awkwardly on either side of him. He wrapped one arm around your lower back without thinking, more instinct than invitation, holding you still as you both sank lower, trying to disappear into the porcelain.

You didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare speak. Didn’t dare acknowledge the way your heart was slamming against your chest.

Both of you listened carefully; your hand instinctively slid away from his mouth. The voices grew louder, closer. The sound of a chair dragging. Some footsteps pacing the suite. Low chatter over their radio.

You leaned in lower without thinking, trying to make yourselves smaller. Bob’s breath ghosted across your cheek. His other hand had pressed lightly to your waist to steady you, but the contact was starting to burn through your dress. You flattened your hands to his chest.

"Secure room’s empty.”

“You sure? That motion detector lit up.” Your eyes grew wide in realization.

“Check the bathroom.”

You barely had time to breathe before he pulled you down flat against him, chest to chest, nose to nose, curled in the narrow porcelain basin. You braced for the moment you'd be caught by the guards.

You held your breath, face pressed to Bob’s throat, barely daring to move. His hand slipped between your shoulders, shielding you like a human shield, his body tense beneath you.

A shadow passed behind the curtain. A guard stood right there.

You felt Bob’s breath warm at your ear, the rhythm of it slowing as he deliberately calmed his pulse. He was like a wall beneath you, steady and solid, even as your entire body practically molded to his.

The guard stood for a moment longer, and then turned.

“Nothing here. Room’s clean.” The door clicked shut.

You stayed still for five long seconds before exhaling shakily. Your fingers were still twisted in Bob’s jacket.

“That was close” you whispered, finally lifting your head.

“You good?” Bob asked, face inches from yours.

You nodded then looked up. Above his shoulder, just behind his head, was a tile in the wall with a faint seam. It was a little odd looking; if you looked too long, it would appear out of place. You froze in realization.

“There it is.” You smiled to yourself.

"What?” Bob tried to crane his head to see what you were looking at.

“This tile in the wall. I bet the hard drive is hidden there. I need—” you braced a hand on his chest to steady yourself, “—I need to get on top of you.”

He swallowed. “Wait! You’re gonna…”

"Stop moving—" you cut him off. "I need to get higher."

Bob blinked once. “Okay. Yeah. Right. I’m listening.”

You rolled your eyes. “Not like that. Shut up.”

You carefully shifted, awkwardly climbing further up his torso, knees on either side of him as you leaned toward the hidden panel just behind the tub. Your dress rode up your thighs, and your balance shifted as you reached over his head, arm stretching to pry the tile free.

He swallowed hard as you leaned over him, the line of your back arched, the soft weight of your thighs braced on either side of his ribs. Bob stayed completely still, only his eyes moving—flicking once down, then forcibly away when he caught a glimpse of lace under your dress.

Bob made a sound deep in his throat—one you could feel more than hear.

“Not looking,” Bob muttered.

"Don't lie," you replied without looking at him. Your fingers scrabbled against the tile. “Almost got it…”

Bob squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled hard through his nose, as if physically blowing the thoughts out of his head. "I’m really not trying to—think about this.”

“I know,” you whispered, voice soft and maddeningly sweet. Your fingers brushed his chest again as you shifted higher. “You’re doing so good.”

“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t say it like that.”

His hands gripping the porcelain on either side of him so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

The tile finally gave way with a soft pop, and your hand darted in to grab the small flash drive. He peeked an eye open.

Without thinking, you strategically placed the flash drive down the front of your dress for safe keeping. It would be tucked securely into the inner band of your bra, flush against your skin.

All the while, Bob watched the movement with wide eyes. His throat went dry and he squeezed his eyes shut again to block his thoughts.

You glanced down at him—still beneath you, eyes dark, breathing uneven. His eyes were closed, brows drawn in painful concentration, like he was trying to slow his breathing through sheer force of will.

“Alright” you said softly. “We got it.”

"Great," Bob commented. Neither of you made any plans to move.

“I should move,” you announced.

“Probably,” Bob rasped, nodding.

Finally, somewhat reluctantly, you finally slipped off of him and climbed out of the bathtub. He exhaled like he hadn’t breathed since you climbed on top of him, then sat up slowly, trying to pretend he wasn’t completely wrecked inside. He climbed out after you.

“You good?” you asked again, smoothing your dress like nothing had happened.

"Yeah. I'm fine," Bob sent you the smallest smile of reassurance. When your back was turned to him, Bob dutifully adjusted himself in his pants and mumbled a complaint under his breath about his pants being too tight now.

The air in the hallway was cooler than the bathroom, but it did nothing to settle the heat beneath your skin.

He kept close behind you—still flushed, still rattled—but focused enough to watch your six as you navigated back through the hallway. The guard rotation had cycled clean, just like Yelena promised, and within two minutes you both reached the service elevator at the end of the corridor.

You hit the call button and exhaled only when the doors slid open.

Inside, the air was stale and dimly lit. The doors closed behind you with a mechanical hiss. Finally, there was a long stretch of silence between you as you stood on opposite sides.

“We can’t pass the checkpoint with it on you,” Bob said quietly, watching you from just a foot away. “They’ll scan.”

You nodded. Your fingers hovered over your chest for a moment, just under your collarbone, unsure how to do this delicately. But there was no time for delicacy.

You reached inside.

The silk of your dress shifted as you slid your hand down, fingertips grazing the edge of your bra. The drive was pressed between fabric and skin, nestled against your sternum, and you could feel Bob watching.

His eyes were locked to your hand, his jaw tight, chest rising slightly faster. He looked like he wanted to look away—but he didn’t.

His voice was low when he spoke. “I can turn around.”

You pulled the drive free with a small gasp of relief. “Don’t.”

He stilled. You looked up at him. His eyes were still right there. Not on the drive. Not on your hand. On the skin of your chest.

Your voice was light, teasing—but your heart was pounding. "Eyes up here, Reynolds."

His lips parted slightly. His gaze lifted, slow and guilty and just a little dazed. Like he wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring. His ears tinted red just slightly.

He swallowed hard. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”

You handed the little piece of metal to him, fingers delicately brushing against his enough to make his breath catch once again. He stuffed it carefully into the pocket of his suit.

The feeling of the elevator halting and the prompt ding sound of arrival meant there was little time to linger. It didn't take much effort to slip back into the crowd and make a hasty escape.

The engine purred beneath the dark silence of the night. With Bob driving, he kept one hand steady on the wheel and the other was flexing uselessly against his thigh. The glittering skyline was shrinking behind you, reflected briefly in the mirrors before being swallowed by the hills.

You sat in the passenger seat, arms propped against the window ledge and eyes fixed out the window. Neither of you said a word since the elevator.

He stole a quick glance at you before redirecting his eyes to the road ahead of him. "You okay?" He asked.

“Fine,” you said quickly, too quickly.

“I meant… back there. With the kiss. With the whole…” Bob gestured vaguely with one hand. “Everything.”

You didn’t look at him. Just kept your eyes on the passing trees. “You did what you had to do.”

“I didn’t have to kiss you,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

That made you turn slowly. You narrowed your eyes at him, searching for some hidden meaning behind those words.

His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. His jaw clenched, brow furrowed. The tip of his ear was turning red.

“Is that your way of saying you wanted to?” you asked.

He let out a breath through his nose, somewhere between frustrated and helpless. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I just know my heart hasn’t stopped racing since.”

You didn't know what to say either. He glanced at you—just once, then back to the road.

“I don’t… do this. I’m not good at it.” Bob ran a hand over his face in frustration. You weren't sure what he was specifically referring to: the mission or his relationships.

You let the silence hang there for a few seconds, watching the way his hands gripped the wheel like it was the only solid thing in the world.

"You could... get better at it." You suggested loosely. Bob’s hand twitched on the gearshift.

That was all the encouragement he needed to slow the car down and direct it off the main road. He turned down a quiet side road that dipped into the dark edge of the countryside. The gravel crunching under the tires until the car came to a full stop.

He put it in park and stared ahead, jaw tight. He reached over, fingers brushing yours as he finally turned toward you. His voice was low, rough with something like need.

"Are you sure you want this?" Bob asked, needing the honest truth form you before anything else.

"More than anything," you confessed.

Reaching down, Bob removed his seatbelt and leaned over the console between you. His hand cupped the side of your face, drawing you closer until your lips met in a heated kiss. You gasped against him and he deepened the kiss immediately, one hand tangling into your hair, the other gripping your waist like he’d been starving for it—starving for you.

Somehow, the two of you managed to climb into the backseat together in a tangle of limbs and gasped breaths. The doors stayed locked, the windows fogging over with each passing second. The world outside no longer mattered.

The air was thick with heat and barely-muffled desire. Bob pulled you into his lap like he needed you there to breathe, hands roaming over your dress, along your back, gripping your thighs as you straddled him. 

His mouth found your throat, open and warm, as you arched against him. You let your fingers tangle into his hair, tugging when his teeth grazed the sensitive spot beneath your jaw. He groaned low, the sound vibrating against your skin, making your whole body hum.

“You don’t know...” he rasped against your neck, “...how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“Then shut up and do it.” You challenged.

His hands fumbled at your thighs, hiking your dress higher and roughly dragging your hips again his pants. Your nails scraped down his chest through his shirt, yanking his tie loose, popping buttons with little care for subtlety.

Clothes weren’t fully shed—just pushed aside where it mattered most. Your hands slid down to his belt, fumbling the clasp until the soft clink of metal echoed in the quiet car. He struggled briefly with his fly and zipper, hips lifting to help slide his pants down just enough to free himself.

Your lips were still pressed to Bob’s when a familiar voice crackled softly in your earpiece.

“Everything okay? The car is stopped—” Yelena’s tone was light but teasing, perfectly timed to snap you both out of your heated haze.

You pulled back, breath shaky, eyes wide in realization. His cheeks flamed a deep red, and he tried to pull his hand from under your dress, but you grabbed his wrist to stop him.

"Don't you dare," you sent him a look of warning. You yanked the earpiece out first, the tiny device nearly cracking in your grip.

Bob followed suit a beat later, ripping his out and tossing it somewhere on the floor of the car like it might burn him.

You kissed him again. His breath hitched as your fingers closed around him, thick and hard beneath your touch, every movement driving a fierce heat straight through both of you. His hips jerked slightly, the friction teasing, unbearable and addictive all at once.

Neither of you noticed the small green light blinking to life on the dashboard. And neither of you heard the faint pop of the car’s built-in comms reconnecting. The team tuning in again unbeknownst to you.

All that mattered to you right now was him.

So you didn’t hesitate. Guiding him, you carefully lined him up with your entrance. The slick heat pooling low between your thighs was a fierce invitation you could no longer resist. Slow at first, Bob slid inside you, filling you completely, every inch stretching and burning deliciously.

A sharp breathy gasp escaped your lips, your nails digging into his shoulders as he held you steady against him. He moved with a torturous slowness, drawing out the moment, letting the tension coil tighter and tighter.

His hands found your waist, fingers pressing hard enough to leave bruises but gentle enough to promise he wouldn’t let go. He guided your movements with precision, hips rising just enough to meet you, watching every flicker of pleasure flash across your face. His eyes never left you—not your mouth, not the way your brows knit together, not the way you gasped each time you sank down on him.

You moved in sync, finding a rhythm that was both tender and urgent, every thrust a raw confession of need.

Then Bob started thrusting up into you—controlled, relentless, deeper. His hands dragged you down onto him in time with each pulse of his hips, and the pace shifted from steady to greedy.

The car rocked gently beneath you, the windows fogged with your breath, the interior thick with heat, sweat, and slick friction. Your gasps mingled with his low groans, the wet sound of your bodies meeting again and again filling the space around you.

His mouth claimed yours again, teeth grazing your lower lip in a tantalizing tease as he deepened his thrusts, driving you closer to the edge.

“You feel so fucking good,” he rasped against your skin, voice cracked and hungry. “So perfect.”

You matched him—grinding, rolling your hips, desperately trying to reach your peak. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer until the world narrowed down to the heat between your bodies.

Your breath hitched, your muscles tensing as the waves of pleasure began to build, coiling tighter and tighter.

“Bob…” you whispered, voice trembling and body falling apart.

He groaned low, voice rough with need. “Come for me. I've got you.”

And you did—your body shuddering in release, breath ragged, fingers clawing at his back as you trembled against him. You cried out into his mouth as your muscles clenched around him, riding it through, pulsing and shaking in his lap.

He held you tight, grinding up into you once, twice—then with a guttural, broken growl, he came, hips snapping up hard as he spilled inside you, forehead pressed against your collarbone.

For long moments, you both stayed like that—entwined, hearts pounding, bodies spent but connected, the silence between you soft and full of promise. You held each other through the waves of aftershocks.

Neither of you moved for a long time. Just the sound of your breathing, the sweat cooling between you, your bodies still locked together. You leaned against his chest to catch your breath.

His arms stayed wrapped around your back, hands smoothing over your spine. You could feel the way his chest still rose and fell beneath yours, how tightly he held you even now. He tried to brush some of his loose curls out of his face.

Finally, softly—his voice barely more than breath:

"Fuck. I think I’m in trouble.”

You smiled weakly against his shoulder. “That was… practice?”

He laughed once—hoarse, warm. “Apparently, I’m a fast learner.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, flushed and shining in the dim light.

“Then I guess you better keep showing up for lessons.” You brushed your nose against his teasingly, releasing the softest gasp when you felt him twitch inside you again.

His lips curved slowly, fingers tightening around your waist.

“Deal.”

[frothy-tart]

I Think He Knows | j.t.

Joaquin Torres x Avenger!reader

There’s always a lingering question between them in these moments. Will they cross that line finally? Who’s going to be the one who does it? But neither of them ever do. Sometimes it’s an interruption, sometimes it’s one of them backing down. 

Word Count: 8.6k

Warnings: kidnapping, angst, pwp, Joaquin has a pacemaker (his heart literally had to be restarted in BNW, you cannot tell me he doesn’t??), SMUUUUUUT (p in v, oral (f receiving), fingering, cockwarming if you squint).

Author's Note: This came to me in a dream. I don't have much else to say. Also, I'm so sorry if the Spanish in this is...bad. I tried my best. Let me know how to improve it!! Reader's codename is Glimpse.

Talk to Me! | Coffee?

2024

“So…,”

She looks up from adjusting her gear, the roar of the plane’s engines almost drowning him out. 

“What’s it like, y’know, being an OG Avenger?” He asks, leaning against the hull of the plane.

Bucky makes a disgruntled sound beside her while she gives Joaquín a slow, crooked grin and a raised brow –the kind of look that says she’s already figured him out and isn’t sure if she’s impressed or just amused.

“Oh, it’s great,” she says, and the look Bucky gives her is one of warning as he stands up. Then she’s leaning forward some, and clasping her hands together in a snarky little clap. “Everyone I love is either dead or in hiding. My closest friend fucked off to the forties with his ex-girlfriend’s aunt. And, oh, the general public doesn’t particularly like me because I’m the only one in the public eye still, so I’m easy to blame.”

Joaquín stares at her for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Oh.”

“It’s great,” she repeats, giving him a painfully fake smile. “Love it.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t –,”

“Give me a ‘chute,” Bucky orders, interrupting the stammering of the officer. 

Joaquín shakes his head. “Oh, no. We’re too low for that –,”

But the soldier doesn’t let Joaquín finish his sentence before he’s tearing off his sleeve and throwing himself out of the plane. Joaquín looks horrified for a moment before he turns to her, frowning deeply.

“Do you…can you jump out of a plane without dying?”

“You wanna find out?” 

“I really don’t,” he practically begs. 

“Too late, flyboy.” And she’s grinning as she falls backwards out of the plane with a salute. 

Joaquín stares down as she falls, bracing for her impact, but it never comes. Actually, she’s nowhere to be seen as he pulls back into the plane and looks up with a hard exhale.

“Dios mío,” he breathes out. “I might be in love.”

2027

For the last week, Sam has been complaining about two things: the New Avengers and her absolute refusal to get involved in the issue. She insists it's because she’s not going to choose a side; she’s known both him and Bucky long enough to be friends with them both. He insists she’s a liar and just likes watching the two of them argue.

She doesn’t deny this.

However, she’s not really sure why Sam is so concerned with whether or not she chooses a side. She literally lives in D.C. and works with him and Joaquín on a regular basis. Less than six months ago, she helped stop Ross and Stern and prior to that, she ran missions with both him and Joaquín overseas.

To be fair, there’s a two part explanation for why she’s stuck around D.C. as long as she has. One, because prior to this New Avengers nonsense, she fully intended to join the team. However, the second reason is much more selfish –though, she’d argue that she deserves to be a little selfish after the hell that has been her life.

And that selfish reason comes down to Sam’s very attractive, very confident partner.

When they met three years ago, she didn’t think much of Joaquín Torres. A little jumpy, way too hyper –but he meant well. Even then, she thought he was cute. And he helped tremendously with the Flag Smasher situation –proved he wasn’t just some fanboy with a hero complex (though he might still be a fanboy, deep down). But as she continued to work with them after Sam officially took up the mantle of Captain America, Joaquín just kept growing on her. 

When she settled into her life in D.C., it was Joaquín that became her closest friend in the capital. He helped find her an apartment that wasn’t the worst, and had given her a list of the best places to eat around the area. Then insisted he take her whenever they got down time. He calls it Team Bonding.

She calls it Not Dating.

“What’s the plan for dinner today, Glimpse?” He asks as she pops into their base of operations. He’s not looking at her when she appears, though he never does anymore. The signature whoosh sound that follows her appearance gives her away, now that he’s trained to hear it. 

“I was thinking that ramen place in Petworth?” She suggests, plopping down on the couch and looking at her phone. “It’s the next on the list, but your list seems to keep getting longer.”

It’s a passive observation; the list he gave her when she first settled in had maybe thirty restaurants and they’d hit about half of them. However, every time she opens the Google sheet he made, somehow there’s always two or three more that weren’t there before. 

He turns around in his chair, leaning back as he looks her over. Feeling his eyes on her, she glances up from her phone with a soft smirk. 

“Gotta find ways for you to keep me around, cariño,” he grins. 

Her eyes are glued to her phone, though she’s not actually looking at anything. Every single time he says something affectionate or flirty in Spanish, her brain sort of short circuits. She took Spanish in high school, but it never really stuck. There’s a handful of phrases she knows, and she’s learned some from working with Joaquín –anything she’s learned from him is either flirty or inappropriate, however. 

“Oh yes,” she chuckles in response, kicking her feet up on the couch. “Because I only keep you around for your food recs.”

“Food recs, good looks, witty banter…,”

“You’re just the whole package, aren’t you, Torres?” 

“Your words, not mine,” he points out, pushing himself out of his chair.

Sitting beside her, he lifts her legs to rest on his lap, one hand lingering just above her knee. They share a look –a knowing one, like they both are aware that they’re playing with fire. It’s always like this when they’re close; hyper aware of how it feels to touch one another in a way that’s nothing short of unprofessional. Sometimes it’s a hand on her knee when they’re seated together. Sometimes it’s her fingers brushing the nape of his neck when he’s at his computer. 

There’s always a lingering question between them in these moments. Will they cross that line finally? Who’s going to be the one who does it? But neither of them ever do. Sometimes it’s an interruption, sometimes it’s one of them backing down. 

But they never make it past the touching. 

“I feel like I’m interruptin’ something in here,” Sam announces as he walks into the room. 

Sam is aware of how she feels, and while he doesn’t necessarily tease her about it –he’s annoying about it. 

While she doesn’t jerk away from Joaquín, she does move her legs away from his touch. His fingers drag across the fabric of her jeans as she pulls away, like he refuses to give up that closeness. But she’s standing up and pocketing her phone. 

“We’re going to that ramen place,” she offers, and Joaquín is throwing his head back against the couch. “You in?”

“No go,” he responds, shaking his head. “We’ve got some intel we need to review –remember what happened last month?”

“Yeah, Bob,” she snickers, recalling the picture of the New Avengers in the papers. “Isn’t he just…a guy? I thought Bucky had that handled?”

“Not Bob,” Sam corrects, rolling his eyes. “Dude isn’t just a guy either. Not that point though –the other thing that happened last month.”

“Krane?” Joaquín asks, frowning deeply, standing now.

She groans, rubbing the hell of her palm into her eye. “Fucking Krane.” 

Dr. Lenora Krane –the reason she has powers and the reason Nick Fury brought her on board in 2015 after just barely being seventeen. While the New Avengers were off handling Bob, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine was bribing the Senate to pardon the doctor in order to put her to work for the U.S. government on a military base in California. However, that lasted as long as anyone could have predicted: last month, the reformed doctor went off the grid and no one has been able to find her since. 

Until today, apparently. 

Joaquín shifts into work mode with ease, sliding back into his chair and opening the files Sam has sent over. She sits on the arm of the chair, reading over the files as they pop up. Grainy photos and half-assed security feeds show her in Manhattan shortly after the Bob incident, but she seems to be making her way down to D.C. again. 

Even in bad photos, seeing the woman who made her life hell for most of her teen years makes the hero’s skin bristle. 

Taken from the children’s home she had grown up, under the guise of being a foster parent, Krane made it seem like her life was going to be great. But then the experiments started and only ended when Maria Hill infiltrated the lab she was kept in. Hill took her under her wing, kept her out of the system, then gave her a place amongst Earth’s mightiest heroes. 

The rest is history –though it seems like it might be repeating itself.

“What’s her deal?” Joaquín asks, looking up at her now as he leans back in his chair. “You think she’s here for you?”

His arm wraps around her from behind, linking his thumb through a belt loop since she’s using his arm rest as a seat. It’s comforting, though, whether he means for it to be or not.

If Sam notices, he doesn’t say anything. 

“I mean, I am the reason that she lost all her work and went to jail for nearly ten  years,” she points out, crossing her arms over her chest as she glances down at him. The look on Joaquín’s face is genuine concern, and it makes her heart ache. “She’s had a long time to plot her revenge against me.”

“Which means you are in danger,” Sam concludes, looking down at her with deep concern. “I’ve already talked to Barnes, you’re going to stay with him and his team of assholes. Differences or not, that Tower is the safest place –,”

“I am not going into hiding,” she counters, shooting up from the chair. Joaquín’s fingers are still caught in her belt loop and she yanks him out of his seat as she jumps up. “Joaquín –,”

“Sorry, shit,” he complains, letting her go finally and shaking out his hand. “She’s right though, Sam. We can’t just send her away, she’s an Avenger.”

“More importantly, I don’t want to uproot my shit and go hang out with Bucky. His team is weird. And Walker is there.”

“I thought you didn’t have a preference?” Sam argues, brow raised as he looks between her and Joaquín.

“You know damn well I’d rather be here than there,” she snaps back, pointing at him. “I am more than capable of handling myself, Sam. You know that.”

For a moment, there’s a tense silence in the room. There’s no reason to pick a real fight over this, but she doesn’t like being made to feel small when she’s been doing this since 2015; it’s not her first fight and it most certainly won’t be her last.

But finally, Sam nods in agreement. “You’re right. I can’t bench you –but I can at least make sure you’re not alone. One of us will stay with you.”

She’s about to argue that she doesn’t need a babysitter, but Joaquín is throwing his hand in the air. 

“I volunteer as tribute!”

Sam and her both look at him like he’s lost his damn mind. Joaquín has enough self-awareness to look sheepish as he drops his hand and clears his throat. Then he tries to shrug nonchalantly. 

“I mean –I can stay with her. Not a big deal.” 

Covering her face with her hand, she shakes her head. There’s definitely a blush burning her cheeks, and his excitement doesn’t help the feelings that simmer just below the surface.

“Smooth, kid,” Sam sighs, and she can just hear the eye roll in his voice. “I’ll get a notice sent back to New York –S.A.B.E.R. is working on pinpointing her next location. Until then, you two go grab whatever you need from Torres’s place. Joaquín, when you get to her apartment, set up security protocols.”

“Heard,” he replies, sitting back down to transfer whatever data he may need to his laptop. Sam has disappeared back into his office, already on the phone. Then he grins up at her. “I got you, hermosa.”

Without thinking about it, she lays her hand on his shoulder gently. Their eyes meet, and she squeezes. “I don’t doubt that, flyboy.” 

And she doesn’t. Not for a second. 

It’s her that interrupts the moment this time, though, pulling away with a wave of her hand. “Okay –I used my powers to get here, so we can do that or you can drive.”

“Oh fuck no,” he immediately says, pushing his chair away from his desk to gather his cables. “Last time you quantum jumped us, I threw up.”

“It’s not quantum jumping,” she reminds him, rolling her eyes. “It’s teleporting. And you only threw up because you weren’t ready.”

“Nope. I’m driving.”

“But I’m faster.”

For a second, he stands up and she thinks he’s going to counter her again. Instead, he hands her a rolled up set of cables, and she takes them without question. With a sudden yank though, he’s pulling her closer and resting his free hand on her hip. Her hand immediately hits his chest as a way to keep herself upright, but the sudden closeness makes her heart pound in her fingertips –or maybe that’s his heartbeat. 

“Faster isn’t always better,” he murmurs, leaning down into her space. 

She’s about to respond –something wildly inappropriate, probably, but she’s not 100% sure because all thoughts have scattered the moment he pulled her in –when Sam walks back through the doors. With that distinctive whoosh, she’s on the other side of the room, cables in hand and for once, a blush burning her cheeks. 

Joaquín is trying to hold back a smug grin. 

Sam is unimpressed by them both. 

-><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><-

“I always forget how tiny your place is,” Joaquín comments as he drops his bag on her coffee table. 

If she rolls her eyes any harder, she’s certain they’ll get stuck that way. Setting their dinner on the counter –burgers, which she’s bitter about because she really wanted ramen –she takes out their respective meals. 

“I’m gonna go change, feel free to get comfortable.” 

Joaquín is looking around her apartment as if he hasn’t been there before, though she can feel his eyes as she walks into her bedroom. When she comes back out  –an old band t-shirt and sleep shorts replacing her jeans and top –he’s looking over the photos she’s hung up on the wall. She grins and taps his shoulder as she passes by, returning to the kitchen to take out plates for them. 

When he seems to have gotten over his surprise, he’s behind her with a hand on her lower back. The touch is warm, and secure, and she doesn’t flinch away from it. With no real threat of interruptions –no one to walk in on them or alarms to go off –the only thing standing between them is…well, them.

“The couch is a pull out, so you should be relatively comfortable,” she explains, glancing up at him over her shoulder. 

He’s reaching over and stealing a fry, hand still pressed against her back. The whole thing feels a little more domestic than she’s used to, but she’s not going to be the one that pulls away this time. Not as she turns around, and his hand is pulled around to rest on her hip again. 

Joaquín looks down at her, eyes searching, but not in a way that demands answers. It’s quieter than that –curious, cautious, like he’s waiting to see if she’ll bolt. 

She doesn’t.

“Didn’t think you’d hover this much when you volunteered to babysit,” she teases, glancing at him as she grabs another fry, tone light but not pushing him away.

“If it’s not welcome, I can leave you be,” he replies, his voice low, steady. His hand is still on her hip though, anchoring her.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t joke it off.

“It’s welcome,” she says instead.

He studies her for a beat longer, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. But his face breaks out into that boyish grin she thrives on seeing. “Okay,” he says, quieter now. “Good.”

But still, neither of them moves to close the space. The silence hums in the air, in the stillness, in the way his fingers stay at her hip like he doesn’t want to let go. Like he’s waiting for her to make the move.

She doesn’t know why he never does –not when he’s always the one who flirts first, who pushes the edge of that line just enough to make her wonder. And now, with nothing stopping them, it’s somehow harder. Closer. Sharper.

It’s him who pulls away this time, moving through her kitchen with ease as he opens her fridge and pulls out a beer. For a moment, she looks to whatever divine powers might be out there and silently wonders why the hell they keep dancing around this –and why the hell she can’t just man up and do it herself.

Nothing answers, of course.

“So what do you usually do when you’re home, all alone?” He asks as he takes what’s left of his food into the living room and drops onto the couch; he’d eaten half his burger on the way over. “Besides think about me, of course,” he adds for good measure, winking at her.

One more eye roll, then she’s joining him on the couch, sitting with her legs crossed under her. Her knee is brushing his thigh and he makes no move to get away. “Honestly, between watching trashy T.V. or reading trashy romance novels, I’m not the most exciting of people.”

Joaquín scoffs, shaking his head. “I don’t believe that for a second. An OG Avenger and you don’t do anything exciting outside of work?”

“Being an Avenger isn’t half as exciting as you think it is,” she reminds him, giving him a pointed look. “You learned that the hard way, remember?”

Even if he pretends it didn’t happen, she can’t. Not when she sat in the hospital with Sam for days, worried that Joaquín wouldn’t wake up. She’s had a lot of close calls in her life, and she’s lost a lot of people in the last ten years. Watching him plummet into the ocean from the security feed of his mask scared the living hell out of her, and that’s most certainly contributed to their dialed up flirting recently. 

She’s not afraid to admit she thought she almost lost him. Truth be told, she told him that in the hospital when he woke up. But then he told them both how he just wants to be like them –to be a hero, to do right by the world. How he wanted to get out of Miami and prove himself worthy –and she couldn’t scold him for being reckless. Couldn’t argue with him that she almost lost him. Because he knew that. He knew the risks he took, and it wasn’t her place to remind him.

“Yeah, yeah.” He brushes it off. Always does. “When Krane is handled, I’m gonna take you out and show you how to use your down time.”

She raises a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Is this you finally asking me out, Torres?”

For just a beat, maybe two, they stare at each other. She’s crossed the line, finally. Pushed them to confront each other; to act on whatever these feelings they both clearly have are. Their food is long forgotten on the coffee table, and his hand is resting on her bare knee. 

“What if I am?” He asks, leaning in closer. 

“If you are, I’d say it took you long enough.”

A grin breaks out over his face, and Joaquín doesn’t waste any time as he wraps a hand around the back of her neck and pulls her into a kiss. He’s pulling her into his lap, and she’s on her knees straddling him. Other hand sliding up her shirt, he groans as his fingers skim below her breasts, realizing she isn’t wearing a bra.

“No sabes cuánto he deseado esto…,” he whispers against her lips, and even though she’s not sure what he’s saying, it sends a shiver down her spine. Taking advantage of his mouth being open, she licks into it, deepening the kiss as her hands trail down to the hem of his shirt. 

Just as she manages to pull his shirt over his head, glass shatters. They yank back from one another, looking at the broken window. It’s a split second –panic, a flash bang rolling into her living room. Joaquín is covering her with his body, just as a whoosh surrounds them. She’s not positive where she’s sent them, but they land with a thud against gravel and roll off one another with a groan. 

From the rooftop of the neighboring apartment building, there’s what’s supposed to be a disorienting bang and a flash of light. Her apartment lights up, and she sits up on her knees as they both watch smoke pour out of the broken window. Joaquín kneels beside her, feeling on the brink of throwing up from the sudden teleportation. He reaches out to touch her shoulder though, making sure she’s okay. 

“Fucking Krane,” she hisses, standing up. He watches her from the corner of his eye before looking back at the apartment. The D.C. air is frigid, and police sirens are echoing in the night as they approach the apartment building. “We need to call Sam –,”

“Both our phones are in the apartment,” he interrupts, reaching out to take his shirt from her. There’s a heavy feeling in his chest; another screw up. Another mistake that could have been avoided, just like when he tried to take down that missile. Only this time, it’s not his life that’s in danger. It’s hers. “Mierda –this is my fault.”

“How is it your fault?” 

“I didn’t set up the security protocols.” He slips on his shirt, then reaches out to take her hand. There’s no hesitation when he does this; just takes her hand and pulls her close as he leads them across the roof of the building. “We need to get outta here. If Krane is nearby, then you’re in danger and I don’t have…anything.”

The realization sinks in that the wings are at base, but his computer –his government issued computer, with thousands of gigs of data and files on it –has been compromised. If Krane gets a hold of that, and he can’t wipe it before she gets into it, then it’s more than just her that’s in trouble.

“Fuck,” he groans, running a hand through his hair. “My laptop –,”

“I can get it,” she quickly reassures but he’s putting his hands up. “Joaquín, that’s my whole job –in and out –,”

“The apartment is compromised,” he counters, shaking his head. “I can’t let you go back in there.”

“In and out,” she argues and he’s caught between not wanting to screw something else up and keeping her safe. He knows she’s good; she’s an OG. She’s been doing this long before he came along. But if something happens to her…

Except, she’s not giving him a chance to argue. She never does, because he’s not usually the one arguing against her. But that sound –that whoosh that has trained his brain to listen for –echoes in the air. And then she’s gone. 

“Dammit,” he hisses, pounding his fist once against the wall. 

He waits, watching from the edge of the building. 

Seconds. That’s all it should take.

She’s done this a thousand times. Disappearing across rooftops, slipping into sealed rooms, snatching intel mid-conversation without a whisper. The police are surrounding her apartment complex, guns drawn. No one has come in or out of the building since she entered, which is…bad. 

So why isn’t she back?

He paces on the rooftop, trying to calm his breathing. One beat. Two. Five. He stares at the spot where she vanished, willing the air to whisper with that tell-tale signal again. His ears are still ringing from the flashbang thrown through the window barely five minutes ago, and it sets his teeth on edge. But…

Nothing.

“She should be back,” he mutters aloud, to no one. “Why aren’t you back?”

His pulse hammers in his ears. She always makes it back. She’s cocky about it. Makes jokes. Teases him that she’s always going to be faster, always going to be a step ahead. Because she is, and he knows she is. In the three years he’s known her, he’s not once thought he’d ever be better than her. Because he’s too amazed by her –how could he want to be better when everything she does is so graceful and damn near perfect? 

All he had to do was protect her, and somehow…he blew it.

Sam’s going to kill him.

-><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><-

The guilt has been a slow bleed. Every hour without a lead makes it worse. 

Joaquín hasn’t slept. Not really. A few hours here and there, usually when Sam physically pries him away from the screen or the chair or the growing pile of coffee cups that he’s surviving on. But even when he does sleep, he dreams of her –trapped, bleeding, calling for him. Every time, he wakes up choking on guilt.

She’s been missing for seventy-six hours. Seventy-six hours since she vanished inside that apartment. Since she dove into danger to retrieve his laptop –his responsibility –because he hadn’t done his damn job in the first place. He was too distracted. Too busy being in love with her to remember that she’s not invincible.

Joaquín drags a hand through his curls, fingers catching as he stares at the rows of code on his screen.

“Come on, come on…,” he mutters, cycling through yet another security node.

He’s torn apart every digital trail Krane has ever left –fake aliases, ghosted emails, the occasional off-the-grid bio signature from a black market medical clinic. None of it points to where she’s keeping her. But Joaquín isn’t just looking for Krane anymore.

He’s looking for her. For the woman who scared the hell out of him by jumping out of that plane three years ago. Who teases him about his stupid restaurant spreadsheet; who kisses him like she’s just as wrecked as he is. 

He almost had her. Finally. And now?

Now all he has is silence. And a red blinking cursor on a map overlay.

But then –,

Something pings.

It’s small. Barely a whisper in the code. But Joaquín freezes, eyes narrowing. He backtracks, isolates the data string, and enhances the feed. It’s a signal bounce –from his laptop. A handshake request that shouldn’t exist, buried beneath three layers of dummy networks. Krane must have booted it, just briefly. Just long enough to trigger the dormant emergency protocol he’d hardwired into the system during a long forgotten all-nighter.

He stares at the screen as coordinates materialize. They’re fuzzy. The GPS is spoofed, bouncing between old S.H.I.E.L.D. black sites, but there's a pattern to the chaos.

“She’s not hiding you,” he says under his breath, breath catching in his chest. “She’s parading you. Daring us to come.”

He should feel fear. Hesitation. He doesn’t.

He locks onto the most consistent coordinate. An abandoned logistics warehouse 40 miles outside Richmond. Nothing special. No heat signatures from satellites. But something about it hums wrong. Quiet in a way that feels intentional.

That’s where she is. He knows it. He feels it in his bones.

Sam’s voice breaks the moment. “Any progress?”

Joaquín turns slowly, eyes still lit by the screen. “Yeah. I think I found her.”

-><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><-

She’s strapped to a reinforced medical chair, wrists restrained in a way that numbs her fingers. Her powers are suppressed –some kind of electromagnetic field layered into the restraints, maybe nanotech. It doesn’t matter. The result is the same: she can’t phase. Can’t jump. Can’t fight.

It’s like trying to scream with no voice. Like being a kid again.

Krane stands over her, monologuing in that smug, academic cadence that always made her want to tear her own ears off. She’s pacing now, dragging her fingers along the edge of a steel tray holding tools that aren’t exactly designed for healing.

“…quantum stability, neural mapping, synaptic plasticity,” Krane is saying, like she’s checking off items on a list. “You’re a blueprint with legs, nothing more,” the scientist finally concludes, looking over the hero with the same sadistic smile she’s always had. “You think you’re going to save the world again. But you’re just a failed experiment clinging to a label.”

She doesn’t respond. Not because she’s too weak –though Krane’s been dosing her with something, and her limbs feel like sandbags –but because she’s saving her strength. Waiting. Waiting for the moment when the sedatives slip, when the field flickers, when Krane makes a mistake.

Because the doctor always does.

But if she’s being honest, that’s not the only reason she’s quiet. The real reason –the part that burns low in her chest, white-hot and ugly –is this: she let Krane take her.

She didn’t fight back. Not really.

She had a window. A second and a half, maybe two. Enough time to jump. Enough time to leave. But she didn’t. Because the second she started to move, Krane said Joaquín’s name. Said it so calmly, so casually, like she hadn’t been watching them through the drone in his laptop camera.

“You go for this computer and I send a kill switch to your flyboy’s pacemaker,” Krane said, having picked up the laptop. There’s a remote in her hand –small, round, blinking. “You know he has one now, right? After that nasty fall into the ocean? Poor thing –you know, we had to restart his heart.”

“We?” She asked, looking at the doctor in disbelief.

“You should have read the file carefully, Glimpse,” the doctor scolded. “I’m reformed, remember? And before you, I was a very decorated military doctor.”

It was bullshit. It had to be.  But she didn’t know for sure. 

And that split second of hesitation –of imagining Joaquín’s body hitting the floor because she called Krane’s bluff –was enough. Enough for Krane to sedate her. Enough for the world to blur. 

Enough to lose.

And now, here she is. Chained and doped up in some forgotten corner of Virginia, reliving the worst years of her life like it never ended. Except this time, she’s not a little girl. She’s not powerless. And she knows that there’s at least two people looking for her.

And she knows neither of them will stop until they find her.

Her eyes flick to the blinking red light on the wall. A low pulse, like a heartbeat. It wasn’t there five seconds ago. That light isn’t part of the baseline infrastructure. She knows this place. Knows how Krane likes her labs –clinical, sterile, and absolutely under her control. 

That flicker is out of place. 

That flicker means hope.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t give Krane the satisfaction of knowing something’s changed.

Across the room, Krane is talking again –some self-righteous, pseudo-academic garbage about neural mapping and genetic anomalies and “weaponized empathy.” Her voice cuts through the silence like a scalpel. Her eyes are wild now, hands moving faster, yanking wires from machines and double-checking restraints that don’t need checking. Because something’s wrong. She can feel it.

And Krane knows it, too.

She tracks the shift in Krane’s energy with careful, weary eyes. There’s a tremor in her hands now. That smug detachment has begun to crack.

Good. Let it crack.

The moment comes in a shudder of metal. A deep, violent boom rattles the concrete walls as the lab door explodes inward in a spray of steel and sparks. The force of it echoes through her chest, more felt than heard. For a second, the light above her sputters out –then returns, flickering.

The first figure through the smoke is Sam. Wings half-folded, shield in hand, eyes like fire. He moves with that signature precision: not so much charging as cleaving through the space, knocking aside a pair of armored guards with brutal efficiency. They hit the wall hard and don’t get back up.

Joaquín follows half a beat later, sliding through the debris like a storm wrapped in a man’s frame. He’s dropped the wings for speed and brute force, shoulder-checking the last guard so hard the man’s body crumples like foil. He doesn’t slow –his eyes are already locked on her.

For a moment, she’s not Glimpse, a former Avenger. She’s just the girl strapped to the chair, covered in bruises and half-drugged, barely upright –but seen. Found.

And Joaquín looks at her like she's the only thing in the damn world worth saving.

He’s at her side in seconds, hands already on the restraints, breath coming fast and shallow.

“Hey,” she says, voice dry, mouth cracking into the ghost of a smile. Like this is just an everyday thing for them.

“Hey,” he breathes, eyes scanning her face like he’s checking for fractures. She’s certain she looks worse for wear; if the bruises on her arms are any indication, she’s certain her face isn’t much better. 

“Jesus, I –,” but he doesn’t finish. Just rips the cuff open with a grunt, tosses it to the floor, and moves to the next.

Her fingers twitch back to life. Painful, sluggish –but working.

Behind them, Krane shrieks. She’s at the far end of the room now, fumbling for something –another syringe, or maybe that damned remote again. Sam crosses the space in two strides and kicks it out of her hand before grabbing her by the collar and slamming her into the wall with controlled force.

“You’re done,” he growls.

Krane gasps for air, blinking like she can’t process how quickly the tables have turned.

Joaquín finishes unfastening the last restraint, and her body sags forward –only for him to catch her, arms steady around her frame. She doesn’t collapse, though. She uses his grip to pull herself upright, standing on legs that shake but hold.

“I’ve got you,” he promises. 

“I know,” she answers, but she’s pulling back some. Steadying her stance. She doesn’t need a full recovery. She just needs a little bit of spite and one shot.

“I can walk,” she adds, looking up at him.

Joaquín looks like he wants to argue, but doesn’t. Just stays close, hand at her back as she half-limps, half-strides toward the scientist that Sam has pinned to the wall. Half crazed, clawing at Sam’s hands to release her –Krane looks certifiably unhinged. 

Finally, her outsides match her insides.

“You don’t understand! All my work –everything I’ve worked on –it’s her!” The scientist screams, bucking against Sam’s hold. “I can change the world with her!”

And then she hears it: the click of a syringe behind them. Krane kicks Sam away, more force behind the movement than he expected. Still sneering. Still trying. The doctor lunges, chemical cocktail in hand –some desperate move to keep control. The scientist is aiming for Joaquín, but she’s not half as fast as the Avenger. 

Even if the drugs are weighing her down, and every muscle in her body is screaming at her not to, she shifts her weight, ducks under Joaquin’s arm, and slams her fist into Krane’s jaw with everything she has.

It’s not graceful. Not elegant. It's not powered or calculated.

It’s just…personal.

Joaquín lets out a low whistle as she nearly drops to her knees, but he catches her immediately. With ease, he’s lifting her into his arms, and she’s pressing her forehead into the crook of his neck with a wrecked sigh. All the strength she had left was put into that punch, and with Krane down –she’s able to finally drop her guard and give into the exhaustion. 

Vaguely, she’s aware of Sam telling Joaquín to get her out of here. But her body is exhausted, and finally quits on her as Joaquín promises he’s going to get her out of there. 

-><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><--><-

Luckily, she’s only in the hospital two nights. One night to clear her system of whatever drugs Krane had given her, a hook up to an IV to get her body regulated again, and another night for observation. Outside of drawing a little more blood than she should have, Krane didn’t intend to kill the hero –she intended to use the hero as a blueprint for more. 

Her apartment is still out of commission –smoke damaged and a crime scene, naturally –so he takes her back to his place. Sam brings her some clothes, and Joaquín zips her into his hoodie, saying she’s going to stay with him until she’s 100% again. He waits for an argument from her, but it never comes; she just slips herself into the passenger seat of his car and tells him to drive slowly.

The first few days are easy enough; she spends most of them asleep in his room, tucked into his bed like she belongs there. He makes her get up to shower and eat, but otherwise he lets her chill and recover from everything. He tries to leave her be during the day, especially when she’s asleep, but sometimes he just lays in there with her. Letting her curl into his side as he watches whatever is on T.V., holding her through the recovery. Maybe they should have talked about what this is between them, but Joaquín thinks there’s no reason to anymore. 

By the end of the week, she’s up and moving. 

More than that, really. 

Joaquín stepped out to help Sam with the last few details with Krane. He’d been gone maybe an hour –two tops. Left her in bed, sitting up and scrolling through her phone with a kiss to her temple and a promise to get dinner when he got back.

So imagine his surprise when he walks into his apartment and she’s standing in his kitchen, wearing one of his T-shirts and nothing else, cooking dinner. There’s music playing, and she’s singing along as she scrolls through the instructions on her phone. Joaquín can’t help it as he stares, arms crossed over his chest. This is the most awake she’s been in days, and the thought that maybe he has even a little influence on that makes him smile.

Pushing off the doorframe, he slips in behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. “Mírate...mi cielo,” he murmurs against her ear, grinning as he looks over the ingredients on the counter. “Need some help?”

She glances up at him, and the smile she gives him could knock him out if he really wanted it to. “I’m almost done –you can take the pan out of the oven though.”

He hums, debating. “If I do that, I gotta let you go. And I don’t think I wanna do that.”

“At least turn off the oven so it doesn’t burn,” she counters, but she’s reaching over to do it herself.

The motion is innocent enough –but combined with her bare legs and his shirt and her ass brushing against him as she does it…Joaquín’s grip on her waist tightens some, cock twitching in his jeans, before he turns her around and presses her against the nearest clean countertop. She raises a brow up at him, but there’s a smirk on her face as her arms wrap around his neck.

“I take it you’re not hungry,” she teases but she’s cut off as he lifts her onto the counter.

“Oh baby, I’m starving,” he reassures, hands sliding down her waist now to grip her thighs, parting them so he can stand between them; pressing the growing bulge in his jeans against her center. “But I’m gonna need to start with dessert.”

“What are the odds one of us gets kidnapped again?” She jokes, pulling him closer by the back of his neck.

“Let’em try to take you from me again,” he promises, fingers trailing up her bare thighs and over the front of her panties. 

He nearly groans at the wet spot he feels, toying with her carefully through the damp fabric. The sigh she lets out, coupled with how her head tilts back, encourages him to pull her closer to the edge of the counter and kneel down between her legs. Slipping them over his shoulders, he presses open mouth kisses on the inside of her thighs before finally kissing the fabric that’s slick.

Her hands find his hair almost instantly, and he grins against her as he pulls the ruined garment down her legs finally. With how much they’ve teased each other over the years, and how often he’s thought about this exact moment, he wants to take it slow. Wants to drown himself in between her legs. But now that he’s here, all thoughts escape him as he licks a stripe from top to bottom, groaning at the taste. Then it’s entirely useless to consider what he’s going to do next, because all he wants is to feel her cum on his face as he dives in entirely.

The fingers in his hair tug, and the gasps coming from her lips only push him further into her as he sucks on her clit. With two fingers, he spreads her wider, allowing both a better view and more room as his tongue laps up into her entirely, taking in every ounce of her that he can. 

“Fuck,” she breathes out, and her legs are shaking. “Joaquín, please –I need –,”

Mouth still on her, he looks up through his lashes at the mess she is. Then, he pulls away just enough for her hips to chase his mouth but his fingers are what she meets. She writhes under his touch, fingers tightening in his curls as he spreads his spit and her slick all over her.

“What d’you need?” He asks, teasing, barely touching her now as her hips buck off the counter. “Gotta use your words, cariño.”

“Touch me,” she begs, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. “Please, I need you to –,”

“Like this?” 

His finger slides inside with ease, and the feeling of her clenching around just the one is enough to spur him on and he pulls her into a messy kiss. Her frantic yes, yes, yes’s are swallowed as he licks into her mouth, letting her taste herself on his tongue. Then, he slips another finger inside and she bites at his bottom lip, causing him to groan in response. Her grip on his hair tightens, hips moving against his hand, a silent plea to keep going. 

“You gonna cum for me, baby?” He murmurs into the kiss, breaking it only to trail wet kisses down her jaw and over her neck. She’s nodding frantically against him, eyes screwed shut as he picks up his speed and brushes her clit with his thumb. 

That seems to be her undoing as she cries out, clenching around his fingers tight as he feels her drip down his hand. He doesn’t pull away, but slows down his movements, easing her through the orgasm as her body shudders and falls limp against his chest. When she’s finally come down is when he finally slides his fingers from her sensitive core, causing her to shudder at the feeling.

“You good?” He asks softly but she’s dramatically falling back onto the countertop with a sigh. 

“I’m…much more than good,” she manages to say, leaning on her elbows to look up at him. 

Her eyes are trailing over him now –taking in the slick that he’s certain is on his face, down to his hand that’s still wet from her orgasm then to his dick that’s too hard to hide at this point. The gears are turning in her head; he can practically see them as she sits up and reaches for his belt. He’s about to stop her, tell her that she doesn’t need to return the favor, but then he’s swept up in a whoosh and they’re falling back into his bed.

“Fuck, I hate when you do that,” he complains, but there’s no bite in his tone as she reaches out for him. 

“You’ll get used to it,” she promises, tugging his shirt off over his head. 

Joaquín doesn’t hesitate to toss it to the side, fumbling with his belt and jeans next to kick them off. Then she’s throwing the shirt she has on into the pile, and he leans back into the pillows, staring shamelessly up at her. Every curve, every scar, every freckle –he’s staring like he’s trying to memorize every inch of her skin just in case she suddenly changes her mind.

But she doesn’t.

Thank god, she doesn’t as she finds herself straddling his hips with her hands on his chest. Joaquín sits up, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her into him, trying to get as close to her as possible. Her hips roll against him as she pulls him in once again, kissing him like her life depends on it. His hands are guiding her hips, dragging her against his cock in order to coat him in the remnants of her first orgasm. 

The head of his cock catches her clit, and she gasps into his mouth. Joaquín grins into the kiss, unable to help himself, as he looks up at her again. His other hand gropes her chest, pinching and twisting at her nipples as he bites at her bottom lip.

“Joaquín, please,” she sighs, breaking the kiss just enough to breathe over his lips. She’s reaching between their bodies now to grasp his hard cock in her hands. “I need you –I need –,”

“What do you need, cariño?” He teases, trying to keep his hips from bucking up into her. “Take what you want, baby. C’mon…,”

She nods frantically, rising up onto her knees above him. Joaquín’s gaze drops to her hand around him, where she’s guiding his cock into her soaked core. As she slowly eases him into her, one of her hands shoots up to grip his arm, digging her nails into the skin to distract from the stretch. Joaquín’s head falls back again as she sinks down on him, his hands dropping to her ass just to hold something. Because if he doesn’t –shit, he’s going to lose any semblance of control he has.

Her grip on his arm tightens as their hips meet again, sinking him entirely inside her as she tries to adjust to his size. Joaquín groans as her walls clenched around him, and his hips involuntarily buck up –causing her to cry out in surprise and lurch forward, her hands gripping his shoulders tight. With her tits in his face, and his hands grasping her ass, Joaquín is done for –fuck control, he needed to ruin her.

Joaquín trails his fingers down her arms before wrapping them back around her hips, holding her tight against him as he pistons up into her. Not expecting that, a surprised cry leaves her lips as he catches her mouth with his again. He pulls her up, and she gets the hint as she rises to meet his thrusts, bouncing on his cock to bring herself closer and closer to the edge.

“Been thinking about you like this for so long,” he admits. He punctuates his last word with a hard thrust up that has the tip of his cock grazing a spot so deep inside her it makes her drop her face into his neck, crying out his name again.

“Fuck, Joaquín –you feel so good– please, god– please, please–,” Her words die in her throat when he yanks her down particularly hard, pressing her hips down to meet him and holding her there in slow, hard grind. She lets out a choked sob of his name, clenching hard around him and stealing a low moan from the back of his throat. 

She moans again, and Joaquín jolts up some as he feels her tongue trailing over the vein in his neck and over his jaw. Her mouth is on his again, and he can feel her tightening around him as her wetness starts to smear between their bodies. The sound of their skin slapping against skin only urges him forward, each thrust becoming messier and harder. It’s almost too much as his one hand dipped between their bodies, fingers fluently toying with her clit.

“Ven para mí,” he manages to breathe against her lips, nipping at her bottom one. “Cum for me again, baby, please –need you to cum on my cock –,”

Between the touch on her clit and the thrusts up into her, Joaquín can tell she’s close and he’d be damned if he came before her. Kissing her harder –all tongue, and teeth, and spit –he speeds up his thrusts in time with his fingers on her clit. She bites his lip for a moment before she gasps, closing her eyes tight as her body tenses up under him, only to spasm around him as she comes undone again. The only sound she makes are airy gasps of his name, begging him to keep going. Joaquín isn’t far behind as he thrusts up into her a few more times before his hips stutter against her. 

“Where –,”

“Inside –god, please,” she insists, holding tight to him as if afraid to lose his touch. “Pill -,”

Joaquín doesn’t think twice as he nods, taking hold of her jaw to kiss her again as he tenses up below her. He rolls his hips once, twice –then groans into her mouth as he fills her deep. She’s grinding against him still, riding out both of their orgasms now, as they both slowly come down. 

Then she drops against him, breathing heavily. Joaquín’s hand drops away from her jaw, pulling her back with him as he collapses on the bed. Her forehead presses against his neck, tucked just under his chin as she tries to catch her breath. He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a breath himself, as he savors the moment of her skin against his, holding her close to his chest.

They lay like this for a while –basking in each other’s touch, enjoying the warmth both are feeling. Joaquín is still buried inside her, still half-hard, but he makes no move to pull out. Not when she’s laying on him like this, melting into his touch. Just as he’s about to say something –ask her if she wants to take a bath or something –both their phones ring. The same ringtone, for the same person –texting them both at the same time.

“You think he knows he’s always interrupting?” She asks, but her voice is hoarse. 

“There’s no way he doesn’t,” Joaquín responds, but he doesn’t move from the bed. Instead, he pulls her closer and pulls the blankets up over them both. “He can figure it out without us.”

“You know he’s gonna show up at the door,” she points out, but she’s pressing herself somehow closer to him as his arms tighten around her. 

“I don’t even care –I got my girl in my arms. He’ll understand.”

-------

Taglist: @messrkarmaismygf13 @thecowboyfiles (you asked me to share with the class so here we are)

[frothy-tart]

Yeah y’all better keep writing them thunderbolts x reader fics

[frothy-tart]

I was scared to take a breath, didn't want you to move your head... (Bob Reynolds x female reader *SMUT MINORS DNI*)

🂱︎ pairing: Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts/New Avengers female reader

🂱︎ synopsis: You're upset after a recon mission with Yelena goes slightly wrong, and Bob jumps at the opportunity to comfort you. He suggests to put on a film, and in the cosy movie room in the dim lights it leads to the two of you to become closer and more intimate than you ever have before.

🂱︎ genres: fluff fluff! friends with feelings as @em1i2a3 calls it, friends to lovers.

🂱 warnings: SMUTTY SMUT SMUT MINORS DNI! unprotected sex, p in v, fingering, praise kink, mentions of anxiety, mentions of wounds/injuries, mentions of Bob's previous drug use

🂱 notes: this is a bit long lol I kinda didn't know where I was going with it at first whoops... inspired by the line of lyrics in the title from the Sombr song 'back to friends' !

You let out a soft groan as your weight shifted on your bed, your muscles aching, bones still healing, and your heart pounding.

You'd been on a recon mission with Yelena last night, when things went sideways and the getaway car you drove flipped on its head, rolling a few times as you and Lena had no choice but to jump out of the car.

You'd both limped your way back to the tower to meet the medical team, your arm around Yelena's waist holding her up. Your rib was fractured and you had bruising all over your body, but Yelena wasn't so lucky. She had jumped out straight into some concrete, meaning she had to be monitored for a few days in the hospital wing for head injury and trauma.

You were at least able to sleep in your own bed after being patched up, but you couldn't help but feel drowned with guilt as Yelena was bedridden for the next few days.

"Lena? It's me." You opened the curtain slowly, holding an assortment of breakfast foods for her. You made sure to give her a wide selection, settling on a bowl of oatmeal with bananas and peanut butter drizzled on top, a plate of bacon and eggs, and her favorite pastries from the bakery across the road.

"Oh thank god thought I was hallucinating the smell of those pastries--" She said excitedly, reaching her arms out to you fingers motioning to hand her the food.

She dug in hastily, and despite the events of last night she seemed alright, considering.

"Yelena I'm sorry. I-- I should've gotten us out of there earlier-- quicker." You said sat on the edge of her hospital bed criss-cross-applesauce pulling apart a spare pastry she insisted you have.

"Don't even worry about it. This is all just precautions, honestly these idiots don't know the extent of things I went through in the red room, these injuries are nothing." She said with that thick Russian accent, so nonchalantly talking about her dark past. You stayed silent, still guilt ridden and full of regret.

"Hey, y/n. It's okay, I promise." Yelena reached over to hold your shoulder, the edges of her mouth covered in crumbs.

"You got me back! And we were fine. So fine. Really." She added reassuringly. You nodded, and gave her a small smile.

"Now stop disrespecting Mr Krispy Kream and eat your donut instead of pulling it apart." She finished, and you let out a soft chuckle, grateful for her ability to make light of these situations.

You both continued eating, and when nothing was left but empty bowls and crumbs you got up and took the tray of food to the kitchen.

You turned the corner and saw a familiar figure hovered over the sink, sweatshirt rolled up to his forearms, hair messy and falling over his face.

"Good morning Bob." You say, making your way over to the sink behind him.

"Y/n! Hey, morning!" He replies, tone happy and light that you couldn't help but crack a small smile.

"I heard about last night... A--Are you okay?" He asked, hands busy with the dishes and covered in soap.

"I'm f-fine. Yeah. Could've been worse I guess." You reply softly, leaning on the counter, hand clutching your bandaged side. You wince under your breath, and notice the purple and red hues beneath your skin that cover your hand.

You look up and meet Bob's worried gaze, hair falling over his face as his attempts to push it away, which just resulted in him leaving bits of soap on his temple. His lips were pressed in a thin line, eyebrows slightly furrowed.

"y/n, are you okay?" He repeated. He always did this, saw right through you and your excuses. You both have grown quite close since moving into the tower, as you both had insomnia and anxiety. You'd find yourself up at odd hours of the night, with only Bob and a good book keeping you company.

He knew you better than anyone else on the team, always somehow knowing exactly what you needed. On the other hand your presence calmed Bob, hushing the constant buzz that constantly filled his head.

After especially hard missions, you'd come back to the compound to Bob doing some cleaning up, and upon seeing your tired figure enter, he'd immediately get to work on making you a cup of tea or hot chocolate.

During larger gatherings or meetings you'd pick up Bob's nervous ticks, when he'd start pulling at the loose threads of his sweater, or start to rub his eyes a little too often, and you'd find yourself giving him a gentle nudge or a reassuring squeeze with your hand to calm him.

Bob would knock at your door to check on you on the days you wouldn't leave your room, and make sure you'd eaten.

You'd stand up for Bob when Valentina or anyone else was putting too much pressure on him, and made sure that he was on top of his medication and therapy exercises.

"y/n?" You'd zoned out completely, and Bob was now stood in front of you, blue eyes full of worry.

"It's my fault." You whispered.

"w-what do you mean?" Bob asked, wiping his damp hands on the sides of his trousers, leaving behind even more wet marks on his clothes.

"Yelena... It was a simple recon mission. I just needed to get her out-- now she's in the hospital wing-- I just feel-- like I failed." Your vision clouded slightly, and you looked to the floor to avoid Bob's gaze.

He studied you for a second, before he gently lifted your chin up.

"I saw Yelena this morning, she's alright y/n. She's going to be okay." His fingers were soft and tender on your chin, and you looked up at him through teary eyes.

"I don't want to be the reason anyone else gets hurt." You whisper, and you knew Bob understood.

He didn't say anything, but he pulled you in for a gentle hug. He was slightly wet from doing the dishes, but you didn't really care. You buried your head into his soft sweatshirt inhaling the scent of him, with a little bit of dishwashing soap, and let a tear slide down your cheek. Then another, and another.

"Shhh. It's okay." Bob whispered, head resting on top of yours, holding you tightly. He couldn't help but catch a whiff of your shampoo, the one you lent him once and he's been obsessed with ever since. It smelled of coconut and vanilla, and he's since associated those scents with you.

He just stood there with you, and time seemed to slow when he held you in his arms, the rest of the world melting away.

You'd pulled apart from him eyes slightly red and cheeks stained with tears, a little embarrassed at your emotional outburst.

"I-I'm sorry Bob. Oh shit, I got your favorite sweatshirt all drenched I'm so sorry." You added, wiping your hands over his shoulder as if that would dry the spots from your tears, only to feel his hard muscles underneath his sweatshirt.

"Don't worry, this sweatshirt's had it's fair share of tear stains before." Bob replies, a slight blush tinting his cheeks at the feeling of your hands on him.

"d-do you wanna maybe put on a film? Get your mind off of it?" He adds.

"Y-yeah... I would love that actually." You're grateful for a distraction, and you grab some tissues from the cupboard dabbing away the leftover moisture on your face. You hear Bob shuffle around the kitchen behind you, pulling out two mugs, some chocolate powder, and milk. You take it upon yourself to grab some microwave popcorn from another cupboard, Bob shyly stepping aside to give you room.

You microwave the popcorn as Bob finishes up the drinks, the two of you stood silent but comfortable as the hum of the microwave filled the room.

"The rest of the team are gone by the way, they're out on mission... so we have the movie room to ourselves if--if that's where you wanna watch a film." Bob adds, stirring the liquid chocolate and adding the toppings just the way you like it.

"That's perfect" You chuckle

"No Alexei speaking over the dialogue or Walker acting like he's some film critic." You add. He flashes you a shy smile, mugs of finished hot chocolate in either hand.

"Ready?" He asks. The microwave dings and you grab the bag out of it, filling the room with the buttery smell.

You follow Bob's lead into the large movie room upstairs, cluttered with pillows, blankets, and some large couches all pointed towards the massive screen.

After minutes of discussing what film to put on, you both settle on a comedy film neither of you had seen before.

You make yourself comfortable on the couch, pulling over some blankets and a small table to put your hot chocolate down on. Bob sinks into the space next to you, hot chocolate already half empty with a hint of whipped cream covering his top lip.

"How have you had that much already! The films not even started yet!" You tease.

"I was hungry!"

You laugh, and if Bob could bottle up the sound and play it whenever, he would.

You lean over, closing the small gap between the two of you. Bob freezes, unsure of what to do but scared that whatever he does will ruin the moment.

He's not sure what to expect, but your hand comes up to cup his face and your thumb lightly swipes the whipped cream off his top lip.

Your finger was soft, gentle, but he could feel the small calluses that littered your skin from years of hero work.

You had your eyes locked on his lips, and you could have held his face in your hand forever.

You pull away, and Bob clears his throat, snapping himself out of your mesmerising touch.

"T-thanks"

"No problem."

The film opening credits begin to play and you settle into your seat, the couch so perfectly comfortable and cosy that you relax in no time.

Bob sits awkwardly next to you, not quite as relaxed, as he remembers the feeling of your hand on his face and your finger on his lips.

About a third into the film, Bob feels the slightest weight on his shoulder, and looks over to you completely slumped over on him, a light snore escaping your lips. The popcorn bag had now fallen from your hands leaving a pool of kernels on the floor, but Bob doesn't dare move to clean it up.

"y/n?" He whispers softly. There's no reply. You were exhausted after all, and the couch's soft embrace easily lulled you to sleep.

You moved, and Bob tenses, you slide down from his shoulder and he has to reposition himself to make sure you don't wake with a crick in your neck.

As slowly and carefully as he can, he slides lower down on the couch, arm coming around your shoulder. He hesitates, arm suspended in midair as if afraid to touch you. That's when you nuzzle into him in your sleep, head rested on his chest, your hand landing on his stomach.

You looked peaceful, angelic, and if it mean't Bob had to stay in this position forever just for you to get the rest you deserved than so be it.

He finally settled his arm on you, drapping it over your shoulder and side.

Bob tried his best to focus on the film, but the blooming feeling in his chest kept peeling his attention from the screen. Bob could happily drown in the smell of your hair, and tattoo the feeling of your skin on his. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears, almost scared if he took a breath too deep or moved even an inch you'd wake and he'd never have the privilege of being this close to you ever again.

He spent the rest of the film breathing as shallow as he could, even holding his breath every time you stirred. This moment was sacred to him, holding you close as you were at your most vulnerable. He drew small circles on your back, relaxing into the rhythm of your breathing.

Little did you know that ever since you and Bob moved into the tower, he became your sanctuary, your safe space. He'd enter the room and you'd calm, he'd give you a soft smile and you'd melt.

The sound of the film's score woke you from your slumber, the credits of the film rolling on the screen. You realised your position, and how you were now laid diagonally on the couch on your side with your leg over Bob's lap, head on his chest, and arm across his stomach.

You looked up slowly, to see Bob eyes focused on the screen. He almost looked like a statue, with the contours of his features being especially obvious in the dim light. He was still, almost too still. Wait, was he breathing?

"Bob?" You spoke softly, lifting your head up from on his chest.

"y/n, y-you're awake." He turned to look down at you, still looking a bit tense.

"yeah sorry, didn't mean to fall asleep... shit that position must've been so uncomfortable for you I'm so sorry--" You sit up, immediately regretting it as he warmth of him by your side fades.

"N-no, please don't be sorry... I was perfectly comfortable, and I'm glad you got some rest." He added shuffling over on the couch to give you a bit of space, even though all he wanted to do was pull you close again.

"Damn. I don't think I've had a nap, in years..." you let out a small yawn and stretch your arms up, your shirt lifting giving Bob a peak of your midriff. He swallowed at that tiny flash of skin, immediately feeling guilty for looking.

"you okay? how was the film?" you asked. Bob seemed to be looking everywhere but you, suddenly extremely interested in the details of walls behind you.

"yeah I'm all good... erm- the film, yeah uh-- it was alright, not my taste-- maybe- erm I didn't follow it really--" His eyes keep darting around the room, as if afraid to look at you for too long. He runs a hand through his loose curls, a slight redness appearing on the tips of his ears.

"Bob. You didn't watch it properly, did you?" You interrupt his rambling, and looks as if he's just been caught doing something he shouldn't have.

You laugh, and there's that sound Bob wished he could bottle up again.

"Did you fall asleep too then? Maybe it wasn't a very good film." You add, looking over at the credits rolling on the screen.

"something like that..." He finally looks up to meet your eyes, and just from that quick nap Bob can already see you've perked up massively.

"So uh- how are you feeling?" Bob asks, leaning over to finally tidy up the spilled popcorn.

"Better. A lot better, thank you Bob." You join him, scooting over on the couch your thigh making contact with his as you both lean over collecting the pieces. Your hands touch as you reach for the same kernel, the contact sending electricity up your arm.

"Sorry." He says under his breath through a small chuckle.

"Don't be." You add looking over to him, your beautiful bright eyes piercing right through all the walls that protect Bob's heart.

You collect what's left of the mess and put it aside for now, not wanting to leave Bob's side just yet.

"Shit y/n, you're bleeding." You look down on your side and see red.

"Fuck, what time is it? I think I need to change the dressing of my stitches." You press a hand on your side, feeling the sting from the stitches below.

"The spare bandages are in my room, I'll just sort this and I'll see you in a bit." You get up, wincing slightly, hyperaware of the pain on your side.

"W-wait, I can help you." Bob is stood now as well, eyebrows knitted together in concern.

"Y-you don't have to do that Bob, you've done enough already--"

"No please, I want to help. Let me help you." His voice is soft, tender, laced with something deeper than just care. Your stomach grew warm at the thought.

"Okay... Thank you." You say quietly through a small smile.

You make your way down the corridor, Bob trailing behind you like a lost puppy dog transfixed on your scent.

You open the door to your room and rummage through the first aid kit you left next to your bed last night.

Bob is standing awkwardly in the doorway, unsure of what to do.

"You can come in Bob" You say over your shoulder, collecting the bandages and anti-septic cream.

Bob steps into your room shyly, taking specific note of how the room smells like you. He looked around, observing the state of your room. Posters were put up all over your wall as if the blank white paint behind them frightened you, you had a stack of books balanced precariously on your bedside table, and you had a Playstation 5 by a stack of games in the corner next to the TV.

"Sorry, I'm in need of a tidy." You felt a bit exposed, and you would almost be embarassed if it was anyone else but Bob. But you knew he'd never judge you, never.

"No no, don't apologize... The room is so perfectly, you..." He trailed off, eyes wide reading the countless movie titles on the posters that cluttered your wall. He just missed the slight blush that appeared on your cheeks, that warmth in your core bubbling up again.

You settled down on your bed as Bob timidly took a seat next to you.

"I'm assuming you know how to do this, right?" You asked, you didn't doubt he knew what he was doing, but you thought you'd give him one last chance to back out.

"y-yeah... I had to take care of myself anytime I did anything-- stupid-- whenever I was on-- y'know..." He said, almost ashamed. While your heart dropped everytime he brought up his past, you also couldn't help but feel proud of how far he'd come, and how strong he is. He dropped his gaze down to his lap, looking guilty he brought it up at all. You took one of his hands and gave it a gentle squeeze, reassuring him that he would never have to be alone like that again.

"Sorry, um, yeah. I can do this." He looked up at you through his hair, giving your hand a gentle squeeze in return. You pulled away and put the bandages and cream between the two of you, and awkwardly turned so your back was faced to him.

"Um, can I lift this up?" Bob asked as he fiddled with the hem of your shirt.

"Oh, yeah of course... Um, it may be easier if I just take it off." You didn't give Bob enough time to respond, as you pulled your shirt over your head and held it to your front. Bob swallowed, grateful you were faced away as his cheeks burned.

"Sorry, was that okay?" You asked, realising you must've taken him by surprise.

"Y-yeah of course, as long as you're comfortable." Bob couldn't peel his eyes off your bare back, which moved everytime you took a breath. You had a long line of stitches that stretched down from your right shoulder blade all the way to your side, with other patches of bruising cluttering your shoulder and arm.

Even through your injuries though, Bob couldn't help but find you beautiful. You had freckles that looked like paint speckled on a canvas, with a few older scars that looked like shooting stars across in the night sky.

He snapped himself back to reality, taking the time to gently remove the dressing that had been stained red. The light touch of his fingers on your back made you shiver, the warmth in your stomach growing.

Bob did good work with cleaning up the bleeding, and reapplying a new bandage. The moment was quiet, but intimate, something heavy weighing in the air between you two.

"Thanks..." You said, looking over your shoulder at him. His hand was still on your back, large and warm, pressed on the bandage as if he didn't want to detach from you.

"You're welcome..." He said in a low, quiet voice that made the skin under his touch tingle. Bob's hand took on a mind of it's own as he trailed a finger across your spine, making your whole body shiver. You didn't say anything as he continued lining his finger across your back, like he was painting a picture.

"That... feels really nice..." Your eyes fluttered closed, sinking into his touch. You let out a relaxed exhale, all your pain going numb under the gentle touch of Bob.

Bob was quiet, transfixed, almost no longer himself. Maybe it was the Sentry taking over for a second, or maybe it was just Bob, finally giving into the desire he'd had for you for so long.

Then he did something so soft and tender that it broke the unspoken tension between the two of you. He planted a gentle kiss on the top of your shoulder. Then another on the top of your spine, and another right behind your ear.

"Bob..." You said softly, leaning into him, the feeling of his lips on your skin making you feel drunk.

The sound of his name snapped him out of his trance, eyes going wide and pulling away, leaving your back bare and cold again.

"Shit-- uh... s-sorry... I hope that was okay... I- I don't know what came over me." Bob was flushed, almost terrified at himself for getting carried away.

"N-no please... I-- I liked it.. I-- like you Bob..." You said laying out your heart to him.

You turned to him, still clutching your shirt to your chest. His hair had fallen over his eyes, his pupils blown. You saw a shimmer of something yellow in his eyes, something golden, for a split second, then it was gone.

"I want you, Bob. Only you" Your tone was soft, but desperate, your need for him growing.

"I want all of you."

"Y/n, you drive me crazy." And with that he surged forward connecting your lips with his. The kiss was hungry, but tender still, like he was drinking you up like sweet honey. His hand came up to cup your cheeks, your hands still clutching your shirt. He tasted like chocolate and butter, lips slightly chapped and hands slightly calloused.

You both twisted and manouvered around each other on the bed, as gracefully as you could and without hurting your injuries, never unlocking lips. He settled you down softly onto your pillow hands cupping the back of your head, positioning his body on top of you.

Your side stung just the slighest, but not nearly enough for you to want to stop the moment. Your hands found his mess of curls, letting go of the thin cotton shirt that separated your bodies.

Bob pulled away, breathless, resting his forehead on yours, his hand and forearm next to your head bearing his weight.

"C-can I-" He says fingers tangling with the bottom of your shirt. You nod, and he slowly peels the fabric away exposing your upper body to him.

"God... you're beautiful." His voice was low and husky, but the compliment was soft, leaving his lips like he's wanted to say that to you forever. One of his hands began to explore your body, starting from you stomach, up to your breasts. You were aching under his touch, and when his finger even slightly grazed your nipple you let out a soft moan.

"fuck y/n, do that again for me." And with that he latched onto your nipple, sucking lightly, other hand fondling the opposite breast. You let out another moan, louder this time, giving him exactly what he asked for.

Bob was careful not to touch any of your lingering bruises as his hand continued to roam your body, lips still on your nipple eyes closed shut trying to memorise the feeling. One of his slipped under your shorts, immediately finding your soaked center.

He came up from sucking on you starved for air, looking up at you with his stunning blue eyes. He wished he could frame the way you looked, bottom lip trapped between your teeth, hair falling perfectly around your face as you moaned his name.

His fingers made contact with the wet spot on your panties, softly grazing the top of the fabric.

"f-fuck Bob..." He'd barely even touched you and you could already feel yourself begin to unravel.

"Is this okay?" He asked, not in the shy tone he usually spoke with but a deeper, hungrier, more powerful voice.

"yes-- yes--" You answered between gasps and moans as he slipped his hand into your panties, finding your sensitive bud with ease.

"aw baby, so wet already." His voice rang with that same dark tone again, and you looked into his eyes and caught just a glimpse of the golden honey the flashed in the blue.

He dipped a finger in you with ease, and you let out a moan, pushing your head back into the pillow. This gave Bob access to your neck, immediately littering your skin with soft, wet kisses.

He pumped his finger in and out, while kissing you like you were holy. He added another digit, and the feeling made your hand fly to his head, and pull at his loose curls.

"Yes baby, that's it..." his husky tone made your eyes roll back into your head, feeling the tight knot in your lower belly become more intense.

He latched on to your nipple once more, sucking and biting just the right amount that the feeling teetered between pain and pleasure.

"F-fuck Bob-- I'm gonna--" He didn't need telling, he could feel you tighten around his fingers and could hear your moans growing louder and more intense. He continued on pumping his fingers, kissing up your chest and neck,

"I've got you baby, cum for me please." You didn't need to be told twice, feeling the knot come undone as the pleasure reached its peak. Bob helped you ride out the high, littering your neck with soft kisses in between compliments.

You heaved, catching your breath. Bob kept his fingers in you for just a moment longer, savoring the feeling of being inside you.

You opened your eyes to his blue ones taking in your beautiful form, still flushed and glistening from your finish.

He slowly pulled his fingers from beneath you, and lifted his fingers to his lips, and sucking them clean.

"fuck Bob." You moaned, already aching for more.

"I love it when you moan my name." He said in his husky voice before pressing his lips on yours, letting you taste yourself as his tongue explored your mouth.

His hand came up to your side, ever so gently and still very much conscious of your injuries, which was in complete contrast to how hungrily he was kissing you, and the pressure you felt pressed up against you.

You reached down, making contact with him through his trousers, making him break the kiss to moan.

"y/n-- I-- you don't have to do that." Bob said between breaths. He was big, and you could feel him aching beneath your palm.

"you--you're still hurt-- please- don't feel like you have to do anything f-for me--" He could barely get a word out, his eyes squeezing shut as he fought the urge to unravel at your touch.

"I want to make you feel good Bob. I want to feel all of you." Bob's eyes shot open at your words, pupils wide and blown, and with one swift movement, he had you on top of him, and sat up to meet your lips.

He cradled you with arms that felt like they were molded in marble, as he kissed you as if he were drunk on the taste of you.

You could feel him pulsing beneath you, the only thing separating the two of you being his sweatpants now wet with excitement.

You start to move, craving his touch and needing friction between your legs, when he pulls away suddenly, like he's snapped out of a trance.

"You feel any bit of pain, we stop. This isn't worth it if I hurt you y/n." He had a serious tone to his voice you'd never quite heard before, but it was laced with such protectiveness and care that you knew this man would go to the ends of the earth for you.

"Yes Bob... And don't worry, I'm not made of glass." You reply playfully, already missing the feeling of his lips on yours.

"Not glass, definitely not glass." He kissed you again, cradling your body flush onto his. You traced your fingers down his body, feeling the dips and curves of his frame. Your fingers played with the frayed hems of his sweater, ever so slightly making contact with the skin beneath. You physically felt him twitch.

You pulled the sweater off, to finally reveal the physique that can only be described as heaven sent. He was toned, strong, but not overly big, and still littered with signs of Bob and his past. He was beautiful, godly, but still warm and human.

"y/n? Is something wrong?" You'd realised you hadn't spoke or moved in a second, Bob's deep voice pulling you back into the moment.

"Bob, you're beautiful." Was all you could bring yourself to say. It left your lips almost like you didn't mean to say it, like it was a secret that you didn't dare share so you could keep him all to yourself.

Bob was speechless, but his smile grew showing the creases on his temples, and the sparkle of his eyes.

"and you're perfect." His lips were on yours again in no time, and he held firmly on your hip with one hand as he began lowering his sweats down his body with the other. It wasn't graceful, but with your help he was finally bare before you.

He was flushed at the tip, and so, so incredibly big.

He lined himself up to your entrance, and slowly, you lowered yourself onto him.

You went slow, feeling every inch of him filling you up. Your head dropped onto his shoulder, and he said small praises into your hair as you took him all in.

He allowed you a moment, even through gritted teeth as your walls were so warm and tight around him. When he felt you move and lift yourself up, only then did he start thrusting up to meet you.

"You're taking me so well beautiful..." He had one hand down on the bed for support, the other holding you as your hips continued to meet in the middle.

You felt him deep in your core and it wasn't long till your legs gave out from beneath you.

"Bob--" You barely got his name out between moans, feeling the waves of pleasure all over your body.

"I know baby, I know. Do it with me okay? Just hold on a little longer." He could feel you tightening around him, and hear your moans getting loader. He kissed your neck, and worshipped your body with his free hand.

"Please--" The feeling was overwhelming now, but he continued to thrust into you at an even pace. You knocked your head back when he made contact with your nipple, his mouth doing it's magic as his thrusts became harder, sloppier, hungrier.

"You've done so good beautiful, come with me now okay? You've done so good." His praises were more than enough to send you over the edge, and your moans were music to his ears as he released deep inside you. Throughout it all Bob watched you like you were divine, hyperaware of how perfectly the two of you fit together like this.

You collapsed onto him, and he slowly let himself fall back onto the bed, cradling you again gently. You laid in comfortable silence, still catching breath and calming down.

It wasn't long however till you felt a small tingle at your back, drawing your attention back to the whole reason you two were here.

"crap. I think my stitches broke again."

[frothy-tart]

time after time - masterlist

summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x time witch!reader

series word count: 111.8k+

warnings: f!reader; more or less canon compliant; time loops, canon typical violence, repeated major character death (in a russian doll/supernatural's mystery spot sort of way); slow burn, mutual annoyance to reluctant friends to lovers; negative self-talk; just a lot of angst (but with an eventual happy ending i promise!!); lots of banter; hella self-indulgent 💚

this series is set after the events of the falcon and the winter soldier and will include spoilers for marvel projects up to and including multiverse of madness

a/n: welcome to the fic i've been thinking about for almost a year!! i am beyond excited and terrified to finally start sharing this. if you want to get notified whenever i post a new chapter, you can follow @intrepidacious-fics and turn on notifications or follow along on my ao3 💚

please mind that my blog is 18+ only, minors and ageless accounts will be blocked

✨ this series is ongoing; last update 29/06/25

my chapters are on the long side so they will also be posted in parts for easier reading in the app; the parts and the full chapters are identical contentwise

one: turn back the clock ↳ Bucky gets killed during a mission and you accidentally start a time loop | 6.0k

part one

part two

two: twice upon a time ↳ You struggle to cope with your new situation and meet a sorcerer | 8.2k

part one

part two

three: every day’s a holiday ↳ Ten days into the loop, you finally decide to ask for help | 10.1k

part one

part two

part three

four: groundhog day ↳ Library heists, bad ideas, and a decision | 9.2k

part one

part two

five: carousel ↳ Bucky has a secret and you have a revelation | 10.9k

part one

part two

part three

six: butterfly effect ↳ You go back to the start, and something changes | 12.8k

part one

part two

part three

part four

seven: spellbound ↳ There's a problem with this day | 11.1k

part one

part two

part three

eight: edge of tomorrow ↳ The truth comes out, and you scramble to fix things | 12.3k

part one

part two

part three

nine: out of the past ↳ Some ill-advised choices and a road trip | 12.9k

part one

part two

part three

part four

ten: about time ↳ The fallout, some truths, and time being really weird | 12.2k

part one

part two

part three

eleven

twelve

epilogue

bonus chapters

these are mostly set outside of the time loop; not required reading, but there will be some nods to these in the main story. bonus chapters can be read in any order and without knowing the main story

frequently asked questions about time travel ↳ Five times people asked you something about time travel, and one time you’re desperate for an answer yourself

eternal sunshine of the spotless mind ↳ One day in Bucky's time loop

57 seconds ↳ How Bucky met Twelve

somewhere in time ↳ a bantery little snippet that was cut for time from the main story

cause and effect ↳ How Bucky fell in love with Twelve: Slowly, and then all at once.

alpine's pov ↳ set during chapter 8

fun stuff

🎵 series playlist

#️⃣ browse the series tag

moodboards by @barnesafterglow 💚

moodboard by @sweetascanbee 💚

moodboards by @idkitsem 💚

moodboards by @treatbuckywkisses 💚

[frothy-tart]

Kindergarten Chaos Pairing - Tyler Owens x Teacher!Reader Summary - When you joked that Tyler should come talk to your class of kindergartners about the weather, you didn't expect him to actually want to do it. Of course, you didn't expect him to make a confession in front of them either. Word Count - 2.3k Warnings - Hi, yes, it's me. I hope you all accept my apology for my absence with this nothing but fluff Tyler fic. <3

The closer that the clock ticked to 12:00, the more nervous you became. You were still debating whether this was a good idea. You and Tyler had been dating for a little over seven months now. When you had joked about him coming to talk to your kindergartners about the weather, you hadn’t expected him to take it seriously. Instead of thinking it was a joke though, Tyler got excited. He wanted to do it. In fact, he said it sounded fun. 

You weren’t sure how fun he was going to find it when twenty-three tiny humans surrounded him, tugging on his shirt sleeves, asking whether he’d ever flown into a tornado, and inevitably, way too many questions about his personal life. 

With a groan, you buried your face in your hands. At least this would be a good endurance test of your relationship. If he could handle this, you had no doubt he could handle anything. 

At that moment your phone rang, and your heart skipped a beat when the secretary’s name popped up on the caller i.d. “Hello?” You answered. 

Her voice was low, amused. “You know I’m happily married, but my God, that man is gorgeous. Congratulations, honey.” 

You laughed, the tension cracking a bit. “He’s here?” 

“Sent him down to your room. I just had to call. And like I said - congrats.” She said, and you heard her let out a sigh. “That’s one handsome cowboy.” 

You shook your head at her shenanigans, but a smile formed on your face, because as nervous as you were about this whole thing, you were excited to see him too. “Thanks, I’ll make sure he stops by when he leaves and gives you an autographed picture.” You teased her. 

“I know you’re joking, but I’m not. Please do. I want something pretty to hang on my bulletin board.” 

Before you could reply, there was a knock on your door, and through the window, Tyler’s familiar smile greeted you - sunny and relaxed, like he didn’t have a care in the world. 

“I’ll make sure you get one, I promise.” You said with another laugh. “But I gotta go.” You hung up and practically floated to the door, opening it with a grin. “Hi.” 

“Hi,” Tyler said, and to your utter delight, pulled out a bouquet of orchids. “These are for you.” 

Touched, you took them from him, and inhaled the calming scent. “You didn’t have to do that.” You said, but held them close to your chest. 

“I haven’t seen you in two weeks.” He said, his voice low. “I’ve got some making up to do.”

Glancing down the hallway, you tugged on the front of his shirt, pulling him into your classroom and closing the door behind you. “Well, my students will be back in . . .” You peeked around his shoulder to glance at the clock. “Three minutes. So if there’s anything else you want to make up for . . .”

Tyler’s smile turned into a smirk as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against him. “I can think of a couple of things.” He said, and leaned down to meet your lips in a sweet kiss. 

It was chaste, a brush of lips, but even that was enough to set your nerves alight and ground you all at once. Kissing Tyler always had that effect: calm and fire, all rolled into one. 

When he pulled away, slow and reluctant, you let out a soft sigh and wrapped your arms around him, resting your head on his chest. “I’ve missed you.” 

You felt his lips press against the top of your head and smiled when his arms tightened around you. “I guarantee you not as much as I missed you. I still can't believe how those storms were forming back to back, nonstop.” 

“They made for some beautiful shots, though.” You said, leaning back enough to meet his eyes. “Last I checked the views were in the hundred thousands. Even though that one near Enid almost gave me a heart attack.” 

HIs expression sobered, and his eyes drifted, like he was seeing it again. “Yeah, those night tornadoes are the worst. We were lucky. I’m glad we got as many people out as we did.” He said, then his gaze came back to you, giving your hip a squeeze. “You know I won’t be mad if you stop watching the lives, right?” 

 You gasped in mock outrage. “No way. I have to keep my position as the number one wrangler fan.” 

Tyler laughed, shaking his head “I don’t think anyone’s trying to steal-”

The door to your classroom burst open, and within seconds you were surrounded by five year olds all asking: a. if they could go to the bathroom, b. what you guys were going to be doing now, or c. who that man was. 

You glanced at Tyler, half-expecting to see panic on his face, but he was grinning at you like this was the best part of his day. “Okay everyone!” You said over the noise. “Remember how I told you we’d have a special visitor today? This is Mr. Owens, and he’s going to talk to us about the weather!” 

One of your little girls, Chloe, pointed straight at the flowers still in your hands. “Did he bring you flowers?” 

Heat rushed to your face as you glanced down at the bouquet you’d forgotten you were holding. “Chloe-”

But Tyler answered her before you could. “I sure did. You should always bring someone flowers when you’ve missed them.” 

“Hey! You’re on her happy wall! Look!” One of your students grabbed Tyler’s arm and started dragging him to the collage behind your desk, a display that was covered in pictures. Some were of your students, others were places you traveled, family, and friends. “See! You’re right there!” You heard your student say, pointing at a specific picture. 

You couldn’t help but smile when you looked at it. The picture was one of your favorites. It had been taken over the summer when you were hanging out with the crew. Boone had snapped it at the perfect moment, and you’d loved it ever since. You were leaning against Tyler, laughing, your head tipped back against his shoulder. His arms were wrapped around you, and he was looking at you, not at the camera, with a soft, beaming expression. 

Glancing over, you saw Tyler staring at the photo too, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. Then he turned back to the student. “A happy wall, huh?” 

Ryan nodded, still holding Tyler’s hand. “She says it’s pictures that make her smile when she looks at them.” 

“All right,” you said, cheeks still burning. “Let’s all go to the carpet so Mr. Owens can tell us all about his job!” You ushered all the kids to their assigned carpet spots at the front of the room, giving Tyler a smile when they were all sitting on their dots, wiggling but attentive, waiting for him to start.

You should’ve known that he would be incredible at this. 

Within five minutes not only were the kids captivated, but you’d somehow found yourself on the carpet too, with one of your kindergartners in your lap. Tyler was so engaging. In fact, that was one of the first things that you had noticed about him when the two of you had met. Every time you saw him interact with someone though, you were reminded of it again. 

But watching him with your students? That was next level heart melting. 

Sometimes when you had guests, you could tell that they weren’t used to being around kids, and didn’t quite know how to talk to them. Tyler however, was a natural. He made it easy for them to understand what he was saying, made the science sound like magic, brought out some pictures for them to look at, and even did a little demonstration with two bottles and some food coloring. The kids gasped like he’d summoned a tornado right there in the classroom.

It was the cutest thing you’d ever seen, and if you hadn’t already been completely in love with him, this would have sealed the deal. 

Then he made the classic rookie mistake, the one every non-teacher makes. 

Tyler asked if they had any questions. 

You let out a sigh, knowing there was no stopping the tidal wave now. But you couldn’t help but smile as Tyler took it all in stride, Fielding every off topic, wildly imaginative question they threw at him from, “Do clouds have bones?” to “Can tornadoes eat sharks?” with patient good humor. 

It wasn’t until little Chloe raised her hand that you realized you should have stopped this long ago. 

“Do you love our teacher?” She asked, her big eyes shining with innocent curiosity. 

You froze. 

Oh no. 

That was not how you wanted that conversation to come up. “Oh, would you look at that guys?! It’s time for us to-”

“I do.” Tyler interrupted before you could finish your sentence. His eyes were directly on you even as he put a hand up, mock whispering to the class, “but I haven’t told her that yet, so shhhh!” 

Your heart stopped, then picked up at double speed. You barely had time to process what he said when another student, oblivious to the emotional bomb that had just been dropped, blurted out:

“When you two get married, are you gonna be Mr. Teacher instead of Mr. Owens?” 

“Recess!” you shouted, louder than you meant to. “Time for recess, everyone!” 

The class erupted into cheers and scrambled to line up. As they did, one voice called out from the back: 

“Can Mr. Owens go to recess with us?” 

“Please, Mr. Owens! Pleeeease!” came the chorus of tiny voices, rallying like a flash mob. 

You turned to look at Tyler. He wore that grin, the one that melted your common sense and made you fall in love with him a little more every time. Like the kids, you couldn’t help but want him to stay. “Mr. Owens is more than welcome to come if he’s not too busy.” You said. 

He didn’t even pause. “I’d love to.” 

————————

“Where on Earth did you find him?” Your friend asked you, staring at Tyler across the playground. 

He was manning the tire swing, spinning it with enough gusto to make the kids shriek with laughter. When one group stumbled off like dizzy little ducklings, another was already in line, hopping in place with excitement. Tyler didn’t miss a beat, steadying each kid, laughing with them, listening to their stories like they were the most important thing he’d heard all day. “At a bar on a bachelorette trip.” You said, smiling at the memory. 

“Does he have a brother?” She teased, bumping your shoulder. 

You laughed, shaking your head. “Nope.”

Then your eyes returned to the man surrounded by children, who looked like he belonged in the middle of all that joy

Softly, with a smile you didn’t even try to hide, you said, “You know, I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him.” 

“Have you told him yet?” She asked, raising her eyebrows. 

“I haven’t,” Tyler looked up and met your gaze, his smile hitting you like a spark. His words from earlier echoed in your mind. “But I think I’m going to.” Glancing around the playground, you found the perfect person to deliver your message. “Chloe! Come here, please!” 

The little girl darted over from the slide, face flushed from playing. 

“Can you give Mr. Owens a message for me?” You asked her, crouching down. 

She nodded, practically bouncing, excited to be given a special job. 

You leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Tell him that I love him too.” 

Her brow furrowed for a moment, but then her face lit up. She took off running, beelining for Tyler. You watched her tug at his pant leg, and he gave her that charming smile, then bent to listen. 

She whispered in his ear. His eyes locked on yours from across the playground, and you watched as his brows knit in confusion. He nodded at Chloe as she grinned at him, then took off back to you. 

“I told him!” She declared. 

But Tyler was still looking at you, his expression puzzled. Something wasn’t right. 

You braced yourself. “What exactly did you say, Chloe?” 

“That you loved his shoes too!” 

Next to you, your coworker choked on a laugh. 

You resisted every urge you had to face palm. 

“You should have seen that one coming.” Your friend said, trying and failing to hide her smile. 

She wasn’t wrong. 

Ten minutes later you were lining the kids up to go inside, and as embarrassed as you were, you couldn’t help but smile as you felt a warm hand rest low on your back. 

“I didn’t know you liked these boots so much.” Tyler said, voice teasing as he leaned in close.

Heat flushed your cheeks. “Well, I mean . . . I am a sucker for a good pair of cowboy boots.” You stammered, avoiding his gaze.

“You sure that’s what you were trying to say, sweetheart?” He asked, sending a grin over to one of your students waving goodbye. 

You smoothed your hair and glanced over at your friend, holding up a finger to signal one more minute. “What else would I have been trying to say?” You asked, feigning innocence. 

“You tell me.” 

His eyes were warm, steady and full of the kind of affection that made your knees weak. You let yourself hold his gaze this time, and your voice softened. “Why don’t I tell you tonight?” 

“After I take you out?” 

“Oh? You’re taking me out?” You asked, raising an eyebrow at him. 

“Yes ma’am.” Tyler said, stepping closer, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’ve got a lot of making up to do, remember?” 

Your smile turned to a full grin at his words, and the chaos of the day melted a little. “I’ll clear my schedule.” 

Tyler’s smile in return was all mischief. “I just have one request.” 

He reached over to hold the door open for you, and used the moment to lean down and whisper in your ear.

“Make sure you wear some really nice shoes.”

[frothy-tart]

Start Of Something Good - Rhett Abbott X Fem!Reader

Pairing: Rhett Abbott X Fem!Waitress Reader

Category: Fluff

Summary: You work early mornings at the diner. You never expected for Rhett Abbott to come in one morning, and you never expected for Rhett Abbott to ask you for your coffee order.

Masterlist

Warnings: No use of Y/N, No description of reader. Mentions of customers being rude. Rhett flirting with reader, reader loves iced coffee, possible ooc Rhett.

Notes: OH MY GOD I FINALLY FINISHED IT.

You always work the opening shift at the local diner.

Monday to Friday, 4am-12pm, you're at the small Wabang diner, serving coffee, cleaning tables, and taking orders.

Most day’s the only noises present are the rumbling of engines and the soft humming of the street lights flickering. And the only people awake are truckers, farmers coming into town to get their supplies before the sun rises, and the occasional tourist passing through who just comes to get coffee, and who never seems to leave a tip.

Which is why it surprises you the first time he shows up.

Rhett Abbott. A rodeo favorite, the quiet youngest son you only ever saw on the edge of crowds with his brooding energy and arms crossed or scowling behind the wheel of his truck as he pulls into the parking lot of the store. The one who lived miles away from the dingy little diner you worked at.

The one who you shared quiet shy glances with, always looking away when you made eye contact.

The one who you've had a crush on since you were nineteen and saw him stood by his truck in that hat he always wears.

Rhett's not exactly known to be a social butterfly, and he’s definitely not known to be a 5:30 AM diner type of breakfast guy.

You hide your surprised expression well when you first saw him that morning, walking over to take his order, a small smile present on your face. He doesn’t say much to you that first morning, he just orders a black coffee, scrambled eggs, and some toast. But he tips well, like, extremely well.

You can’t hide the shock on your face when you walk over to the little corner table where he had been seated, and notice the $30 tip, on top of the cash to pay for his meal. 

With a soft and shocked smile, you grab the tip and place it into your pocket, wondering, what the fuck just happened between you and Rhett Abbott.

But alas, as the door jingles, and you hear the ring of the bell alerting you to another customer. You don’t have much time to dwell on it. 

Then the next morning, he shows up again, the same scenario plays out. There’s not much talking, he orders the same thing, and he leaves an absurd tip in comparison to the meal he buys. Always leaving before you can come over and confront him about the money he’s leaving you. 

After around a week of this nonsense cat and mouse game, he finally talks to you and more than just his order and the simple “Mornin’ how’s yours going” that you get greeted with each and every time.

Instead, this time when you brought back his scrambled eggs, toast, and went to refill his coffee, he spoke in his low drawl, making the hairs on the back of your neck perk up at the sound.

“Hey, uh. If u'don’t mind me asking, what’s your coffee order? Trying to broaden my horizons I guess” 

You blink down at him, caught a little off guard, not because he spoke, although let’s be honest, Rhett Abbott talking more than three words at once is a rarity not many people get to experience outside of the people close to him. But rather, because he was asking about you.

Granted it was to give him a recommendation, but still! He was asking about something you like.

You study his expression. He's got his calloused hands wrapped around the slightly chipped mug, and he’s looking up at you as though he's worried you might laugh at him for asking you such a question.

“I really love iced coffee's.” you say, setting down the hot pot of coffee and trying to sound normal, and not like your heart is beating a million miles an hour.

“Vanilla cold brew, splash of sweet cream. Although sometimes, I get a bit crazy on pay days and add caramel drizzle to it. A bit sweet but everyone needs a sweet treat it their lives sometimes.” You say with a humorous tone, trying to keep your cool.

He smirks, the corners of his lips curling into up while his gorgeous eyes warm at the sound of your amused tone. “Sound’s fancy.’ He hums out, keeping his gaze seated on you his eyes tracing your face.

“It’s not, it just keeps me from turning into a demon in the mornings." You snort out, covering your mouth immediately at the sound that escapes you.

That gets a quiet chuckle out of him, and you’re a little too proud of that. The fact that you just made Rhett fucking Abbott chuckle, even if it was at your own expense.

You pour the refill and start to walk away when you hear him murmur just loud enough for you to catch “Thanks for f’tellin’ me.”

You turn back to face him, but he’s already back to focusing on his eggs like he didn’t just knock the wind out of you with a five word sentence.

Your dreams decided to play cruel tricks on you that nights. You dreamed about what it would be like to date Rhett Abbott, what his arms would feel like around you, silently scolding yourself in the morning for having such thoughts about someone you knew you couldn't have.

The next morning after you see Rhett exit the diner, you find it waiting for you.

A coffee cup. It's from the coffee shop two blocks down, the one with awful hours, and even worse parking, but the one that makes the best iced coffee you’ve ever had and splurge on when you can. The label’s as clear as day, as it list’s ‘Iced vanilla, cream, caramel drizzle.’

There’s a napkin folded neatly beneath the lid, with something scribbled down with almost illegible writing, but you can make it out enough for you to see that it reads “Hope I got it right. – Rhett”

Your name is scrawled on the side of the cup in thick black Sharpie. The barista must’ve asked who it was for, and he must’ve said your name.

Something about that makes your stomach fill with butterflies. Your heart beats against your chest as you walk towards the window trying to see if he's still in the parking lot. You glance out the window just in time to catch the tail end of his truck pulling out of the lot and driving off. Of course he didn’t stay to watch you find it.

You take a sip and It’s perfect, it’s exactly right and it’s exactly what you would order if you were to go to that coffee shop yourself. You tuck the napkin note into your apron pocket and press your lips together to keep from smiling too big, running across the diner as someone yells, asking for a coffee refill.

The next morning you don’t say anything when he walks in. Just setting down his black coffee, and having your usual ‘Mornin’ conversation that you’ve come so accustomed to when taking his order. But as you walk away after placing his coffee, he notices the napkin under his mug this time. Your handwriting scribbled quickly across a diner napkin, reading

“You got it right! P.S. You’re not so bad at surprises - your favorite waitress.”

He reads it and you catch it. The smallest flicker of a smile curling up at the sides of his mouth. It's something you don’t see often, and you watch as he folds the napkin and tucks it in his coat pocket. 

The next morning, after you watch Rhett leave there’s another coffee sitting on the table. It's completely different this time than the order you had given him a few days prior. It’s some kind of raspberry mocha cold brew with a note that reads

“This one reminded me of you."

And next to his scratchy handwriting on the napkin is a phone number. Rhett Fucking Abbott gave you his phone number, and you intend to use it.

The moment you get to take your ten minute break, you run to a random table. You sit down and whip out your phone, instantly putting his number in before sending him a text.

“Dangerous game, Abbott. I could get used to this.” 

Not even five minutes later you get a text back.

“That’s the plan. You free tomorrow?”

And as bite back a smile while, typing back, you begin to think this may be the start of something good.

[frothy-tart]

Make Me

Sorry for the lack of updates. Been catching up on...life I guess, and haven't exactly had the time or energy to write. But here's another Bucky x reader fic, hope you all enjoy!

There are times where Bucky wonders why he chose to spend the rest of his long life on the same team as you. Sometimes it's because you ate the ice cream that clearly had his name pasted on its tub, sometimes it's because you annoy him on purpose, knowing that he'll let you because you have him wrapped around your little finger, sometimes it's because of this.

He's currently clinging onto the side of a skyscraper that's about to fall over, metal hand digging into the concrete as his feet sway on thin air. If he lets go, he's going to go splat on the ground below, if he doesn't, well he isn't sure how much longer he can cling onto this wall that's also starting to crumble. All this was your fault, it was your plan that caused him to end up in this situation. If you had followed his plan he wouldn't be clinging onto a corner for his life, praying that no enemies find him in this precarious situation.

He exhales deeply, trying to push down the churning in his stomach that's threatening to send bile up his throat and forces himself to look up. Looking down reminds him too much of The Alps, of the sensation of falling, and suddenly he can't breathe anymore. He squeezes his eyes shut, focusing on getting air into his lungs, focusing on the act of breathing.

"Buck? Buck, can you hear me?" Your voice comes over the earpiece in his ear, pulling him back from the brink.

"Loud and clear," he manages to croak out, shoving aside his nausea. "Way too loud, actually."

"Too bad. You're going to have to hear me talk anyways." In all honesty, he doesn't mind hearing your voice. It grounds him, reminds him that he's not at The Alps, that Hydra doesn't have their tentacles wrapped around his neck. Not that he will ever admit it to you, he's not about to give you the satisfaction.

"Not if I get rid of this earpiece," he grunts. The concrete is beginning to crumble, and the sudden jerk downwards throws his mind back to The Alps once again, when the railing started to break off from the train as he desperately clung to it, yelling for Steve. The same fear rises in his chest, threatening to consume him and he feels his throat tighten. He doesn't want to fall again, he's afraid of the yawning abyss that he knows waits for him at the bottom. He doesn't want to go back there, he doesn't want to go back to Hydra, the pain is too much, he can't do that again, he can't lose himself again —

He's falling. The concrete has given way and gravity has taken hold. He lets out a soundless scream, terror flooding his senses. No one will catch him, just like how no one could when he fell at The Alps. He will hit the ground, pain will eat away at him, fear will take a hold of him. Will Hydra come to take him back? Will they drag him back kicking and screaming? Will they take everything away from him again? He doesn't want to lose you, he doesn't want to lose himself again, he doesn't want to lose all the memories he's made with you. He wants to see you again, to hold you, to commit everything about you to memory and store that memory somewhere where no one can take it away. He wants to hold onto something that is his, he can't let anyone take everything that is him away again, he —

"Hey handsome." Bucky blinks shakily. "I'd appreciate it if you could stop trying to destroy my shoulder."

"Sorry," he whispers, forcing his grip to relax. He exhales deeply, looking around and freezes when he realises where he is. He's midair, you're carrying him in your arms like a bride while flying, you're the only thing preventing him from hitting the ground and going splat. The ground is a long way off, and the vertigo is getting to him the longer he stares downwards.

"Stop looking down." He swears there's a hint of amusement in your voice. "You're only making it worse."

"I'm not." The curve of your lips into a smile gives him enough courage to at least try sassing back. You laugh, which causes him to smile softly, and suddenly he's more aware of the sound of your wings beating, the wind whistling in his ears, the warmth of your arms pressed against his back and knees, the sound of your heart beating in your chest.

"Sure you aren't." You tuck him closer to your chest and his fingers instinctively curl tighter around the fabric of your suit. He makes a noise of annoyance, burying his face into your chest, and focuses on your scent and warmth. He's safe here, in your arms. You caught him, you caught him before he hit the floor, you caught him as he fell. With you around, he won't fall again, Hydra won't be able to get their hands on him again, he won't feel the loneliness and chill that seeps into his bones, freezing him from the inside.

You land outside an abandoned shack, wings folding neatly as you put him down. He doesn't move, face buried in your shoulder, fingers digging into your arm.

"Hey —" You stop, realising that his body is shaking. "I'm right here."

Your fingers run through his hair as you hold onto him tightly, whispering words of comfort into his ear. He clings onto you, crying. He doesn't know why he's crying. His knees are weak, he can barely stand but you're holding onto him, supporting him, being there for him. Your body is pressed flush against his, and you're choosing to intertwine your unblemished hands with his blood soaked ones.

You don't move. You remain there as he cries, wrapping him in your embrace, an embrace he doesn't deserve. Your wings wrap themselves around him, a cocoon of leather, scarred from battles past but it's safe, warm, and most importantly, it's you. He clutches at you, mind reeling from the fact that you caught him. You swooped in, catching him as he fell, stopped him from hitting the ground.

You caught him.

You caught him.

The falling sensation. It didn't bring pain, or the biting cold. He didn't get wiped. He didn't lose himself, or you. He still retains his memories, he's still whole, he's still…him. He lets out a shaky breath, whimpering as he repeats the mantra in his head.

You caught him.

You didn't let him fall.

He didn't fall.

"I've got you." You murmur into his ear. "I'll always catch you, I promise."

He takes in the warmth of your body pressed against his, the smell of your scent mixed with smoke, the softness of your wings brushing against his back. You're smiling softly at him, with not a single hint of your usual sarcasm and sass to be found. He's not used to seeing you this genuine around him, and it's causing his heart to seize up.

"Why?" He chokes out.

"Why?" You ask quizzically.

"Why me?"

"Why you?" You let out a chuckle. "Because you're you. That's all the reason I need."

Something inside him crumbles in an instant. You deserve better, you deserve someone who doesn't come with all that baggage, you deserve someone whose past doesn't haunt them with every step they take. Still you constantly go back to him, no matter how hard he tries to push you away.

"May I?" You lean in, reaching up with a hand. He swallows hard, ice blue gaze flicking around nervously before meeting yours, then gives a nod.

"Sure." His voice wavers, but his hand reaches for yours, gently pressing it against his cheek. You smile, leaning in even closer such that your lips are mere inches away from his. He feels his heart beat even faster, the butterflies in his stomach fluttering in a frenzy. You're close, too close. He could hurt you in a million different ways with how close you are to him, but he lets you do it anyways. He's torn, he wants you close, but at the same time he doesn't.

"May I kiss you?" You whisper. His mind screams at him to deny you of this opportunity, that allowing you any closer will only doom you, and that your blood will be on his hands, but a part of him wants this intimate connection, to feel again, to be human again.

So he takes the leap of faith. He lets himself fall into the abyss called love, lets his walls down to invite you in because he trusts that you will catch him before he hits the ground. He leans in, pressing his lips against yours and the world just disappears. All that's left is you, him, and the searing heat of the kiss. The moment draws on, and he feels lighter than air, but then guilt digs its claws into him and drags him back down.

"We shouldn't." He pulls away. "I'll hurt you."

"And I don't care. We all hurt each other at some point, I've hurt people too. How are you any different?"

"I'm the Winter Soldier. You need to stop loving me." The words are like thorns in his throat. Truthfully, he wants nothing more than to be close to you, but he also wants you to be happy, and to live. You can't do either if you're stuck with him and his selfish desires.

"Make me." You pull him in for another kiss. He kisses back, desperate and hungry. He craves this connection so badly, but he also doesn't want to see you hurt.

"You deserve someone better."

"So what? We don't always get what we deserve. Besides, I like being stuck with you, don't need an upgrade."

There it is again. The snide comment that he knows you never mean.

"I don't need one either." He rests his forehead against yours, basking in your warmth. "Even though there's plenty out there."

"Well, guess we're stuck with the imperfection that is each other. No backing out now, you hear me, Barnes?"

"You're going to have to try real hard to make me, L/N."

[frothy-tart]

⟡Just a Little Meddling⟡

(John Walker x f!Reader)

Summary: Walker's feelings for you are obvious to everyone except you. Tired of watching him pine, the team decides to do something about it. - ao3 version

Word Count: 4k

Notes: Set after the events of Thunderbolts*, love confessions, first kiss, reader is described as wearing a dress and being shorter than John (he's 6' 2" so that's pretty much everyone but thought I'd mention it) New Avengers team shenanigans, John Walker yearns

a/n: I've wanted to write a Walker fic feat. the rest of the team so bad so this is it! I do love the family dynamic of the group and this was really fun to write.

“We are out of Wheaties!” Alexei yells out, jolting everyone seated around the dining table. Ever since they’d put the group of you on the box, Alexei had refused to buy any other cereal.

“Oh no.” Yelena deadpaned as she took a sip of orange juice. “This is tragic.”

“Whatever shall we do.” Ava sighed as she leaned back in her chair.

“We will get more!” Alexei declared, storming over to the table. “Bob, you will join me on  trip to the supermarket.” he pointed at the man as he spoke. “We need food anyways, Walker uses every ingredient when he cooks.”

“Hey!” John raised his hands in argument. “I make you all breakfast and this is the treatment I get?”

“Oh come on, Walker, we all know why you do this.” Yelena took another bite of her own food.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” he insisted.

Bob shrugged from his seat by the blonde. “I mean, no offense, Walker, but you’re kinda obvious.”

“What’s going on out here?” you walked into the room, rubbing our eyes as if you’d just woken up. John immediately jumped out of his seat, grabbing the extra plate of pancakes that he’d made. 

“Hey, made sure to make some extra for you.” he handed you the plate before nervously shoving his hands into his pockets. You smiled as you looked at the dish before you.

John was a surprisingly good cook. None of you could have predicted he was actually competent in the kitchen, but he’d become the designated chef of the group. Today, he’d taken the liberty of making you all blueberry pancakes ‘out of the goodness of his heart.’

“I love blueberries! Thanks John.” you grinned up at him before taking your seat, his eyes trailing after you. Yelena and Ava each gave him a knowing look, to which he scoffed before sitting back down next to you.

“We are in crisis.” Alexei announced to you, slamming the empty Wheaties box in front of you. “We have no Wheaties!” You held back laughter, glancing over at John with a grin at the ridiculous situation. Yelena groaned and covered her face out of embarrassment.

“I think we’ll survive, Alexei. Besides, John’s a great cook, he can tide us over till we go to the store.” you pointed at Walker with your fork, not looking over to see the way his face went red and his smile widened just a bit at the praise. Ava chuckled under her breath at it.

The five of you sat together, conversing as Alexei finally broke his no-Wheaties hunger strike and ate some of John’s pancakes. Walker couldn’t care less, honestly. Yelena may have been mean, but she wasn’t stupid. He liked you; a lot. You were sweet, smart, beautiful. And you would never go for someone like him, so he was left with nothing to do but small things like these. Making your favorite breakfast, looking out for you on missions, saying dumb things just to make you laugh. Anything to see you smile.

“Shit, it’s Val.” you groaned as you looked at your phone. “I gotta take this.” you stepped away, John staring as you left the room. Before you, he’d never been one to gawk at women, but it was getting to the point where when you were in a room, his adult brain turned off and his monkey brain turned on.

“Christ, Walker, you have no shame.” Ava laughed as she noticed John staring, snapping him out of it.

“What?”

“You’re like a lovesick puppy.” she joked, Yelena laughing with her.

“What are you talking about?” Alexei questioned, looking confused between Ava and John.

“Nothing, they’re just being annoying-”

“Walker likes her.” Yelena tilted her head to where you’d just left from.

John just hid his face in his hands, sighing as Alexei processed the information.

“Is this true, Walker?” he asked, seeming genuine in his questioning.

John shrugged. “If I say no, would you even believe me?”

“No.” Yelena and Ava spoke in sync, Bob shaking his head as well.

John threw his hands up, leaning back in his chair. “Fine, okay, I do like her. Are you happy?”

“YES!” Alexei practically jumped up from his seat, moving to smack John on the back.

“Ow!” he recoiled at the super soldier’s touch, Alexei hitting much harder than he intended to. He leaned down to squeeze John into a hug, all but suffocating him in the process.

“Ah, young love. You would make beautiful couple, John. Strong super babies. Would be great for marketing as well.”

“Dad!” Yelena called out from across the table. Alexei just waved her off.

“I joke. But it’s true, you would be wonderful together.”

“Thanks.” Walker choked out. “Please let go.” he caught his breath as Alexei released him. 

“Why have you not told her this?”

“He’s scared.” Ava piped in. “Thinks she’s too good for him.”

“Well…” Alexei shrugged.

“Hey, you just said we’d be a good couple!” John cried out.

“Yes, but in terms of leagues, she is up here-” Alexei held his hand up horizontally. “And you are here.” he held his other hand up lower than the first. Yelena again laughed, even Bob chuckling a little.

“You are very handsome man, John, very strong, but you need to be firm. Tell her your feelings. Say, ‘I love you, and I want to be strong man for you. Let us make passionate love.’”

“I am not saying that!” John said as the rest of the table burst into laughter.

“What’s happening?” Bucky yawned as he walked in.

“Alexei is trying to get Walker to admit his crush.” Yelena explained between giggles.

Bucky looked confused. “What, you still haven’t told her?”

“Is it that obvious?” John threw his hands up before covering his face again, prompting more laughter from the others.

“Hey, just saying, you’d be a cute couple. I think she likes you.” Bob leaned over, trying to encourage him.

“Thank you Bob, but I know I have no chance.”

Bucky chuckled. “You give up real easily, don’t you Walker.”

“Look, all of you-” Walker gestured around the table. “She’s out of my league, okay? She can do better. And none of you are going to tell her about this, got it?”

Yelena shrugged, face red from laughter. “Okay, if you’re choosing cowardice, that’s your choice.”

“We won’t stand in your way.” Ava laughed as she stood, taking her plate to the kitchen sink.

“I think you should just tell her. Get it out of your system.” Bob shrugged.

“Yes! Be brave, that is what women want. Strong provider who is not afraid of feelings.” Alexei added.

“I don’t know about all that.” Bucky patted Alxei’s shoulder. “But he’s got a point. She’s gonna find out at some point, Walker.”

“Not if I can help it.” he insisted as he began cleaning up dishes. 

“Hey, what’d I miss?” you walked back into the room, John straightening up nervously.

“Nothing!” he yelled immediately. Yelena giggled again as Bucky just sighed. 

You looked around at the group, observing Ava holding back laughter, Bob looking nervous, and Alexei looking up expectantly at John. “Okay.” you finally said. “John, do you mind coming with me to this stupid meeting thing later? Val’s insisting I bring someone.”

“Yes!” John immediately replied. “I mean, no of course I don’t mind.”

You smiled, a look of relief that John had memorized. “Thank God, I cannot do this alone. It’s at 11, I gotta go get ready now.”

“Yeah! I mean, I’ll get ready too. For the meeting.” he all but ran to you, following you into the hallway as the others watched.

“God, he’s pathetic.” Ava chuckled as she rinsed off her dish.

“Give him a break, Starr, he’s in love. It’d make anybody crazy.” Bucky warns as he sits down at the table.

“So we are going to do something about this, right? I don’t know how much more of this I can stomach.” Yelena asked the group.

“Walker seems like he needs a little push.” Alexei made a pushing motion as he said the word. “Something to make him act, finally.”

“You want to meddle behind both of their backs?” Ava asked as she rejoined the group at the table.

“Yes, obviously. They both need it.” Yelena gestured to the hall where the two had left.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair. “Listen, this isn’t our business.” he sighed. “But watching Walker like this is kind of sad.”

“So what’s the plan?” Ava asked.

The five sat in silence, thinking on how to get the two together. 

Finally Bob chimed in, with “I have an idea!”

You flopped on the couch, John joingin you as the two of you arrived back at the tower after Val’s meeting. After three hours of her droning on and on, it was a relief to be in the quiet of the Watchtower.

That was shortly interrupted by the entrance of the others into the room, ALexei immediately beginning his questioning of how it went.

You turned to John with a pleading look on your face. Please field his questions for me.

John just sighed, unable to say no to you, turning to Alexei to summarize the meeting. Bucky took a seat between the two of you.

“How you feelin’?” he asked. You just chuckled.

“Like my brain is mush.” you put a hand over your eyes.

“Val’ll do that to you.” Bucky jokes as he leaned back. “Hey, I wanted to ask you something.”

You moved your hand, facing the super soldier. “Shoot.”

“Mel’s got this friend, nice guy, good looking, smart, your age.” he listed off. “He works for Val too, thinks you’re pretty cool.”

John tunes into the conversation, focus shifting from Alexei’s questioning to suspicion as to what Bucky was getting at.

“Mel wanted to know if you’d be okay with us setting you up with him.” Bucky explained. “Obviously, it’s your choice, but I thought I’d put it out there.”

“Oh!” you replied, face one of surprise and confusion. “So, like, a date?”

“Yes, a date.” Bucky nodded.

Alarm bells went off in John’s head as he listened. What the hell was Bucky doing? Trying to kill him? It could be genuine, he knew he and Mel were close, and of course there were plenty of guys who’d kill for a date with you. He just never thought Bucky would go there.

“Well, I’m not really sure, it’s been a while since I’ve dated.” you nervously replied.

“Well that’s why it’s good. Get you back out there.” Bucky patted you on the back. “Doesn’t have to be serious. I just want you to be happy.”

Your eyes flitted over to John briefly, catching his look of concern as Alexei droned on in the background. “Okay. Yeah, sure, why not?”

He was so screwed.

“So, how are you feeling?” Yelena sat down next to Waker with a cup of coffee, interrupting his blank staring at the TV.

“Hm?” he hummed out, still barely in reality.

“You know, about your crush going on a date with some other guy.” she elaborated. “One who’s not you. Even though you’re in love with her.”

“I never said that.” he snapped back, although he didn’t move from his spot. “It’s fine. It’s her choice.”

“You’re seriously not doing anything?” The two jumped as Ava phased in behind them, looking disappointed at John. “You’re just going to keep wallowing here?”

“I’m not wallowing.” he muttered.

“You’ve been sitting there for three hours now watching all the Mission Impossibles. It’s sad, Walker, very sad.”

“They’re good movies.” he mumbled under her breath, eliciting a sigh from Yelena.

“Walker, please, just do something. She likes you, you just need to man up and tell her.” she insisted. Walker just stared down at the floor

“Don’t you think if she liked me she wouldn’t go on a date with another guy? I’m not exactly subtle, you all figured it out.”

“Yes, but she’s ridiculously oblivious.” Ava climbed over the sofa to sit next to John. “You both are. It’s why you’re perfect for each other.”

“Exactly! You just need to do something about it.” Yelena grabbed Walker’s shoulders and shook him, startling him out of his misery.

“Jesus, stop, okay! Look, she made her choice, and I’m not gonna get in the way of her being happy, alright? She deserves better.” With that, he stood up and walked away, leaving the two women looking at each other with disappointment.

“Oh God.” Ava flopped back onto the couch. “He’s worse than I thought.”

“Let’s hope Bob knows what he’s doing,” Yelena said, Ava nodding in agreement.

Meanwhile, you stood in your room, fiddling with your dress as you got ready. The longer you stare at yourself, the worse you feel. 

You were unsure of this from the minute Bucky brought it up, but it wasn’t like you had any excuse not to. You’d been harboring feelings for John for a while now, something you’d held close to your chest, afraid and unwilling to admit to them. You hoped this would take your mind off of him.

A knock at the door startled you from your thoughts, followed by Bob entering the room.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” he joined you by the mirror, staring into it alongside you.

“Like I’m gonna puke.” you admitted, arms crossed as you evaluated yourself. Yelena and Ava had helped you pick the dress; it was dark blue, shorter than you’d usually wear (“It’s sexy! You need to maximize hotness for this.” yelena had insisted) and hugged your curves tightly. You’d thrown on an old leather jacket you’d found in your closet to combat the awkwardness you felt, though it was still there, and combined with the guilt you felt about John, it was eating you alive.

“That’s fair.” Bob agreed, putting on a hand on your shoulder. “You look great, though. From an objective standpoint. I wouldn’t-”

“I know, Bob. Thank you.” you cut off his nervous ramblings, smiling over at him. “I just feel like crap for some reason.”

“Is it because of John?” you whipped around at the mention of the name, Bob just staring at you like it was a normal question.

“I- what- what do you mean?” you stuttered out.

“Nothing, it’s just, you guys seem really close. He’s been mopey all day, I thought maybe you had a fight or something.”

You sighed, aptly in relief and partly out of sadness. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s up with him. He’s been weird for days.”

“Yeah. Wonder what it could be. Started around when you agreed to the date, right?” Bob pointed out.

“Yeah, I, uh, guess so.” you nodded, confused at what he was pointing out. “You think that has something to do with it?”

Bob just shrugged. “I don’t know. Just stating the facts.” he peered down at his phone. “It’s almost 6:30. You might wanna get going.”

“Yeah, yeah I should.” you grabbed your purse from your dresser, joining Bob as you walked out of the room.

The other four members of the group sat on the sofa, watching some old action movie that's been left on. 

Ava whistled as you walked in. “Lookin’ good. That guy’s not gonna know what hit him.” she smiled at you. You gave a small grin back, trying to force yourself to be excited.

“What a beautiful young lady.” Alexei stood, rubbing your shoulders with a fatherly smile on his face. “And a very lucky young man is waiting for you.”

“Thanks, guys.” you grinned at them.

“In fact, everyone should see you. WALKER!” Alexei yelled out. “GET IN HERE!”

“Oh, John been in a mood all day, he doesn’t need to-”

“Jesus, what is it-” John stopped in his tracks as you turned to face him, wearing a nervous smile. He looked you up and down, admiring how the dress almost molded to your body, the larger jacket hanging from your shoulders. God, he wished that was his jacket right now. And you’d done your makeup, somehow becoming more radiant than you usually were. He always found you attractive, whether you were bloody and dirty from fighting, or done up like this.

The two of you just stared at each other in silence, you unsure what to say, John’s brain attempting to process the sight before him. “She looks nice, eh, Walker?” Alexei chuckled as he patted you on the back.

“Um, yeah.” Walker finally managed to choke out. “You look beautiful.”

You smile and nod sharply. “Thanks, John.”

Alexei turned you to face him. “Well, romance awaits! Let’s get you to your date.”

He pushed you towards the elevator gently, the others saying their goodbyes and giving good luck wishes as you walked away. As you stepped in, you gave one last glance at John, who still stood frozen in what seemed like a state of shock, eyes boring into you. You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath till the elevator doors shut, and you couldn’t see the others anymore.

“Well, there she goes.” Yelena announced, turning back to the TV. “Nice work, Walker.”

John didn’t even respond to her tease. He just kept staring out at the elevator doors, as if he was trying to melt them with his mind, somehow bring you back up.

“John, you alright over there?” Bucky asked, sounding a million miles away to John.

He was stupid. He was so, so stupid. How could he just let you leave like that? Let some random guy, who didn’t even know you, know how amazing you were, take you out? It wasn’t right. Jealousy burned in his chest, imagining him getting to hold you the way John thought of constantly. Getting to touch her, to feel the warmth of you close up, do things to you JOhn could only imagine as he tried to fall asleep at night. He wouldn’t know how to treat you. How could he? John knew you; knew the small things, like your favorite foods, your nervous ticks, the way you laughed when you were faking and when you genuinely found something funny, how you picked at your nails when you were bored, how you fidgeted with her clothes when you were nervous.

And the way you looked at him-hesitant, nervous. Not in an excited way. In a way that he knew meant you wanted to get out of this. That you were unsure, unhappy. 

You weren't happy.

That thought was all John needed to make him run to the stairs, the others calling out after him. He didn’t even listen as he descended, running as quickly as possible to reach her before it was too late.

Out of breath after scaling the steps, he looked around the lobby frantically, searching for you out in the crowd. He spotted you heading for the door, calling out your name as he sped over to you.

You turned confused as a red-faced and panting John stood in front of you, trying to catch his breath. “John, what’s going on?”

“Don’t go.” he panted, “Don’t go on that date.”

You stared blankly at him, confused at his sudden fervor. “What?”

“You can’t.” he insisted. “Please, don’t go.”

Your mouth hung open, perplexed and surprised. “What, I-why not? You couldn’t have said this earlier?”

John looked down at you, eyes full of desperation and humility. “I was- I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“You.” he said, taking a step towards you. “You fucking terrify me. Because you’re amazing, because you make me feel like nothing else in the world.” he sighed, eyes not moving from yours. “God, you scare me more than anything because I’m in love with you and I don’t know what to do about it.” he ran a hand through his hair, still breathing heavily as he looked down at you.

You just stare back, shocked and unsure. “You mean all that?”

He nodded fervently, taking another tentative step forward. “I do. And I’m so dumb for not telling you sooner, and for even thinking I could have a chance, but I’m here now.” he reached out, gently taking one of your hands in his. “And I love you. I really do. Please, don’t go.”

You stand, mouth hanging open, unsure what to say, if anything. John just looks defeated and terrified, letting himself be more open and raw than he’d been in years.

You close your mouth, settling on a decision. You reach your other hand around the nape of his neck, pulling him down to your level as you kiss him, hard and intense, an act built from months of longing and suppressed feelings, all let loose with his confession.

He’s still for just a second,  brain catching up to his body, before he’s kissing you back, snaking a hand around your waist and cupping your face with the other, tongue slipping into your mouth as he tries to pull you infinitely closer to him.

In that moment, John feels perfect bliss; you against him, your soft lips against his, hand running through his hair mussed from his frantic run to catch you. He could stay like this forever, he thinks.

Unfortunately, you do finally have to pull away to breathe, panting as you lean into John, his arms rising to hold you against him.

“God, I’m so in love with you, John.” you mumble against him, breathing in the scent of him. “And I didn’t want to ruin our friendship, and the team, but god, you’re so great.”

John smiles, planting a kiss to the top of your head. “God, you’re perfect.” he hugs you tightly against him as you rest a cheek on his chest. “You’re everything. I swear, I’ll give you everything, if you’ll let me.”

You nod, opening your eyes to look up at him. “Yes.” you nod fervently. “I don’t need anything, I just want you, John.”

He chuckles, leaning down to give you another kiss. This one is softer, a promise of more to come.

You smile, leaning your forehead against his as he breaks the kiss, only to be interrupted by sudden cheering behind you.

The two of you turn to see your teammates clapping and smiling at you, Alexei holding up his phone as he takes a video.

“Finally!” Yelena yells out, coming over to hug you. “Took you too long enough.”

“You planned this?” you ask, looking out at your friends. John just stands still in shock, hands still firmly planted on your hips.

“Well, it was Bob’s idea.” Ava nudges the man next to her, who gives a nervous grin. “We all just helped.”

“God, this is beautiful.” Alexei suppresses a sob as he pockets his phone, walking over to join the two of you. “I feel like a proud parent.”

“You planned this.” John states, still processing as he glares at Bob, who just shrugs.

“You said you wouldn’t do anything about it. We thought you needed a little push.”

“And clearly it worked.” Bucky gestures to the two of you, prompting you to laugh at the insanity of the situation you were now in.

“You didn’t want to tell me you liked me?” you peered up at John, who somehow got even more red than before.

“Well, I uh… I figured you were out of my league.”

“And you are.” Ava adds as she phases over to you. “But if someone deserves the privilege of dating you, I guess he’s alright.”

“Hey.” Walker’s voice has no bite to it, smiling as he looks back down at you. “Really though, are you sure about this? You want me?”

You chuckle, moving a hand to his cheek, him leaning into your touch. “Yes, John, I’m sure.” you pull him down to kiss him once more, not caring about your friends around you. Yelena and Ava make disgusted sounds as Bob claps, Alexei cheering in the background.

“Shut up!” you push your friends away as you pull back, although you smile doing so. Alexei wraps the two of you in a bruising hug, taking your breath away.

“I’m so proud of you two!” he yells. “It’s like my beautiful daughter and my big strong son are in love!”

“How would that work?” Yelena asks as he releases the two of you, giving John a slap on the back. 

“Good work, Walker, I told you, express your love, be honest, and then, you make beautiful passionate love-”

“Okay, Alexei, thank you!” John cuts him off, brushing the others away as he pulls you to him. You laugh as the others move to file back into the elevator, looking up at John.

“Beautiful passionate love, huh?” you joke.

“Alexei has some interesting advice.” John just grins as he puts an arm around your waist, walking with you to join your friends in the elevator.

a/n: This is my longest fic to date and it was written in one sugar high induced sitting and I really don't know how I did it. But here it is! Ain't much but it's honest work :)

[frothy-tart]

oh, it's hard to leave you (when i get you everywhere!)

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x pr manager!reader summary: you tweet one (1) mildly unhinged critique of congressman james buchanan barnes’ pr strategy—something about ghosting the press and weaponizing cheekbones—and three hours later he’s in your dms asking if you want a job. now you manage his social media, his public image, and occasionally his existential spirals. he’s got a metal arm, a rescue cat named alpine, and the digital instincts of a dad trying to facetime from the tv remote. somehow, against all odds, he’s good. earnest. dangerously hot. you're so screwed. word count: 10.6k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, soft dom!bucky, sloppy make-out sesh for the win, fingering, oral (f!receiving), face riding, praise kink, unprotected sex, rough sex, size kink, creampie, use of pet names like sweetheart and pretty baby, unprecedented levels of yearning, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, unhinged tweets

You don’t mean to go viral.

You really don’t. It’s not a bit or a career move or a desperate plea to the algorithm gods. It’s just that you were in line for coffee at 8:47 a.m., hungover from exactly one and a half spicy margaritas (because you're a real adult now and your liver hates you), and the man in front of you was vaping indoors. You needed to direct your rage somewhere. That somewhere happened to be Twitter.

Well. That and the soft target of Rep. James B. Barnes.

Your actual tweet really isn't that scathing, in your opinion:

“Not to be rude before 9 a.m., but Rep. James B. Barnes has the digital strategy of a man who thinks ‘radio silence’ is the same as ‘messaging control.’ Ghosting the press isn't mysterious, it's lazy. And the Instagram? Sir, it's giving retired uncle who discovered portrait mode last week. You're hot, sure—but public goodwill isn’t built on brooding black-and-white cat photos and the occasional quote that reads like it was ripped from a thirteen year old's diary. Hire literally anyone.”

You hit post, tuck your phone away, and move on with your morning, which includes trying not to scream during a client call where a fitness influencer earnestly asks if she should “lean into a divorce arc.”

By the time you check Twitter again, it’s… carnage. In the good way.

The notifications are stacked like an avalanche. A dozen quote tweets, then a hundred, then you stop counting because your phone is hot to the touch and your Slack has stopped functioning. You’re about to text your best friend when you see it:

@RepBarnes:

Noted. Would you like to try fixing it?

You stare. Blink. Blink again. Surely not.

Surely the Winter Soldier, now U.S. House Representative for New York’s 9th Congressional District, is not quote-tweeting you like this is a casual Tuesday.

Surely the man who once jumped off a highway overpass and punched a terrorist in the face is not lurking on Twitter Dot Com past midnight, scrolling his name like a sad girl with an ex-boyfriend playlist.

You reread it. 

Then again. And again. Your fingers are shaking a little, like you’ve had three too many shots of espresso, which—fine—you have.

You’re halfway through an existential crisis about how a minor PR manager can possibly be noticed by a former Avenger turned Congressman when your phone starts vibrating off the desk. Nina texts you first:

NINA

DUDE DUDE HE KNOWS WHO YOU ARE do you think he read your pinned tweet where you said you’d marry Thor in a Walgreens parking lot???

You don’t answer. You’re too busy spiraling. Because now your professional website is getting hits. And your LinkedIn. And, insult to injury, your ancient Tumblr blog from college, where you once posted a 2,000-word thinkpiece on how Steve Rogers is a metaphor for millennial burnout. You know this because someone found it and tagged you with a screenshot.

You’re spiraling when your phone pings again.

This time it’s not public.

@RepBarnes has sent you a direct message.

If you’re interested, I could use someone like you. NY/DC split. Health benefits included. Let me know.

You read it once. Then again. Then walk away from your desk, lie down on your kitchen floor, and stare at the ceiling like it might have answers. It does not. It has a water stain from your upstairs neighbor’s failed attempt at DIY plumbing. You feel that deeply.

You, who spent three years post-grad slowly circling the corporate America drain—clutching your Communications degree like it’s a winning lottery ticket while negotiating brand partnerships for YouTubers who think “millennial” means “anyone over 26”—have just been headhunted by Bucky Barnes.

You should probably be flattered. Or terrified. Or calling your mom. Instead, you fire off the only response that makes sense:

are u joking?

His reply comes five minutes later.

No. You’re good. And I’m very tired of people telling me to post more cat content.

You stare at your screen.

You should absolutely say no. This is clearly a trap. At best, a weird stunt. At worst, the kind of surreal pivot that leads to you being mentioned in Politico under “questionable staffing decisions.”

But also… your rent just went up. Again. Your clients are spiraling. You haven’t had health insurance that covers dental since 2021.

And Bucky Barnes wants to hire you?

You exhale. Then type,

i'll clear my schedule. when and where?

A beat.

Meet me in D.C. I’ll have coffee. You bring strategy.

You stare at that last part and—God help you—you start to grin.

You're pretty sure you’ve just accepted a job from the Winter Soldier.

.

Once upon a time, you had hopes.

Real, annoying ones. Back when you still believed in upward mobility and the promise of networking events with warm chardonnay. You were going to climb the ranks. Not to the top, necessarily—you were realistic, not delusional—but to a place with an actual title. "Director" maybe, or "Head of Strategy." Something crisp and important-sounding that could be printed on business cards without irony. You’d wear smart blazers and carry a leather tote that didn’t smell like stale granola bars. You’d have power lunches.

Instead, you’re three years out of grad school with an inbox full of “circling back”s, a calendar that reads like a sacrificial offering to the content gods, and a job that involves convincing lifestyle micro-influencers to stop posting QAnon-adjacent smoothie recipes.

You had dreams. Now you have bills.

Which is why the Bucky Barnes situation feels less like a win and more like a symptom. A brain glitch, maybe. You refresh your inbox. Again. You’ve been doing that for the last hour and a half. The DM is still there, as if it might disappear if you blink too hard.

You open a Google Doc. Title it “Project: Barnes?” with the tentative, quizzical punctuation of someone who is very much not okay. 

And then, like any self-respecting PR person who has just been contacted by a former war hero turned sitting U.S. Representative, you type the most professional research query you can think of:

bucky barnes political platform site:gov

Then:

bucky barnes cat

And then, after five minutes of increasingly weird search results, you cave:

bucky barnes shirtless

For research purposes, obviously. To understand the optics. You are nothing if not committed to analyzing the full spectrum of a person's public persona.

(Also, look. It’s not your fault that James Buchanan Barnes is stupidly, distractingly attractive in a way that should be a federal offense. The man has the bone structure of a war-weary marble statue. The jawline of a vintage cologne ad. And don’t even get started on the arm—the arm—because that’s a whole separate thesis.)

It’s Wakandan tech, sleek and black with gold accents that catch the light like something out of myth. You’ve seen pictures of him at press conferences, sleeves pushed up, glinting like some kind of tactical Greek god. It is, objectively, an optics goldmine. Which makes it even more baffling that his current social strategy is “post like a cryptid and hope people like based on vibes.”

You learn that he’s been in Congress for just under six months. That he ran on a progressive platform with a heavy emphasis on veteran care, climate resilience, and “actually listening to the people,” which, yes, is vague—but less vague than the average politician, so that’s something. You find clips from a debate where he tells a super PAC-backed opponent, with all the calm menace of a man who once fought a Nazi on top of a train, “I didn’t survive a handful of wars to let people like you sell this country for parts.”

It’s not fair. He shouldn’t be allowed to be hot and principled and grumpy in a compelling way. That’s too many character traits. You’re fairly certain it violates some kind of congressional ethics code.

You click out of the tab. Open another. 

Watch a video of him dodging a question on CNN with a non-answer so blunt it circles back around to being honest. He has a dry, clipped delivery. A little awkward. A little old. Not in a cringey, old-man way—but like he hasn’t quite caught up with the TikTokification of discourse. 

You hate how much you want to fix it.

Your fingers twitch. You scroll through his feed. It’s mostly retweets of policy initiatives, local labor union updates, and cat pictures—grainy, candid shots of a very fluffy white feline with the disdainful elegance of old money and the personal boundaries of a cryptid. She’s usually perched somewhere she shouldn’t be: on top of his kitchen cabinets, wedged behind a stack of legislative binders, once half-asleep inside his empty duffel bag. Once in a while, he posts a weirdly poetic thought. Like:

Not all roads lead to war. But I remember the ones that did.

You stare at it.

It has thirty-two retweets, all from mutuals you know to be deeply online. One has responded “who’s running this account and do they need therapy.” Another has written simply: “sir.”

You breathe out a laugh.

You should be panicking. Or preparing. Or calling someone smarter than you. But instead you’re refreshing his feed and scrolling like a girl with a crush. 

Which—no. Nope. Absolutely not. This is research. Professional curiosity. Intellectual rigor.

You check your calendar. Nothing but a call at four with your client who wants to rebrand herself as an “edible wellness guru” and refuses to define what that means. You sigh. Close the tab.

Then reopen it. One more scroll for the road.

In one photo, his cat is curled up in Bucky’s lap, a fluffy white loaf of judgement and chaos, her paw resting on his vibranium arm like she owns both it and the man it’s attached to. The caption reads:

She snored through my security briefing. I wish I could too.

Jesus Christ, you think. I’m in trouble.

.

You spend the next forty-eight hours overthinking everything.

Your research doc is now twenty pages long. You’ve compiled notes on his legislative record, his key voting blocs, public sentiment analysis, and—because you are fundamentally broken—a list of his most viral thirst tweets. There’s one that simply reads “he could kill me and I’d say thank you.” You are not proud to admit it made you snort.

You board the train to D.C. with your headphones in, your anxiety clutched to your chest like a carry-on, and your very best business casual. You don’t even read on the train. You just sit there and wonder what the hell you’re doing.

By the time you arrive, you’re exhausted from spiraling.

The coffee shop is in Capitol Hill—of course it is. Quiet and wood-paneled, with the kind of soft lighting that makes everyone look like they’re about to confess something. 

You’re early. He’s not there yet. You order a black coffee and a croissant you won’t eat and choose the table in the back, where you can see the door.

Five minutes later, he walks in.

And yes, fine. It is a little cinematic.

James Buchanan Barnes in the flesh is not the brooding, hyper-composed figure from press photos. He’s rougher around the edges in person, like someone who never quite got used to peacetime. His hair is slicked back but starting to come undone at the edges. The navy suit jacket he’s wearing is slightly creased, like he’s been rolling up the sleeves and taking it off and putting it back on all morning. No tie. Just the white collar of his shirt open at the throat, exposing the soft brush of stubble across his neck and jaw.

God. This is so unfair.

His eyes land on you and something flickers—recognition, maybe, or skepticism. You can’t tell.

He walks over. You stand too quickly. Your chair makes a horrible screech.

“Hi,” you say, then—because you’re flustered and your brain is full of static—“I almost didn’t recognize you without the strategically vague tweets.”

His brow lifts, just slightly. The corner of his mouth pulls. Could be amusement. Could be confusion.

“You came,” he says, as if the possibility you wouldn’t had been very real.

“Of course,” you reply, forcing a half-smile. “I go where the digital crises call.”

He nods once, slowly. Watches you as you open your laptop and set your coffee down. It’s too quiet for a moment—the hum of the café, the hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of someone stirring sugar behind the counter. You pull up the notes you made at two in the morning while spiral-reading his press history, trying not to fidget.

“I figured,” you offer, “we’d start with a social audit. Clarify some core messaging, maybe put together a soft content strategy for the next two weeks. We’ll do a tone reset, pull the last six months of analytics, identify what’s actually landing—because no offense, but your engagement rates are being carried by your cat.”

A pause.

“I mean, I get it. She’s adorable. But still.”

He huffs something that could be a laugh, if it weren’t so dry. Then leans back slightly, the line between his brows easing as he studies you.

Then he says, slowly, like he’s still feeling out the words: “You actually know what you’re talking about.”

And you blink. “You thought I didn’t?”

He shrugs, glancing out the window for a beat before returning to you. “I kind of thought you were… just someone online. Making noise.”

You sip your coffee. “I mean. I am. But I also have a master’s in communication strategy and ten thousand hours of dealing with manchildren who think posting a thirst trap is a branding pivot.”

His mouth twitches. “Sounds promising.”

You smile. Tight. “So. What exactly do you really need help with?”

And just like that—you’re in it.

You expect him to start with a question. Or a joke. Or maybe something awkward and vaguely threatening, like “how do you know so much about me?” (You don’t. You just have Wi-Fi and a dangerous relationship with your search bar.)

But instead, Bucky leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and says, “It’s just not working.”

You blink. “You’ll have to be more specific. What’s not working?”

“My comms strategy. My messaging. All of it.”

He sounds vaguely exasperated, but not angry. Just tired. You get the sense that’s his baseline. He gestures with one hand, the movement sharp and utilitarian. “I’m supposed to be building a digital presence that connects with people. Makes them trust me. Instead I’m getting tagged in memes about how hot I am.”

You nod, solemn. “To be fair, you do look like that.”

He doesn’t laugh, but he quirks an eyebrow like he’s maybe a little impressed you said it. “Thanks.”

You swallow the lump in your throat with a sip of coffee. It’s going lukewarm. “So what was the issue? Your team too old school? Too hands-off?”

He gives you a look that’s equal parts apology and confession. “I don’t really have a team.”

You blink again. “You… don’t have a team.”

“One guy. Used to run PR for a congressman from Montana. Thought hiring someone low-profile would keep things clean.”

You squint. “You’re a former Avenger. There’s no such thing as clean.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Starting to notice that.”

You press your fingers to your temples. “Okay. So let me get this straight. You have no digital strategy lead, no content calendar, no brand consultant, and you’re navigating one of the most publicly scrutinized jobs in America with a guy whose last success story was getting a local paper to stop calling his boss ‘the Beef Tariff Czar.’”

He shifts. Slightly. Doesn’t deny it.

You put your coffee down. Carefully. Deliberately. Then say, as diplomatically as you can:

“With all due respect, Mr. Barnes—this is a disaster.”

He meets your eyes. Dead-on. “That’s why I messaged you.”

It’s almost… earnest. That quiet, unflinching way he says it. Like he knows just how far in over his head he is. Like he doesn’t enjoy asking for help, but he’s smart enough to do it anyway. 

That, more than anything, is what knocks you sideways.

Because the guy sitting across from you does not radiate “competent politician.” He’s stiff in the way people are when they’re always anticipating a fight. He looks like someone who’s only recently stopped treating doorknobs like potential traps. 

But he also looks at you like he’s listening. Like he wants to get this right, even if he doesn’t know how.

And you hate how that pulls at you.

You fold your hands. Steady your tone. “If I take this job, I’m not just managing your Twitter. I’ll need full access—messaging, public statements, policy framing. You’ll have to be okay with me pushing back. Hard.”

He nods. “Understood.”

“And I’ll need to redo everything your current guy’s done.”

“I was hoping you would.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Including the website that looks like it was designed in 2007?”

A ghost of a smirk. “I designed that one myself.”

“Of course you did.”

A beat. Then—quietly, without the usual edge. “I didn’t expect to win. When I ran. It wasn’t about the campaign. I just thought… if I could stand up, maybe someone else would too.”

It’s not a speech. It’s not even polished. But it hits.

You sit with it for a second. Then say, “That’s the part people need to hear.”

He frowns. “What, the not-expecting-to-win part?”

“No. The rest. The standing up.” You pause. “You want to help. And that’s rare. It’s worth something. We can build on that.”

There’s a shift then, subtle but real. He straightens a little. Like your words have landed somewhere deep. Like maybe—maybe—you’re the first person who’s said that in a while.

You don’t say anything else. Neither does he.

But something’s settled between you. A quiet, unspoken agreement.

You’re in. Actually.

God help you.

.

Your first day working for Congressman James Buchanan Barnes begins with a minor existential crisis and a yogurt you eat standing up.

Capitol Hill is less glamorous than it looks on TV. A lot more beige. A lot more linoleum. Everything smells like government-grade carpet and desperation. You get stopped at security twice. First because of your laptop. Then because you muttered “kill me” under your breath in line and a very serious-looking man with an earpiece asked if you were making a threat.

You’re not. But it’s touch and go.

Bucky’s office is on the third floor of the Cannon Building. It’s functional in the same way a DMV is functional—technically operating, but held together by anxiety and one overworked assistant. The plaque outside his door reads:

REP. JAMES BARNES

New York’s 9th District

Inside, it’s… chaos.

Not loud chaos. Weird chaos. Subtle. Like someone tried to copy a normal congressional office from memory but forgot a few key details. There’s a framed photo of Brooklyn from the ‘40s. A desk with approximately forty-nine paperweights—no papers, just the weights. A bowl of wrapped Werther’s Originals. You are immediately suspicious.

Before you can process that, Bucky appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, tie in hand like he hasn’t figured out if he’s putting it on or strangling it.

“You made it,” he says. Deadpan.

“No thanks to Homeland Security,” you mutter, stepping inside.

He gives you the tour, if you can call it that. 

There’s the bullpen (three desks, one of which has a sword leaning against it for reasons no one explains), a coffee station with a “don’t drink this, it’s poison” Post-it, and his actual office, which is larger than you expected and somehow still incredibly bare.

You spot a half-empty bookcase, a red file folder labeled “CRISIS?” and a punching bag tucked behind the door.

“Is that for stress relief or intimidation purposes?” you ask, pointing at the bag.

“Yes,” he replies.

The next hour is a whirlwind of introductions, vague directives, and increasingly unhinged email threads. His comms inbox is a minefield. 

You get a badge, a desk, and a monitor that still has a Post-it from your predecessor that just says, Good luck, you’re gonna need it. You also learn that the thermostat in the office only has two settings: Arctic Military Base and Surface of the Sun.

By the end of your first day, your inbox has refreshed for the fifth time and you’ve flagged three crisis-adjacent threads—one involving a scheduling mix-up, one involving a meme account, and one involving a conspiracy theory about cyborgs in Congress.

Maybe, just maybe, this job might be more than you bargained for.

The next week is only slightly less chaotic.

Your—well, his, technically—first press briefing is scheduled for 2 p.m. sharp, but by 1:17 you’re already mentally preparing the post-mortem. You’ve seen the rehearsal footage, such as it was—him standing in front of his desk, arms crossed like a bouncer, muttering responses like they physically pained him.

When you gently suggested he try smiling, he looked at you like you’d asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon.

“It’ll be fine,” An intern chirps, shoving a protein bar in your hand as they breeze past. “He does better under pressure. Like a reverse soufflé.”

“What does that mean,” you whisper, but she’s already gone.

You’re standing behind the curtain in a room that smells like too many folding chairs and not enough trust in government when he walks in, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. No tie today. He says it feels like a leash. His sleeves are rolled with military precision, though. His hair’s slicked back. He looks more like a man going to war than one about to deliver a ten-minute statement on infrastructure funding.

“You ready?” you ask, clipboard clutched like a lifeline.

“No,” he says. “But I’ll do it anyway.”

You almost smile.

The press corps is already seated, eyes trained, pens poised. He walks out with the focus of someone trained to enter dangerous rooms. You can see the shift in him—quiet alertness, head high, every movement efficient. There’s still something a little stiff in the way he grips the podium, like he doesn’t fully trust it not to fall apart under his hands.

Then he starts to speak.

And damn.

Okay.

You hadn’t expected this.

It’s not polished. He stumbles over a couple phrases. Uses “ain’t” once. Drops a note card and mutters “shit” under his breath into a hot mic.

But he knows his stuff. Not just the numbers. Not just the bill. The context. The human angle. He tells a story about the neighborhood he grew up in, back when it still had corner shops and streetcar tracks. Talks about a single mom who wrote in last week about her building’s pipes freezing every winter. Doesn’t make promises—just outlines what he’s doing and what he won’t let happen again.

And it’s good.

It’s honest.

He doesn’t charm the press. He earns them.

You see it in the way pens pause halfway through notes. Phones lowered. Eyebrows raised. There’s a moment—a beat in the middle of a sentence—where he talks about reconstruction efforts in Red Hook and says, “We don’t need heroes. We need decent plumbing and warm classrooms,” and it lands like a punch.

You feel it, too.

By the end, they’re asking thoughtful questions. Real ones. He handles them with a dry kind of grace. Doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t lie. Says “I don’t know” more than once, but follows it with “I’ll find out.”

When it’s over, he steps backstage, exhales slowly, and immediately unbuttons the top of his shirt like it’s a reward.

You hand him a bottle of water.

He takes it with a nod and says, “Well?”

You blink. “You were… actually incredible?”

He raises an eyebrow. “That so shocking?”

“Yes!” you blurt, then soften. “I mean. A little. You’re not exactly a poster child for press-friendly vibes.”

He leans against the wall, sipping. “Yeah, well. I’m not a fan of the stage.”

“But you like the mission.”

He looks at you. And for once, doesn’t deflect.

“I like helping people. I like when things are fair. And if this is what I gotta do to make that happen…” He shrugs. “Then I do it.”

You file that away. Noted: Bucky Barnes does not enjoy politics, but he endures them for the sake of something bigger.

You offer, “You want to decompress? There’s a decent café two blocks away. You’ve earned, like, three cookies.”

He tilts his head. “You buying?”

“I work for the government now. I’m broke.”

“Fair,” he says. “I’ll buy the cookies.”

You walk the few blocks in relative silence, save for the traffic and your boots scuffing against the pavement. The café is small, warm, full of people with laptops and disillusionment. You order coffee. He orders a black Americano and two oatmeal raisin cookies, like a war crime.

“Don’t judge,” he says, catching your expression. “I like raisins.”

“Of course you do,” you mutter. “You probably eat Bran Flakes and think they’re spicy.”

He gives you a look over the rim of his cup. “Didn’t realize I hired a bully.”

You grin. “Not a bully. Just aggressively helpful.”

He snorts. And you sit there, in the quiet aftermath of his first real public win, watching him pull the napkin apart like it personally wronged him. There's something calming about it—like you’re both still wound a little tight, but not as tight as before. 

You let the silence stretch a beat longer before speaking. “Can I ask you something?”

He glances at you. Shrugs. “You’ve already asked me worse.”

You huff a soft laugh. “Fair.”

He waits.

You roll your cup between your palms. “Why’d you hire me?”

There’s a pause. Not the kind that makes you nervous—just one that feels like he’s actually going to answer. Eventually. When the words are ready.

When he does speak, his voice is low, deliberate. “You were honest.”

You blink. “About what?”

“That tweet,” he says. “About me ghosting the press. Most people either kiss my ass or assume I’m gonna punch them in the face. You didn’t do either.”

You snort. “I did call you hot, though.”

A small tug at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. That, too.”

Then, quieter, “You said what everyone else was thinking. But you said it like it wasn’t personal. Just... necessary.”

You don’t speak. You’re not sure he’s done.

“I’ve had a lot of people tell me who I am. What I’m supposed to be. Some of them were wrong. Some weren’t. Doesn’t mean I liked hearing it.”

His fingers tap against the cup once. Twice. “But you were right. I didn’t have a handle on any of this. The job, the people watching, the way it all gets twisted. You called it out.”

“And that worked in my favor?” you ask, half-joking.

His gaze flickers to yours. “You didn’t lie to me. That means something.”

It lands heavier than expected.

You look down at your lap. Then, after a second: “I thought you were gonna say it was because I tweeted about your cat.”

He huffs. “That helped.”

You smile, and when you glance back up, he’s watching you. Not like he’s searching for something. More like he’s found something and isn’t sure what to do with it.

“I could tell that you'd keep me grounded,” he says.

It’s simple. Uncomplicated. But your chest goes tight anyway.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

“Don’t get used to the compliments,” he mutters, sipping from his long-cold coffee. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

You nudge his shoulder. “You mean the mysterious, broody one?”

He arches a brow. “Better than ex-assassin with a PR manager.”

“Hey,” you say, mock offended. “I'm rebranding you.”

And this time, his smile is small—but real. The kind that says you’re staying.

.

Briefings, memos, social strategy calls take up the next month. You update his official bio, overhaul his campaign site, start a new newsletter format that doesn’t look like it was designed in the throes of dial-up internet. You start drafting tweets in his voice, but you’re surprised at how often he wants to write them himself.

Sometimes he sends them to you first, via email, labeled “draft?” and rarely punctuated.

The kids who emailed about lunch debt were right. They shouldn’t have to be the ones fixing it.

You write back:

it’s missing caps and grammar and polish …it’s also perfect. i hate you a little

He replies ten minutes later:

Good. Keep hating me. Makes your edits stronger.

You start seeing him more. At first, it’s meetings. Then lunch breaks. Then you’re just… there. 

In his office while he sorts through constituent letters. Sitting across from him on the Capitol steps, scrolling through your phone while he mutters about zoning regulations and offers you the second half of whatever sandwich he’s picked up from the Hill café.

One Thursday, around 6:45 p.m., you’re still at the office. Your laptop’s overheating. Your shoulders ache from the stress of trying to politely tell a PAC liaison that no, Bucky will not be attending the “Patriots for Policy” fundraiser, and no, their “Star-Spangled Selfie Station” is not an appealing incentive.

You lean back in your chair, eyes closed, and say out loud, “If one more intern sends me a Google Doc titled ‘shitposts to own the opposition,’ I’m going to walk into traffic.”

“That bad, huh?” comes Bucky’s voice from the doorway.

You open one eye. He’s holding two cups of coffee. It’s late. His sleeves are rolled again—he does that a lot, like he’s always preparing to do something with his hands. He sets a cup on your desk.

“It’s decaf,” he says. “I’m not trying to kill you.”

You sit up. “Decaf? Wow. You are learning.”

He doesn’t smile, but the corners of his mouth twitch. “Baby steps.”

You sip. It’s good. And quiet stretches out between you. The lights overhead buzz faintly. Someone’s laughing two rooms over. The city is folding in on itself outside, another day’s worth of bad traffic and moral compromises settling over D.C. like a weighted blanket.

.

Another few months pass in a rhythm that starts to feel dangerously like routine.

He insists on responding to every constituent letter about veterans’ benefits himself, even the ones written in glitter gel pen. One morning you find him on the floor of his office, surrounded by stacks of envelopes, Alpine curled up on a pile marked “urgent.”

“Just scanning,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the chaos. “She likes the important stuff.”

You start to learn things about him. Little things, dropped like breadcrumbs.

He hates cilantro. Keeps a dog-eared copy of All the King’s Men on his desk. Organizes his paperwork with military precision but leaves mugs half-finished all over the office. He’s still learning to take a break during the day. Sometimes he doesn’t.

One evening, while you’re both trying to pick a header image for the new landing page (he hates stock photos, insists they feel like “hollow propaganda”), he mutters, “I used to think if I could just disappear, I’d stop hurting people.”

You freeze. “And now?”

He doesn’t look away from the screen. “Now I’m trying to build something instead.”

Your throat tightens. You change the subject. You always do.

The tension between you simmers. Unspoken, unnamed. He starts saying your name more often. You start noticing when he does.

He always says it like it matters.

One Friday, he brings you a donut. Doesn’t mention it. Just leaves it on your desk and walks away like a man who doesn’t realize small gestures are dangerous.

You stare at it for a full minute before a staffer walks by, clocks the look on your face, and mutters, “Oh, you’re gone-gone.”

You pretend not to hear her.

One night, you find yourselves outside a community rec center after a Q&A event, both of you too wired to go home. You walk a few blocks together, hands brushing once. Neither of you acknowledges it.

“You ever think about leaving?” you ask, staring up at the streetlight.

“Sometimes,” he says. “Then I remember I already ran for almost fifty years.”

You laugh. He looks over, soft.

And then, quietly, “Not sure I’d want to go anywhere without you anyway.”

You blink. “You mean… as staff?”

He hums, like he’s choosing not to answer that.

He looks at you too long sometimes. Like he’s memorizing you. You assume it’s habit—old instincts. Soldier’s reflex. You don’t let yourself think about what else it could be.

Because it can’t be. He’s your boss. You’re his PR handler. This is all fine. Normal. Entirely professional, except for when he looks at you like that.

Which is how it builds—slow, steady, suffocating.

Until one night he’s sitting too close. You’re laughing too hard. His hand brushes your knee, and he doesn’t move it. And you still don’t realize.

Not really.

.

It’s a Tuesday night.

Well—technically Wednesday. 1:12 a.m., according to your phone. Your apartment is dark except for the glow of your laptop and the soft blue from the streetlamp outside your window. You should be sleeping. Instead, you’re re-reading policy notes and trying not to think about the email from your landlord marked “urgent.”

The city is quiet, but your mind is loud.

Your phone buzzes.

BUCKY

Are you awake

No punctuation. Of course. You stare at it. It’s not like him to text unprompted—especially not at this hour. You wonder for a second if it’s a mistake. Or if something’s wrong.

You call him.

It only rings once.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough with sleep or something that isn’t quite.

“You okay?” you ask, softly.

A pause. “Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”

You settle back against your pillows. “Bad dream?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly. “More like a bad memory.”

You let the silence stretch, but you don’t fill it. You’ve learned that about him—he’s not afraid of quiet. He just doesn’t always know what to do with it. You hear a faint rustle, like he’s sitting down, maybe at his kitchen table. Maybe the couch. Maybe the floor. He’s the kind of guy who sits on the floor without thinking about it.

“You want to talk about it?” you ask.

“Not really.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Okay.”

A breath. Then, with a strange kind of gentleness: “You ever feel like you’re… still in the middle of something, but everyone else thinks you’re past it?”

You exhale, slow. “Yeah. All the time.”

Another pause. And then: “I thought when the shield went to Sam, that was it. That was my end point. Like I’d done my part and now I could just… blend into the wallpaper. Fix things. Be useful. Pay back some debt I can’t ever really name.”

He exhales.

“But I still wake up and feel like I’m waiting for orders.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m not a soldier anymore,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself. “I know that. But sometimes it feels like I lost the war and no one told me.”

You sit with that. It’s a kind of grief, what he’s saying. The loss of purpose. Of identity. You think about what it means to carry history in your body. To be made of violence and guilt and memory, and still try to build something from it.

“You’re not wallpaper,” you say. “And you’re not a soldier. Not unless you decide to be.”

A faint, surprised sound. “You think I can just choose who I am now?”

“I think that’s what healing is,” you say. “It’s not forgetting. It’s choosing who you are in spite of it.”

It’s quiet again. But softer, this time.

“Thank you,” he says, and he means it.

There’s a beat.

Then he says, “You want to come over?”

Your heart stumbles. “Now?”

“I just…” he trails off. “I don’t want to be alone.”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to. You do. Too much, maybe.

“I’m in sweatpants,” you warn.

“I don’t care,” he says. “I’m in worse.”

.

Which is—not fair.

He’s in flannel pants and a faded Brooklyn Public Library tee, hair damp like he just stepped out of a shower, like this isn’t his worst week in office or the worst day in months. He looks too human. Too close. Not like Congressman Barnes, not like the Winter Soldier—just like a man who lives here. Alone.

“Hi,” you say, because you’re a coward with a communication degree.

“Hey,” he replies, voice low.

He steps back. You step in.

You move past him. He doesn’t touch you, but he lingers close as you settle onto his couch. There’s a record playing low in the background—something instrumental. Maybe jazz. Maybe something older. He sits next to you. Not quite touching, but near enough that you feel it.

Neither of you says much at first.

You sip the tea he makes you. Let your shoulders drop. And after a while, you’re both leaning back, side by side, staring at the ceiling like maybe it’ll explain something.

“I don’t let people in here much,” he says, out of nowhere.

You glance at him. “Why not?”

He shrugs. “Used to be a habit. Kept things safe. Controlled.”

“And now?”

He looks at you. Really looks. Like he’s cataloguing something important.

“I trust you."

The silence sharpens.

You feel it—somewhere between your chest and your breath and the skin of your palms, warm where they rest against your knees.

He turns toward you, like he’s going to say something. His thigh brushes yours. Your heart skips.

You say his name. Soft.

“Bucky.”

He leans in. Slow. So slow it hurts. His eyes flicker to your mouth.

And then—

He stops.

You’re close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

Close enough to break.

But he doesn’t kiss you.

He just sits there, tension in his jaw, fingers curling against his leg like he’s holding himself back.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says, barely a whisper.

You nod. You understand.

.

You don’t sleep well that night. You don't even know how you got home.

Not because anything happened—and maybe that’s the problem. Something almost did. Something close enough to taste. But close doesn’t keep you up at night. Hope does. Ambiguity. The memory of his breath near your cheek, the exact second he pulled away, and the way your name sounded in his mouth just before it.

You wake up tangled in sheets that smell like lavender detergent and stress. Your shoulder aches from the way you curled in on yourself, as if pretending sleep would solve the question of him.

It hasn’t.

So you do what you always do: you compartmentalize. Ruthlessly. Viciously. Like a goddamn professional.

You slap concealer under your eyes, burn your tongue on gas station coffee, and tell yourself that you’re not thinking about Bucky Barnes. You are not thinking about how he almost kissed you. How his hand hovered at your knee like a promise he wasn’t ready to make. How you wanted him to make it.

No. You’re thinking about agenda items. Press follow-ups. Intern drama. Your inbox, which has gone feral overnight.

You’re halfway through drafting a media roundup from your phone when your car buzzes with an intern's name.

You answer on instinct. “Hey. Yeah, I’m on my way in—”

“Have you seen the op-ed?” they cuts in.

Your fingers still on the steering wheel.

“I—what?”

They don't wait. “I’m sending it now. Check your messages.”

You pull into a spot on the shoulder, the coffee cup sloshing as you brake. Your phone dings.

The link stares back at you. Your thumb hovers.

You already know it’s going to be bad. You can feel it in their voice. In the silence after their breath. You tap anyway.

And there it is.

Is the Winter Soldier Still Lurking Beneath Congressman Barnes?

It’s from a major outlet. Not a fringe blog, not some anonymous account online. It’s written by a seasoned journalist, someone who’s covered politics for two decades. The tone is surgically polite. It doesn’t outright accuse him of anything, but the subtext is razor-sharp: can a man with his past truly be trusted with power?

There’s a pull quote in bold, center-page:

“A reformed weapon is still a weapon. No amount of legislation can erase that history.”

The rest of the article is worse.

It dredges everything. Not just his Hydra years, but the killings. The photo evidence. The old footage. The Wakandan reprogramming is mentioned—briefly, half a paragraph, like it’s a footnote in a larger narrative of violence.

The author's polite language makes it more brutal. Less a hit piece and more… a thesis. Something cold. Inarguable.

You call him. He doesn’t answer.

You call again. Still nothing.

So you go to his apartment.

Bucky answers the door in that old gray sweatshirt and a pair of worn sweatpants that could belong to any decade. His hair’s half-tied, his mouth set. No smile, but no walls up either. His eyes are dark. Tired in a way that goes bone-deep.

He steps aside and lets you in. You don’t say anything about how he looks. You just take off your coat, make yourself at home, and sit down at the kitchen table.

The place is clean, quiet. Too quiet. Alpine is curled on the armrest of the couch like she’s keeping watch. 

“I didn’t read it,” he says eventually. “Didn’t need to.”

“It’s bad.”

He nods.

He doesn’t sit. Just stands there, arms crossed, head bowed like he’s waiting for a verdict.

“You’ve been through worse,” you say. “This is—politics. It’s dirty.”

“It’s not about politics,” he replies, voice flat. “It’s about who I used to be.”

He says it like a fact. Not even bitter—just exhausted.

“I spent so long trying to fix things,” he continues. ���Make it right. Every day, I get up and try to be something new. Someone new. And it doesn’t matter. All it takes is one article, one photo, and suddenly I’m the fucking Winter Soldier again.”

His fists are clenched now. You can see the tension in his frame, the way he’s holding himself together like it’s a full-time job.

“They didn’t say anything that isn’t true,” he adds. “That’s the worst part.”

You stand. Cross to him slowly. Carefully. He watches you with that guarded look he gets when he’s bracing for a hit that’s already landed.

“They used the truth to tell a lie,” you say. “You’re not that person anymore.”

“Then why does everyone keep seeing him?” His voice cracks on the last word. It shatters something in you.

You don’t know what to say. Not right away. Because it’s not your job to fix what was done to him.

But maybe it’s your job to remind him what’s changed.

So you touch his arm. The metal one. He flinches—but only for a second.

“You said you didn’t read it,” you say gently. “So you didn’t see the comments.”

His brow furrows.

“Thousands of people,” you say. “Calling it a smear job. Defending you. Saying they trust you more than half the people in office. Veterans. Civilians. Kids who look up to you. People who believe in second chances because of you.”

You feel the shift before you see it. His shoulders slacken, just slightly.

“You’re allowed to be upset,” you add. “You’re allowed to be angry. But you’re not alone in this.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. And whatever wall he was holding up—whatever mask he puts on for C-SPAN and strategy meetings—it drops.

His voice is rough when he finally says, “Can you stay?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Of course."

You stay right where you are—your hand still resting on metal that hums faintly beneath your fingers, warm from him. He’s quiet, but not calm. Not really. There’s tension in the way he breathes, in the slight tremor running down his arm. Like his body still remembers how to brace for impact, even when it’s just words.

Minutes pass like that. Long enough for the quiet to settle around you. For Alpine to leap silently onto the sill and stare out like she’s keeping watch for both of you.

Then he shifts—just slightly—and the couch creaks under the movement. He leans forward, elbows on knees, head bowed. The line of his spine curved like it’s bearing more than just his weight.

“Bucky,” you say, tone softening. “Talk to me.”

He’s not looking at you. His gaze is on the floor. Like if he meets your eyes, it’ll all unravel.

“I say or do one wrong thing,” he says, “and suddenly I’m a threat again.”

That last part is barely above a whisper.

You pause. Let the silence stretch.

“Hey,” you say, carefully. “You’re not a threat. You’re a congressman.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I don’t know how to do this without screwing it up,” he says.

“Then let me help,” you say. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do, Bucky. Every day.”

That’s when his eyes meet yours—really meet them.

“You always come when I need you,” he says.

It’s a simple sentence.

But it lands like a match dropped in a dry field.

You stare at him. His face. The way his hair’s falling loose at the front. The soft curve of his mouth, the line between his brows, the glow of his vibranium arm in the lamplight—gold against black against skin.

You stand, like you’re going to fetch water or pace or do something, but you don’t make it far. You’re near his bookshelf—he’s got a handful of novels, mostly well-worn, a few classics. One spine is cracked down the middle. Another’s bent in half. You reach for one, just to touch something, ground yourself.

“You read a lot,” you say, just to fill the space. Just to breathe.

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, and the sound of his voice—that low rasp, Brooklyn tugging at the edges—rakes down your spine. “Helps. When my head’s loud.”

“What’s your favorite?”

There’s a pause.

Then, quietly: “You.”

You blink.

“You,” he says slowly, “you walk into my life and it’s like someone hit the off switch on the noise. Like there’s finally room to think again. To want things.”

Your throat goes tight.

He swallows. You hear it. Feel it.

“I didn’t mean to—” he stops, drags a hand through his hair, fingers brushing over the back of his neck. “I didn’t plan on hiring you. Thought if I kept it distant, maybe I wouldn’t…”

You glance over your shoulder. He’s watching the floor like it holds answers. His jaw is tight, that line above his brow catching the lamplight. He’s flushed high on the cheeks. His hair is curling a little from the heat of the day. It softens him.

You can’t stop looking.

“Wouldn’t what?” you ask.

“Wouldn’t get attached.”

The words fall out of him, too quick, too raw. His accent thickens when he’s like this—unguarded, unraveling.

He looks up at you then. And you swear—swear—you’ve never seen anyone look more exposed.

“I think about you,” he says, voice hoarse. “All the damn time. Your voice. The way you talk when you’re excited. The way you wrinkle your nose when you read something stupid. And I try—believe me, I try—not to want any of it. Because you work with me. And you’re good. And I don’t want to drag you down with my shit.”

“Bucky—” you start, but it breaks apart in your throat.

“But you just kept coming. And you’re kind. And smart. And funny in a way that makes me feel like I’ve been asleep for years. And now I sit in meetings half-listening because I’m wondering if you’re cold. Or if you ate. Or if you still think I’m some idiot with a shiny arm and bad instincts.”

You’re already turning. Reaching for him.

His eyes are so blue. Tired. Beautiful. Like storm glass worn smooth.

And his mouth—God, his mouth—is parted, breathing shallow, like he’s already halfway to ruin.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he whispers.

You don’t want him to.

So you close the space, press your mouth to his like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.

He answers in kind. Gentle at first—so careful—but then hungrier, hands finally finding you, clutching like maybe you’re real after all. Like maybe he gets to keep you.

His hands find your waist, one warm, one cool. He breathes you in like it’s the first breath after surfacing. You hold onto him, to the solidness of him, to the truth in everything he just said.

When you part, you rest your forehead against his, breathless.

“I didn’t plan on you either,” you murmur. “But I want this too.”

He opens his eyes. And there’s something there—tentative, but real. Hope, maybe.

You kiss him again, slow and sure, and this time, you don’t stop.

The kiss deepens, and you feel it — the tension of months unspooling all at once. The press briefings, the late-night calls, the shared silences. It’s in the way his mouth moves against yours, all reverence and restraint barely holding.

Then restraint snaps.

​​He groans into your mouth, low and rough, the sound vibrating through your chest. One hand slides to your waist, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair with a kind of reverence that borders on desperate. You gasp when your back hits the edge of the bookshelf, books shifting and thudding behind you. His body presses close, firm and solid, muscle molded to muscle.

You don’t breathe. You inhale him—his scent, his heat, the way his tongue strokes into your mouth like he’s trying to stake a claim.

Your hands are greedy, curled into the soft cotton of his shirt before they slip under, dragging over warm skin and the defined ridges of his back. He shudders, hips pressing forward, and the answering moan that slips from your mouth is embarrassingly loud.

His mouth moves to your throat, hot and open, tongue dragging over the place your pulse stutters wildly. He kisses there once, then again, a third time just to hear the way your breath catches.

The shelves dig into your back, but you don’t care. His mouth is on your throat now, slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your pulse.

“Bucky,” you whisper.

His breath stutters. His forehead rests against your jaw for a second, and his voice is rough when he speaks.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “How long I’ve wanted this.”

Your breath catches. Your hands grip his hoodie like you’re afraid the floor might drop out. There’s a pause—something delicate in the air—and then you say, just to ground yourself:

“Wow. That almost sounded like a line.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Eyes dark, lips kiss-bruised. And then—finally—a real smile. Crooked. Devastating.

“You think I say that to everyone I push against my bookshelf?”

You grin. “I don’t know, Barnes. You’ve got a lot of books. Could be a whole system.”

He laughs. Really laughs. And then kisses you again, harder this time, a groan low in his throat when your hands slip under the hem of his sweatshirt. Skin meets skin and he makes a sound that short-circuits your brain.

Somehow, you make it upstairs.

It’s clumsy and desperate in the best way. A trail of clothing, soft gasps, hands mapping territory that’s been off-limits for far too long. He kisses you like you’re something precious and half-forbidden, and you can feel it in every press of his mouth, every whispered praise against your skin.

"Sweetheart, you're killing me," he groans while pressing those lips, those fucking lips, against your collarbone. "Need you to tell me this isn’t a dream.”

By the time you hit the bedroom, you’re breathless. Dizzy. Grinning like an idiot.

And Bucky?

He’s looking at you like he’s just figured out the world’s best-kept secret.

You barely hit the mattress before he’s on you again, mouth dragging down your neck, hands urgent but careful. Like he’s cataloguing every inch of you, filing it away somewhere behind all the noise. His vibranium hand slips beneath your shirt, cool at first but quick to warm against your skin, gliding up your ribcage with reverence that makes you shiver.

“You okay?” he murmurs, breath warm against your cheek.

You nod, maybe too fast. “Yeah. Just—processing.”

He freezes. “Processing what?”

“That I used to mock your social media presence,” you whisper, grinning up at him. “And now I’m about to get railed by the human embodiment of a Roman statue.”

His laugh is choked and surprised. “Jesus.”

“What? You set yourself up for that.”

He drops a kiss to the hinge of your jaw, then your neck, then lower—his stubble scraping just enough to make your breath catch. “Remind me to fire you later.”

“You can’t afford me.”

“Not true,” he says, one hand sliding up the back of your thigh, warm and sure. “You’re already here.”

You open your mouth for a reply, but then his mouth is on you again—tongue tracing a line down your collarbone, fingers tugging at your waistband like he’s been waiting forever.

“Tell me if anything’s too much,” he says, voice low and serious at your ear. “Or if I—”

“You’re not,” you breathe. “You’re perfect.”

That earns you another groan, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper, tongue sliding against yours with filthy precision. You feel him smile against your mouth when you gasp, hands tangling in his hair, thighs bracketing his hips like you were built for this. Built for him.

Clothes disappear in pieces. His sweatshirt, your shirt, the rest in a tangle neither of you cares enough to untangle. And then it’s just skin. Heat. The stretch of him over you, under you, hands braced, mouth hot on your jaw, your throat, your chest. He takes his time. 

"Bucky," You whisper, searching for the right words. "I want you inside me. Please."

He pushes out a sound akin to pain between his teeth. "Getting there." So impatient, goes unsaid.

The moment his hand falls in between your legs, digging past soft cotton and lace, where you're dripping and soft and needy for him, you don't think you'll ever, ever have enough of him. He's slow, at first, just bordering on exploratory. Stroking the pads of his fingers through your wetness until he finds your clit—oh, fuck—and goes to town, making you moan and clench around nothing.

"There you go. That's it," He coos. "You're doing so good."

You close your eyes, his hand pressing in deeper, harder, finding just the right rhythm to drive you insane, switching between your clit and your entrance until you're going mad. Then you hear him spit, the sound obscene and dripping against your skin—then, a slap. "Oh my god," You murmur. "Oh, fuck."

"You're so wet," His brows furrow, like he can hardly believe it. Acting like he's not sinking his fingers inside of you, stretching you open with one, two fingers.  "Soaked. Like I knew you would be, god. You're so tight and I—I bet you'd feel better around my—"

He hits a spot that makes you keen, fast and rough and fucking you open. "Yes, yes, oh my god, please—"

"There?" His breath fans across your cheek. "Right there, huh?"

You nod, delirious and breathless and you black out the rest of the world, lost in the way he looks at you like you're the best damn thing in the world. You clench once, twice around his fingers until you're at the brink and—

Come on my fingers, come on, sweetheart.

And who were you to resist?

For a moment, you just lay in the aftershocks, his fingers granting you enough mercy to slip out. You think that maybe he'll give you a break, maybe just for once second, but then his whole body shifts downwards, momentarily leaving you confused, and then his breath fans across your thighs—"Just want a taste."

Those four words cause something in you to snap.

His mouth is sloppy and hot and wet, more focused on cleaning you up and licking up the remnants of your orgasm, leaving your clit sorely, sorely alone in a way that's too purposeful. In a way that has you bucking against the soft stubble of his face, desperate for any kind of stimulation. 

It doesn't even seem like he's doing it for you, it's like he's doing it for himself. But then you beg and whine, the words reverberating in your throat, "Bucky, please—higher, please, baby, I need you—"

A graze of his teeth and a sharp, tugging suck around your clit then and you cum again. Shaking and sighing and falling apart in his mouth.

When you look down, you can see just how much of a mess you've made, his face glistening with you, even in the dark. And he's looking at you so earnestly, so sweetly, like you've just given him the whole entire world.

"Do you—do you think you can take more?" His eyes look at you, filled with concern, and that's all you need for your legs to start waking up again. "I didn't—I dind't bring a condom and I—"

"I'm clean and I'm on the pill," You smile, lopsided and silly until he's mirroring yours, like he didn't just wrench the two best orgasms of your life out of you. Like he's not about to do it again. Just the way you like it. "And I want you to cum inside me. I wanna feel it. Shut up and get over here."

Bucky clucks his tongue, ever the dutiful man. "Yes, ma'am."

There's a moment—and then he's slotting the head of his cock into your entrance and you try not to be overwhelmed. He's hard and heavy and thick in a way you've never really experienced before, and for a minute, your brain short-circuits, in disbelief. You're doing this. You're really doing this. And suddenly, his cock goes all the way inside you with a pained groan.

His first thrust against you is messy, his hands having to spread your legs wide until you're arching against him. "Jesus, you're so—tight."

Then he's thrusting back in, his hands solid and heavy against your hips, not necessarily like a hammer, but in a way that makes your eyes roll back, slow and steady that you can feel every vein on his cock, lighting you up and finding places that not even your vibrator's been able to reach before. It's mind-numbing, it's relentless, it's perfect.

"Good girl," He whispers, pressing kisses up your neck to soothe the pressure of him inside you. "Taking me so well."

And then, like a reward, his vibranium hand leaves its place on your hip and starts caressing your clit, large fingers made impossibly gentle and finding a rhythm that parallels the way he ruts inside you.

"You're so good to me, so sweet," His words land like a sucker punch, and it makes you clench tighter, his pace faltering just the slightest bit. But he keeps going. "Always looking at me like that, don't know what you do to me, don't know how I can go without this. So much better than my dreams. Fuck."

"Can you come again for me? Pretty baby, can you do it again?"

It takes a harsh, rough swipe against your clit until you arch off the bed, eyes clenched shut and mouth wrenched open in a whine, and you bear down, coming for the third time that night.

And he's right there behind you, it doesn't take long before he speeds up, getting more frantic and desperate, and oh—he's shoving himself inside you as deep as he can go and you can feel him pulse, aching—"God, I love you. I love you so much, take it all for me."

You collapse underneath him, spent and so, so full. So perfect.

.

You go viral again.

Not for a tweet this time, but for a thirty-second clip someone posted from a town hall two weeks later—Bucky leaning in to answer a kid’s question about public transit, earnest as ever, saying something about “freedom meaning more than just car ownership,” with Alpine meowing in the background because she’d escaped her carrier under the table.

The quote is fine. Thoughtful, even. But it’s the look he gives you afterward—off-camera, off-script, soft in a way that has no business being soft—that turns the internet into a firestorm.

The caption?

sir. control yourself. your pr manager is right there.

You wake up to three missed calls, four texts from Nina (two of which are just screaming emojis), and one from your mom:

call me when you’re up

You do. Because you are a good daughter, even when half-asleep and mostly buried in a man’s too-soft duvet that smells like cedar and coffee and very recent sex.

“Morning,” your mom says, casual, like she didn’t text you three times in a row at 6:13 a.m. “How’s the job?”

You blink. “The—job?”

“Yes, the job,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The one you got after insulting a congressman on the internet.”

You glance over at said congressman, currently shuffling out of the bathroom shirtless and towel-damp, rubbing his head with one hand while Alpine chirps at his feet like she owns him. Which she does.

“Uh,” you say, eloquently. “It’s going… well.”

“Good,” your mom replies. “You should call your aunt. She saw him on TV and keeps asking if he’s single.”

“Mom.”

In the background, a faint beeping. “Gotta go. Someone’s coding. Love you!”

The line goes dead.

You flop back into the pillows, groaning into Bucky’s comforter like it can absorb your entire soul.

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice still rough with sleep.

“Yeah. My mom thinks we’re married now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “We’re not?”

You shoot him a look. He grins.

Then, like it’s nothing: “What are you up to today?”

Technically, he’s your boss. A sitting congressman. You manage his image, his agenda, his occasional tendency to go off-script and say things like “burn it all down and start over” to a room full of journalists.

But now he’s shirtless in grey sweatpants, handing you coffee with Alpine perched on his shoulder like a parrot, and asking you to stay.

Not just for breakfast. For the day. Maybe longer. Maybe always.

It shouldn’t hit you like it does. But it does.

“You’re assuming I can concentrate,” you say, taking the mug like it’s a peace offering. “In your bed. With you. Shirtless. Existing.”

He smiles—that rare, lopsided thing he gives you when he’s caught somewhere between amusement and something gentler. “You’ve worked through worse.”

“True,” you mutter. “Once wrote an op-ed from a TikTok house while one of my clients sobbed over a brand deal and a frat boy tried to deep-fry a toaster.”

“See?” He leans down, presses a kiss to your temple like it’s just another part of your morning routine. “You’ll be fine.”

You look at him. At the man with a metal arm, a rescue cat, and a city full of people who expect him to change the world.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the thing that matters.

You exhale. “You’re lucky I believe in workplace flexibility.”

“Is that what this is?” he says, already walking toward the kitchen, voice full of barely contained laughter. “Workplace flexibility?”

You grin into your mug.

God help you, you’re in so deep.

You open your laptop from the warmth of his bed. Bucky pads away, Alpine trailing behind him like a tiny, loyal shadow. You draft emails. Sip coffee. Watch sunlight crawl across his floors. Like this was always where you were meant to be.

[frothy-tart]

Dog-Fight (Bob Floyd x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: You thought it was just a party. But you soon find out that it was a 'Dogfight'—a cruel contest where the men compete to bring the “ugliest” date they can find. And you were part of the joke. Humiliated and blindsided, you walk out, finding yourself at The Hard Deck. But there you find Bob Floyd. Quiet, kind, and nothing like the man who brought you there. WORD COUNT: 3.6k WARNINGS: Inspired by the movie Dogfight (1991). Emotional hurt/comfort. Reader owns a book store. Fluff! Asking out! Angst with a happy ending. Sorry Marines. NOTES: If ya'll like it, I'll write a part 2- cause I think Bob could confront the marine hehe MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3!

It was all her fault. She shouldn’t have believed a single word coming from that Marine’s mouth. She should’ve figured. When a tall, handsome brunette came into her bookstore, she should’ve sensed the trouble. But instead, she was swept up in the idea that maybe her storybook ending was finally beginning.  

He had talked so smoothly. “Well, a fine lady like you oughta be at a party on a fine Saturday night like this. Not kept up in this stuffy old store.”

She had tried to put up a fight. Say that the store needed to be properly closed… But next thing she knew, she was running upstairs to throw on one of her dresses. She didn’t have many. So she settled for a springtime floral dress and some light makeup.

Well, now she walked down the sidewalk with that light makeup stained down her face. Her floral dress felt like a kid's uniform. The ‘party’ had turned out to be something the Marines call a ‘dogfight’. The man with the ugliest date was to be crowned the victor and win from a collected pool of money. But she didn’t stick around to find out if her date had won or not. Because when she overheard some of the other girls discovering the events' nature in the bathroom, she felt sick to her stomach. 

With a prompt slap to her date, she stormed out of the party and was now walking aimlessly down a beach. She just needed to get away from it all. The ocean waves shushed her thoughts that rattled her head like a shaken box of bees. Was she really that hideous? Did her date win? How could she be naive? 

Even though the night tides had a calming effect, she couldn’t help but get the compact mirror from her purse and check her makeup. Her mascara had run all down her cheeks, and her blush suddenly felt like too much. She combed through her hair with her fingers. It had gotten messy from all the dancing, because honestly, she was having a fun time before being awoken from her blissful ignorance.

Looking up, she noticed warm lights in the near distance. Acoustic guitar played from inside what looked like a beach bar. The sight of it felt like seeing an oasis in the middle of the desert. She wasn’t a heavy drinker in the slightest. But god damn it, after the night she had?

She stumbled through the sand in her heels toward the bar. Looking inside the open doors, it was cozy. There weren’t many patrons since it was getting a little late, and this seemed like the type of place older folks would attend. But even with that, she decided to duck into the bathroom first.

Once she got into the bathroom, she ran to the sink and splashed water on her face. She rubbed her makeup off, a difficult task without makeup wipes or remover. So her fingers instead rubbed her skin raw with nothing but water. She’d rather have a sad red face than look like a rodeo clown. 

Looking at herself in the mirror, she felt this feeling of patheticness bubble up in her gut. Tears brimmed her already swollen eyes. She hiccuped and wiped them away as best as she could. But as she wiped away old tears, new ones formed. She couldn’t bear to look at herself anymore. 

She ran out of the restroom, hiding her face by looking down at the tile floor. But as she came out into the small hallway, she accidentally bumped into someone with a surprised ‘OH!’

“I-I’m sorry-” She stammered out, not even looking at who she bumped into.

“It’s okay.” A gentle male voice said with just the subtlest hint of a midwestern accent.

But before she could look at who owned that pretty voice, she booked it down the hallway and towards the bar. It felt like the whole world was staring holes into her. Even though rationally, nobody was, she felt like she couldn’t breathe. Like the walls were suffocating her.

The bartop felt like a checkpoint, and luckily, nobody else was sitting in any of the stools. She practically collapsed into a seat. Catching her breath, she looked up to find an older woman behind the bar. With dark hair and pitying eyes, the bartender made her way over to her. 

“Hey, pretty girl. Rough night?” The bartender said affectionately, like a mother would. The nickname felt incredibly ironic. 

She nodded and hiccuped. “Y-yeah.” 

The bartender took in her disheveled appearance. She came in closer and put her hand on the bar. “Do I need to call for help?” Her eyes widened. “No. No. I’m okay. Just… I’m never letting a Marine take me out ever again.” 

The bartender laughed with bitter relief. 

“Well, they don’t typically come here, lucky for you. Just some Navy pilots since we’re right by Top Gun.” The bartender explained, pouring a rum and Coke, then a glass of water. She slid it over to her. “On the house. Name’s Penny. Holler at me if you need anything else.”

She looked up and nodded in appreciation. “Thank you.” She took a big sip. 

Penny walked away to organize some of the crates under the bar. Leaving her to drink and sulk in peace. She sniffled and wiped her eyes with an exhale. Luckily, the conversation with Penny seemed to distract her just slightly. But her heart still felt heavy. She took another hefty swig. Hopefully, if she made it through this drink fast enough, it would all slam into her fast and lift her spirits.

But then suddenly, from behind her, 

“Are you okay?” That same gentle voice from the hallway.

She swiveled in the stool and turned to connect a face to the voice. A handsome face at that. With wide cobalt blue eyes behind a pair of wire-framed glasses, he looked at her with a sense of genuine concern.

But then she looked down and saw his khaki uniform. Military. Unsure of what. But military. And she had experienced enough humiliation for the night. Fool her once…

“I’m fine.” She turned back around and sipped her drink.

“I saw you in the hallway, and you were crying. So I just wanted to check up on you.” 

“Sorry, you’re barking up the wrong tree, bud.” Woah Jesus, maybe she shouldn’t have chugged that drink so fast.

Penny looked up from the other side of the bar, and her gaze drifted past her shoulders. Towards the man. 

“I-I’m not trying to imply anything-” He stammered, looking between both women, and now she felt a bit of guilt. 

She looked back at him and took in his looks. He was cute, and he held himself surely, but a nervous look covered his face. He didn’t look like the Marine from earlier. He had been sharp and with the face of a movie star. This guy looked like he was from planet Earth, with gentle features. He had the type of face you couldn’t possibly stay mad at.

“I’m sorry-” She choked out, “I’ve just had a rough night.”

“Well, you can talk to me about it if you’d like.” He said, and after a moment he added, “I’m Bob.”

She glared at him skeptically before returning to her drink and seeing Penny not so subtly watching the interaction. The bartender nodded with a comforting smile. Okay, he had Penny’s approval. 

“Y/n.” She said, pulling out the seat next to her.

So-called Bob nodded and sat down in the seat. “I’m sorry you’ve had a bad night.”

She stirred the straw in her water, still hesitant. “Yeah, just… God. I don’t even know where to start.” Closing her eyes, she sighed, unsure of what to admit. 

“Well, what made you start crying?” His voice was so soft compared to the 80s rock music playing on the jukebox and the distant laughter and conversation of the bar. 

Just rip off the band-aid. She needed to admit what happened to somebody before she exploded.

She laughed bitterly, “I was part of a dogfight!”

Tears brewed again in her eyes. But Bob just looked at her with confused furrowed brows. She shook her head at him.

“Come on, you have to know what that is. I’m sure you and your little buddies do it all the time.” She added angrily, “I didn’t know what it was before tonight, but I guess it’s a stupid common ritual.”

There was tense silence as he nodded, trying to follow along, but it was clear he was incredibly confused.

“Dogfight like… like in a jet?” He asked innocently

“What? No? Why would I be in a jet?” 

His brows raised, “Because you… do that in a jet?”

She turned to him now. Maybe he actually didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. But before she could say anything, he added,

“Could you explain to me what you mean?” He asked politely.

God, why’d he have to be so sweet? It kept taking her off guard.

“I got asked out to a party by this Marine tonight, and it turned out to be a competition for… who could bring the ugliest date.” It’d be less embarrassing if someone put a ‘kick me’ sign on her back.

Bob’s face revealed this shocked expression. His eyes grew all wide and his mouth dropped slightly. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what all your buddies are doing tonight, sailor.” She hissed, grabbing her drink and taking a bigger swig. Usually, she’d finish drinks relatively slow, but tonight she had finished a glass in record speed.

“I’m not a Marine. Well, I mean- we’re both Navy. But I’m a Naval Aviator.” He clarified, “I don’t think any of our guys have done something like that… Though it’s not like I get invited to many parties.” 

That made her want to smile, but she refused to let one out. He didn’t seem like the type of guy who would take part in that sort of thing. But it was hard to trust anything coming out of a man’s mouth at the moment. 

“And I don’t know why he’d bring you.” Bob added, “I-I don’t mean to sound like I’m coming on to ya, but you’re pretty.” 

She scoffed. “You don’t gotta lie. Apparently, I’m a dog.”

“No, no-” He shook his head with a little crooked smile, “I mean it. I can’t lie to save my life, and I think you’re pretty.” 

Thank god her face was already red from crying to prevent him from seeing the blush that overcame her. But unfortunately, it didn’t stop him from seeing the tears in her eyes overflowing. She shook her head back at him.

“All the girls there were prettier than me.” She explained, “If that’s the case, then how could I be?” Her voice cracked.

Bob tilted his head with a soft smile, and he leaned forward.

“Because I can guarantee you that none of the girls there were ‘ugly’.” He said, “The only ugly people there were the fellas that I bet have a face only a mother could love.”

That made her laugh through her tears. It was true. The guys there really had the nerve to judge while looking how some of them did. 

“You’re even prettier when you smile,” Bob suddenly said.

Somehow, someway, it didn’t feel like he was trying to get her in bed with him. There was a sense of genuineness behind his tone. 

“And I like your dress.” He added.

She shook her head again, but this time with a small smile. “At least all the other girls wore dresses that didn’t look like they were for Easter mass. I look like a toddler.” 

“No, you don’t. I-I like the flower design.” 

It was clear he didn’t really know how to explain why he liked the dress, and that just made her blush and laugh again. 

“How’d you end up here?” He asked curiously.

She exhaled with a shrug. “I heard some of the girls in the bathroom as they realized what was going on. I… I slapped my date in the face and stormed out. Walked all the way from Third Street to the beach, just a hot mess.”

He pushed her water over to her at that. “That’s a far walk. I’m glad you slapped him.”

The drink buzzed in her head. She sipped her water at the reminder. “I’d be stupid not to.” She sighed.

At that, a few other people dressed in the identical khaki uniform approached him. A man with a moustache patted his back.

“Hey, man. We’re all heading home.” The man said, though it was clear that he and his other friends were looking over at who had stolen Bob’s attention. “Hi.”

“Hi,” She said, awkwardly looking down, not wanting her face to be seen. 

“Guys, this is Y/n.” Bob said surely, “Y/n, this is Rooster. Then these guys are Hangman and Phoenix. They’re my co-workers.”  

It was surprising that Bob was so sure in introducing her. He almost seemed proud to be talking to her, and that made her ears burn hot. The three other aviators said their hellos.

“We’ll see you Monday, man. Get home safe.” Rooster, the mustached one, said, squeezing his shoulder. He sent Bob a wink before leaving. 

Watching them leave, Bob suddenly realized something. “Do you have a way home?” 

Shit. Her eyes widened at the same realization. 

“I-I can drive you. But if you don’t feel comfortable, that’s understandable.” He offered.

She looked at him, then to Penny, unsure. She knocked on the bartop to get her attention. “Does he come here often?” 

“Every Friday with those other guys.” Penny nodded.

“Can I trust him?” 

Penny laughed with an easy grin. “He’s the most trustworthy one. He doesn’t drink. He ain’t stupid. And he keeps to himself for the most part.” 

Bob smiled a little at the praise until she added,

“That’s a threat, Floyd. Don’t break your rep.”

His smile dropped, and he nodded. “I’d never.” 

His nervous voice just made her trust him more. 

“I’ll take you up on that offer, if that’s okay.” She said softly

Walking out to the parking lot, he led her to a baby blue truck. It was rustic and old-fashioned, and it felt reflective of who he was. She was a little confused on why he walked to the passenger side until he opened the door for her.

“Letting me drive?” She joked.

“Absolutely not,” Bob replied wittily.

She giggled and got into his passenger seat. When he shut the door for her, her nerves ran rampant again. Please, god, don’t be a murderer. Please, god, don’t be a murderer. Please god-

He opened the door and got into the driver's side. “Where are you located?”

That had to be a good sign, right? That he was asking?

“The bookstore on Elmer. I live right above it.” She explained

“Got it.” He said before backing out of the parking space. 

As he began to drive, there was a small silence. It felt slightly awkward now as they were virtually strangers in this quiet nighttime drive together. Fortunately, her store wasn’t too far, so if it was a suffocatingly awkward drive, it would be quick.

“You own that store?” Bob asked curiously, breaking the silence.

She nodded. “Yeah. It was my parents, but I took it over so they could retire.”

A little smile took his face as he was lit by the backsplash of the headlights and the traffic lights. He was a pretty man. 

“That’s nice.” He said softly. His voice was so naturally soft. She wondered what he’d sound like if he were angry. He didn’t seem like the type to do that often. “Is that what you wanted to do? Take over the store?”

She nodded again. “It’s great. I get to spend my whole day organizing books, and I get access to the new releases early. People are pretty nice, too. It’s not like food service.” She looked over at him. “Is being a… what’s it called? Naval aviator, what you wanted to do?”

Bob continued to drive as he pursed his lips and nodded. “Yup. Pretty much wanted to fly ever since I was a kid. So I spent my whole life studying, determined to do it somehow, someway.”

He started pulling up to her street, but she wanted to learn more. She wanted to hear more about his job and what exactly he did. Because god knows she knew absolutely nothing about the Navy. 

Her store was hard to miss, considering it was painted a bright purple. The color of the apartment from Friends. A big sign saying KINGS BOOKSHOP was posted on the front. 

“This it?” He asked.

“Yup. Good guess.” 

He laughed and pulled aside to the curb. She sat there for what felt like a moment too long. There was almost no sound except for the soft blow of the air conditioner and the chirping of crickets from outside. 

They both turned to look at each other, and when their eyes met, they looked away quickly with shared nervous chuckles. She undid her seatbelt, forcing herself to get up.

“Thank you. Uh- for everything. Listening to me and taking me home.” She said 

“No problem. I-I hope your night gets better.” He nodded, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

She opened the door and stepped out. “Bye, Bob.” 

“Night, Y/n.” 

She shut the door and walked up to the store doors. Part of her was gnawing to get that man’s number. To ask him to see him again. And when she looked back, she saw his forehead to the wheel… Maybe he’s contemplating the same thing. 

Against her own judgement, she opened the door and went inside.

It was the next day, and she was doing her best to forget about the sweet Navy man who had cheered her up the night before. But she found herself lost in thought. Accidentally misplacing books in the wrong sections. Leading people to the wrong aisles. Forgetting what she was doing in the middle of a task. It was like she couldn’t stop thinking about him. The horrific start to the night before was practically ancient history. She would’ve been miserable, playing the night over and over, if it weren’t for the electric memories with Bob.

She was on the rolling ladder, placing some romance books on the top shelf, when the bell chimed. A customer. She stood on her tiptoes to reach the shelf.

“Welcome in!” She called out. 

Finally getting the book in its place, she climbed down the ladder and looked over to see the man who had been occupying her head the whole day. Bob stood studying the display tables through his glasses. She practically almost gasped at the sight of him wandering in his khaki uniform. Suppressing it, she couldn’t resist the grin that overtook her face.

“Hi.” She bubbled out. 

He looked up and saw her. “Hi.”

They stood at what felt like a standoff, his fingers frozen on the cover of one of the books. She walked over and looked at which display table he had been looking over. Unable to restrain herself from giggling, she looked between him and the group of books.

“Didn’t peg you to be a monster romance guy.” She teased.

He looked at her, confused, then looked down at the table to find some strange-looking covers. Lots of shipwrecked women and werewolves. His eyes widened as he broke out of his daze. 

“Oh, uh- don’t know if that’s my thing.”

“The history books are in the back corner.” She read him… like a book.

He chuckled and scratched the back of his neck. “Thanks.” A blush overcame him as she went back to taking books off a cart. She hoped he didn’t notice how her hands had a slight shake to them. Trying to play it cool was proving to be more difficult than she anticipated. 

“I actually just-” Bob started, leading to her head picking up.

“Yeah?”

“I wanted to ask you to lunch. Or-or dinner. Whenever you’re available.” He stammered in his typical bashful tone.

She couldn’t hide the redness in her cheeks and the way her lips curved into a smile. There was no way to play it cool here.

“Like a date?” She asked, holding onto a stack of books.

He nodded eagerly, as if he didn’t clarify, it would never happen. “Yes. Yes, a date. I was killing myself last night for not asking you, but I didn’t want to come onto you during a time where you just needed a friendly face.”

“I-I’d love to.” She choked out, “The shop closes at six if you wanna go out for dinner? Maybe get a few drinks at that bar last night?”

His face lit up at her response. A small, shocked exhale came out of him.

“Yeah, that works.” He nodded. The rapidly approaching silence between them was filled with electricity. He suddenly grabbed a random book. “I wanna buy this too.” 

“You really don’t have to-”

“No, no, I want to! I want to read-” He insisted, then looked at the cover, “Wrecked By Cthulu…” His voice trailed off.

She laughed so hard she could barely breathe. “How about I show you some books you might actually like, then we can go from there?” 

He was too sweet. If that wasn’t apparent already by his behavior the night before. 

“Yes, please.” He nodded.

She beckoned him to follow her, and she felt butterflies in her stomach. It felt entirely strange to be thankful for the horrific night before. If it weren’t for a man making her feel so ugly, she wouldn’t be feeling as pretty as she did with Bob’s eyes following her every move.