runicarbiter02 - Tumblr blog

runicarbiter02 · 7 days ago

Text

only you

john walker 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – nsfw (18+), explicit sexual content, MDNI, fem!masturbation, dirty talk, phone sex, domestic fluff, DILF!john x babysitter!reader, idk if it’s a slow burn but it’s sweet, friends to lovers, John had his redemption arc already but you’re the gift he never expected

word count: 11k

Summary: John Walker wasn’t looking for more. Not after everything. Not after the shield, the war, the wreckage. But then you showed up—hired by Val to watch his toddler son, Elijah Lemar—and somehow, without meaning to, you made yourself at home.

You, with your snarky comebacks and soft hands. With your coffee mugs and folded laundry and the way Elijah lights up when he sees you. You were supposed to be temporary.

But now you’re in his bed. In his life. And in his heart.

notes – not proofread. brought to you by: me wanting to write more thunderbolts banter and flirty John Walker, and me yearning over this idiot

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.

You meet John Walker in sweatpants and a scowl.

It’s your second week working for Val full-time—enough to be cleared for field-adjacent duties, but not enough to be sent back into any real action. So when she said she had an “important private protection assignment” for someone with your skillset, you expected something high-profile. A diplomat’s kid, maybe. A VIP escort job.

You didn’t expect a toddler with a superhero sticker book and a half-eaten pouch of applesauce.

And you definitely didn’t expect him.

The door creaks open, and you freeze.

John Walker is… tall. Broad. Sleep-rumpled in a dark Henley and gray sweatpants, barefoot, jaw shadowed with stubble. His hair is messy like he ran his hands through it too many times, and his arm flexes as he leans against the frame.

He looks like every bad decision you’ve ever wanted to make twice.

Your mouth goes a little dry.

“You the sitter?” he asks, voice low and rough like it hasn’t been used all morning.

You blink. “Yeah. Val sent me.”

He doesn’t respond right away—just gives you a slow once-over. Not gross. Not leering. Just… assessing. Careful. Cautious. But there’s amusement, too, simmering just under the surface like he’s trying not to laugh at you for wearing tactical boots to a babysitting gig.

Before either of you can say another word, a tiny voice chirps behind him.

“Dada!”

Then a blur of motion: a toddler waddles into view, dark curls bouncing, chubby fists clutching a juice box half his size. He beams at you like you hung the moon.

You crouch instinctively. “Hi, little guy.”

John exhales, rubbing a hand over his face like he hasn’t slept in three years. “That’s Elijah,” he says. “He just turned two. He’s obsessed with trucks, blueberries, and throwing things he’s not supposed to.”

Elijah lunges toward your boots like you’re the most interesting thing he’s seen all day. You gently distract him with the toy dinosaur that was lying on the floor.

John watches. You feel it. “Val said you’re combat-certified,” he says after a beat.

You shrug, still smiling at the toddler. “Doesn’t mean I can’t handle diapers.”

That earns a low huff of a laugh. It curls under your skin and settles there. “Come in, then,” he says, stepping aside.

You do. And you don’t miss the way his eyes dip down one last time—just a flicker, one heartbeat too long.

John’s house is clean but lived-in. Toys scattered in organized chaos, a sippy cup upside down on the coffee table, a folded New Avengers hoodie tossed over the back of the couch.

You pick up on the quiet right away. No sign of a second parent. No recent photos with Olivia in the frames. Just John and Elijah—park days, bedtime stories, tiny hands on a too-big shield.

“His mom,” he says, catching you looking, “isn’t in the picture day-to-day. Olivia and I… didn’t work out.” You nod once, softly. “Just me and him, now.”

You glance at him. “You’re doing a good job.”

He huffs again. “You haven’t seen bedtime yet.”

Elijah’s easy. He clings to your legs the second John disappears to change into something less lingering, and hands you his favorite book upside down with a proud grin.

You don’t mind. You’re good with kids. Always have been. But it’s not the kid that’s messing with your head. It’s him.

John, when he comes back, is in jeans and a plain t-shirt. No socks. He moves through the room with a calm confidence that makes it hard not to look. He picks Elijah up with one arm like it’s nothing, bounces him once, presses a kiss to the top of his head.

You’re absolutely doomed.

He catches you watching. “You good?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow.

You clear your throat. “Y-Yup. Totally.”

He smirks. “Didn’t think the crime fighting babysitter would be nervous because of me.”

“I’m not,” you lie. “You’re just… not what I pictured.”

“You expected someone with a dad bod and a fanny pack?”

You glance at his biceps. “I expected an old diplomat with a brat. Not—” You stop yourself. Too late.

His smile is smug now. Dangerous. “Not what?”

You snatch the book from Elijah and hold it up like a shield. “Not someone who looks like that, okay?”

He laughs. Full-bodied. Deep. “You know you’re saying this in front of my two-year-old, right?”

“He doesn’t know what it means.”

“I do.”

Your cheeks burn. He’s enjoying this. “You’re an ass,” you mutter.

“You’re the one making it weird, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

God help you.

You think it’s over. You think the awkward tension is just that—awkward. A moment. Nothing more.

But when you pack up to leave after the first shift, John walks you to the door. Elijah’s already asleep, and the house has gone quiet. Too quiet.

You’re pulling your hoodie on when he speaks again. “Thanks. For today.”

You smile. “Of course. He’s great.”

“So are you.” That pulls your eyes back to his. He’s watching you again. That same careful, quiet assessment from the first minute you met. “You’ve got a calm about you that I definitely don’t,” he says. “And Eli likes that.”

You hesitate. “And you?”

He shrugs, slow and warm. “I like it too.”

Then, before you can reply, he opens the door for you like a gentleman. The night air is cool. You step out and turn back, already half-smiling. “See you next week, Mr. Walker.”

He leans against the frame, arms crossed, voice lower than it has any right to be. “Can’t wait.”

You’ve settled into a rhythm now. Babysitting Elijah on days when Walker was in the field and you weren’t, and then training in the tower or working with the New Avengers any other day of the week.

But somewhere in the middle of it all, bantering with John became the constant. He wormed his way into your messages regularly. At first under the guise of something about watching Eli, and now, whenever he had a snarky comment to make about Bob’s fashion choices or Alexei’s anti-capitalist rants.

One time he sent a message about Bucky’s “fuck ass bob” that made you laugh so hard during a debrief you got lectured from Val on professionalism.

Tonight is one such night in your routine, though, where you’re at John’s house, babysitting. And something new happens— a phone call.

The call comes just after 7 p.m., and you know it’s him before you even check the screen.

Walker🛡️: Incoming FaceTime…

You glance down at the two-year-old currently curled into your chest like a sleepy barnacle, thumb in mouth, warm and sticky from applesauce and a bath. He’s heavy now, relaxed in that total-trust way only toddlers can manage.

You answer with a quiet tap, careful not to jostle Elijah.

John’s face appears immediately—dusty, wind-blown, still in tac gear. You catch the edge of a transport ship behind him. And, faintly, two voices arguing about whose comms were off.

“There he is,” John says, softening the second he sees his son.

Elijah perks up just enough to murmur, “Hi, Dada,” before settling back down with a sleepy sigh.

“That his juice-drunk voice?” John asks with a grin.

You nod, cradling Elijah tighter. “Bath, blueberries, and five books. He’s down for the count.”

“You’re a miracle worker.”

“Something like that,” you deadpan.

Behind John, Yelena leans into frame. “Tell her she has to babysit me next time. I like cuddles and strawberries,” she mutters.

You snort.

Ava appears next. “Can she train Bob?”

“Nobody can train Bob,” you say, then glance back at John. “How much longer are you out?”

“Another twelve hours, tops. I’ll be back in time for breakfast. You okay staying overnight?” You look down at Elijah. He’s snoring now, clutching a truck in one hand and the edge of your sweater in the other.

“We’re good,” you say. “By the way, he called you ‘Duh-duh’ today. Not sure if that’s a promotion or a demotion.”

John laughs, quiet and fond. “I’ll take what I can get.” His eyes flick to you again. They linger for just a second too long. Your thumb brushes Elijah’s curls, and John notices that too. “You look good with him,” he says, voice lower, meant only for you to hear.

You raise a brow and try to pretend your heart didn’t fumble a beat. “Careful, Walker. That almost sounded like flirting.”

“Maybe it was.”

You grin. “You’re supposed to be saving the world, not making me blush.”

“Pretty sure I can do both.” Before you can answer, a loud crash echoes behind him. Bob, probably. John winces. “Gotta go, sweetheart,” he says. “Be good for her, bud.”

Elijah’s thumb wiggles in sleepy acknowledgment. The screen goes black.

John comes home just after 2 a.m.

You don’t hear the door. You’re dead asleep on the couch, curled under a throw blanket, one arm wrapped protectively around the baby monitor like it might explode if you let it go.

John stops in the doorway and just watches.

You’re tucked into the cushions like you belong there, face smushed against your shoulder, one sock half-off. He can hear Elijah’s white noise machine crackling softly through the monitor in your hand. The kid’s fine.

And you? You look…

He swallows. It shouldn’t be hot. But it is. Not just the curve of your legs, or the way your lips part in your sleep. It’s the whole damn picture—the domestic quiet, the way you smell faintly like his shampoo. He knows it’s a job. You’re just showing up for work. But something about the little messages you send to him throughout the day, or the fact that you stay even when he could probably get another sitter for overnights, lingers with him. Makes him hope for something more. And the way that you do this, without question? Like this is normal? It makes it seem like this is yours too.

It’s too much for a man as lonely as John Walker.

John exhales through his nose and shakes it off.

Barely.

Then, he steps past you to drop his keys and pauses. “Hey, wake up.”

You blink awake, startled. The baby monitor shifts in your grip. “Oh my god—sorry, I didn’t mean to—was gonna wait up—”

“Relax.” His voice is low. Warm. “It’s good. You’re good.”

You sit up slowly, brushing hair from your face. “He’s asleep. Didn’t even fuss.”

“I saw. Thanks again.”

You nod. “Welcome home, John.”

John rubs the back of his neck, and you don’t notice that his ears are a little pink. “You, uh… want to crash here tonight? You’ve already got a blanket, and I just threw whatever you had in the washer into the dryer.”

You hesitate. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Couch is yours. Or the bed, if you want it.”

“Your bed?”

“I won’t be in it,” he says with a crooked smirk. “Scout’s honor.”

You roll your eyes. “You weren’t a scout.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you flirt like someone who got suspended from high school.”

He laughs, soft and raspy. “You gonna pick a spot or keep complimenting me, sugar?”

Twenty minutes later, you’re curled up on the couch again. Elijah’s still down for the count. The monitor’s on the end table and you’re watching something dumb and half-muted, chewing on the end of a Twizzler John handed you without asking.

He disappears into the shower. Reappears in low-slung sweats and a navy t-shirt, damp hair sticking up in all directions.

He drops into the other end of the couch with a soft grunt, arm stretching along the back of it. You glance sideways, suspicious.

“You hover around me like I’m gonna bite.” He says with a smirk.

“I don’t think you’d bite,” you murmur. “I think you’d devour.”

John stills. His gaze cuts to you. Slow. Heated. “You flirt like someone who wants to be punished.”

Your mouth dries. “What if I do?”

Silence. Thick. Unforgiving. The look he gives you could melt glass.

And then a soft cry splits the air from the monitor. John exhales like he’s just been punched. “I got it,” he mutters, already rising. “You get some rest.”

You don’t argue. You just nod and watch him disappear down the hall. You hear the door creak open, then his low voice murmuring something you can’t quite catch.

You slip into his room a few minutes later. You didn’t mean to. You swear you were going to take the couch. But your eyes are already closing by the time your head hits his pillow.

He finds you there twenty minutes later, fast asleep. His side of the bed untouched. And for a second—just one second—John lets himself imagine what it’d be like if this was real.

If you were his.

Not the sitter. Not a job. Just… you. You, here. In his space. Staying.

He turns off the light. And quietly, silently, takes the couch.

For now.

6:32 a.m.

The monitor on the nightstand crackles to life with a cry that could rattle windows.

You jolt upright, bleary-eyed, hair flattened on one side.

Across the hall, John’s already moving. You hear the calm, familiar shuffle of a dad who’s done this a hundred times. “Shh, hey, little man. Dada’s got you. You okay?”

You swing your legs out of bed, rubbing your eyes, and pad toward the hallway in your socks. He meets you in the middle—Elijah on his hip, cheeks flushed and nose scrunched in that dramatic toddler way that always follows a nightmare or a diaper change.

John raises a brow at your tangled hair and your frown. “Mornin’, Sunshine.”

You squint at him. “Don’t call me that. It’s not even 7am.”

“Why not? You’re practically glowing.” Elijah babbles something incoherent, then leans forward and plants a sticky hand on your cheek.

“Sun,” he declares proudly.

You blink. “What’d he just call me?”

John chuckles, pressing a kiss to Elijah’s head. “Guess it stuck.”

Your ears go pink. You mutter something about needing coffee and duck into the kitchen, trying not to trip over the warmth blooming in your chest

Ten minutes later, you’re both in the kitchen—John barefoot, Elijah in his high chair, and you halfway through your first cup of coffee.

John’s slicing bananas. “You didn’t have to wake up,” he says.

“Try sleeping through a banshee scream.”

“He gets it from Olivia,” he deadpans.

“He gets it from you,” you shoot back.

“You calling me dramatic?”

You take a sip of coffee. “If the giant bicep fits.”

He grins. And then Elijah lets out a garbled squeak—right before he pukes all over your shirt.

There’s a beat of silence. John blinks. You stare down at yourself, frozen. “Oh my god—”

“Okay, okay, I got him,” John says, already lifting Elijah from the chair. “You—just don’t move.”

“I’m wearing it, John. Moving’s kind of the problem.”

“I’ll bring you a shirt,” he calls, already halfway down the hall. “Something that hides baby vomit and makes me look good.”

“You mean makes me look good.”

“That’s what I said.”

You’re wearing his shirt when he comes back from the bathroom.

A navy blue tee, stretched soft with age and clinging to your shoulders in all the right places. It’s massive on you—covers your tiny sleep shorts entirely. Your legs are bare, your hair is messy, and you’re lazily stirring a bowl of cereal while scrolling your phone.

He walks into the kitchen with Elijah on his hip and immediately forgets how to breathe. “Jesus.”

You glance up. “Something wrong?”

“You trying to kill me in my own kitchen?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pretty sure Elijah already tried.”

John doesn’t rise to the bait and instead drags a hand over his face. “You’re in my shirt.”

“You literally just gave it to me, Walker.”

“Yeah but I didn’t mean for it to look like that.”

“Like what?”

He doesn’t answer. And the silence lingers.

Then, he shifts Elijah onto his other hip and leans one elbow against the counter, glancing at your phone. “What are you doing?”

“Swiping.”

“Swiping?”

“Dating app.”

His expression hardens in a second. “What for?”

You shrug. “Kinda single if you’ve not noticed. Kinda bored.”

John narrows his eyes. You swipe on a guy with a dog. “This one’s cute.”

“That dog’s the only thing he’s bringing to the table.”

You laugh. Swipe again. “This one?”

“Wears socks in bed.”

Another. “This guy’s tall.”

“Yeah, so are murderers.”

“Okay, what do you approve of?”

“Me.”

The word is out before he can stop it. You freeze, but he doesn’t look away.

Elijah burps.

You snort. “Careful, Mr. Walker. That almost sounded like jealousy.”

“Did it?”

“You gonna tell me not to date other men?”

“No,” he says, voice lower now. “But I might start pickin’ you up after your dates just to make a point.”

“What kind of point?”

“That none of them know how to fold a stroller one-handed while carrying a two-year-old and a bag of wipes.”

You blink. “Okay, that was hot.”

“I know.” His smirk makes your heart melt.

Your clothes are dry by the time you’re getting ready to leave.

You change and carry the shirt out of the bathroom, folding the borrowed shirt with a little too much care, fingers brushing over the soft cotton like it’s still warm from his skin. When you step out, hoodie slung over your arm, John’s in the kitchen—back to you, shoulder muscles shifting under a bare upper back as he pours juice one-handed, balanced as ever.

You sit the shirt on the island when he’s turning towards you. “Hey, I’m gonna head out—”

And then he pulls on the shirt.

That shirt. The one you had just wore this morning and sat on his kitchen island. Faded navy, worn thin in a way that made it fall just right across your frame—and now it hugs his like a goddamn sin. It stretches over his chest, clings to his arms, and when he adjusts the hem casually, you go still.

Too still.

John raises his gaze.

Catches you.

And smirks. “You like this one, huh?”

Your throat goes dry. You recover fast, but not fast enough. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Walker.”

He takes a step toward you, slow and self-assured, that damn smirk growing. The shirt shifts with his body, and your stomach flips. “Oh, I’m not flattering myself, sweetheart. I’m flattering you.”

You shove a plush toy you picked up from the floor at his chest—harder than necessary—and pivot toward the door before you combust. “Bye, John.”

Your voice is too even. He knows it. “See you next week, Sunny.”

Behind you, you don’t see his face. But you feel his smile all the way down the front steps.

The mission is simple. In and out, minimal contact, no major threats. You, Yelena, and Bucky spend most of it in tactical sweats and earpieces, staking out a lead on an arms deal that’s taking forever to go sideways.

You’re barely paying attention when your phone buzzes in your back pocket. The soft trill of an incoming FaceTime rattles against the dull night air.

Walker🛡️: Incoming FaceTime…

You blink. “You gonna answer that?” Bucky asks, not looking up from his scope.

“Depends,” you mutter. “Could be a code red. Could be a two-year-old with questions about ducks.”

Yelena snorts. “Both are equally deadly.”

You answer. John’s face fills the screen immediately—forehead first, like he hasn’t quite mastered the angle. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You lean against the wall, smirking. “Mid-mission, Walker. You miss the memo on operational silence?”

“Eli wanted to see you.”

Your breath catches. You say nothing. Then the camera tilts—and there he is. Tiny, curly-haired chaos. A juice stain on his cheek and a toy truck clutched in his chubby hand.

“Sunny!” he squeals. Your heart does a somersault.

“Hey, Buddy,” you coo. “You being good for your Dada?”

He nods solemnly, then drops the truck and leans closer to the screen. “I miss Sunny.”

You hear Yelena audibly melt beside you. “You’re going to kill that man,” she whispers.

John’s still holding the phone, expression unreadable. Except—no, not unreadable. Soft. Quiet. Like he’s trying not to show how much that nickname does to him.

“He didn’t nap,” John says casually, but his voice is off. Tighter than usual.

“I’m not surprised,” you reply, eyes still on Elijah. “He only naps for me.”

“Don’t start,” John mutters.

“Start what?”

“Flirting while I’m holding a toddler.”

You blink. “You started it.”

“You answered,” he counters, then smiles. “Lookin’ good, by the way. Field gear suits you.”

Bucky’s voice drifts in from your earpiece. “Tell him to stop checking you out mid-op.”

“Barnes says stop checking me out mid-op.”

John just grins. “Tell Barnes to mind his business.”

You roll your eyes. “Say bye, Eli.”

“Bye, Sunny!” He kisses the screen. “Luh you!”

And just like that, your body forgets the cold. The exhaustion. Everything. John’s eyes flick to you. And linger. “Be careful out there,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Always.”

The call ends.

You stare at the blank screen for a second longer than necessary.

Later that week, you weren’t planning to go out. The date was a favor to a friend-of-a-friend—a finance bro with decent hair and too much cologne. He picks a bar with overpriced cocktails and keeps talking about himself.

You check your phone four times in thirty minutes.

The fifth time, you don’t even hesitate.

You call him.

He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t mock you. Doesn’t tease. Just asks, “Where are you?” And then says, “I’m on my way.”

When he shows up, it’s without Elijah—thankfully. You assume Olivia has him tonight. John pulls up in that black SUV like he’s heading into battle, and when he steps out, he looks pissed.

He’s in jeans and a Henley, forearms taut where he slams the door shut.

Your date blinks. “Who’s that?”

You smile too wide. “My ride.”

John doesn’t say a word. Just stares the guy down, jaw tight. One hand on the open door, the other flexing like he wants a reason to use it.

“You okay?” he asks you, eyes only on you.

You nod. “Now I am.”

The bro tries to protest. “Hey, man, I was just—”

“You can shut up now,” John snaps, eyes narrowing. “She’s good. You’re done.”

You slide into the car before it gets worse. He doesn’t say anything until you’re two blocks away.

“What was that all about?” you finally ask, trying for light. “You show up like my dad. Or… my bodyguard.”

“You called me, remember?” he growls.

“Yeah, I did.” You fold your arms. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“Don’t say shit like that,” he mutters. “You think I’m not gonna show when you ask?”

“I didn’t even think. That’s the problem.” His hands are gripping the wheel too tightly. You glance over. His jaw’s clenched, pulse jumping in his neck. “You jealous, Walker?”

“That guy looked at you like you were a joke.”

“And you don’t?”

“No. You know I look at you like I know exactly what kind of trouble you are.”

You swallow. “That supposed to scare me?”

“Should.”

The silence stretches. Thick. Hot. You shift in your seat, heart racing. “Why’d you come?” you ask quietly.

“Because you called me.”

“That’s not the real answer and we both know it, John.”

He glances at you. The streetlights flicker over his face, highlighting the shadows under his eyes. “It felt good,” he admits, voice raw. “Being your first call.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t.

He pulls up in front of your apartment and shifts into park—but doesn’t unlock the doors. Just sits there.

You turn to him. “You coming in?”

“Don’t ask unless you want me to.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m this close—” he holds up two fingers, barely apart “—to pulling over and finally kissing you senseless.”

Your breath catches. “You could,” you whisper. “If you wanted.”

He looks at you, really looks, and starts to lean in. You meet him halfway. The tension crackles. His hand brushes your cheek. Warm. Callused. Reverent.

And then—

BRRRRZZZZZT.

His phone buzzes violently in the cupholder. He pulls back fast, blinking like he forgot where he was. You exhale shakily. John checks the screen. His face shutters. “It’s Olivia. Probably about Eli.”

You nod. “Go ahead.”

He hesitates, then answers.

You open the door. “Goodnight, John.”

He grabs your wrist before you can leave. “Hey.”

You pause. Look back. His voice is soft. Wrecked. “Still want to kiss you.”

Your lips part. “Then maybe next time don’t wait.” You close the door behind you and don’t look back.

Elijah’s fever starts just after lunch.

Nothing dramatic—just a slow burn, cheeks flushed, whimpers between sips of water and repeated cries of “Sunny.” He doesn’t want to nap unless you’re holding him. Won’t eat unless you spoon-feed him applesauce. Every now and then, he drifts off mid-sentence, his fingers still tangled in your sleeve.

You don’t hesitate. You text John.

You snap one—Elijah asleep against your chest, thumb in his mouth, cheeks rosy. You’re not even fully in frame, but John doesn’t miss the detail of your hand resting over his son’s heart, or the way your body curls protectively around him.

You stare at the screen. Heart stuttering. Stomach flipping. You type. Delete. Type again.

You don’t. You should.

Instead, you curl tighter into the hoodie, into Elijah’s weight, into the house that smells like all the things you pretend don’t matter.

But they do.

Because no matter how many times you remind yourself that this isn’t your family, your heart keeps forgetting.

It’s 11:43 p.m. when your phone buzzes again. It’s a FaceTime from John.

You answer half-asleep, wrapped in fleece and shadows. Elijah’s down for the count, finally. His breathing even in the baby monitor beside you.

John’s face fills your screen—wet hair, a low-cut tee, tired eyes. “Hey, Sunshine.”

“Hey, Walker.”

His gaze drops to the hoodie you’re wearing. “That mine?”

“Maybe.”

“Looks good on you.”

“Everything looks good on me,” you deadpan.

He laughs, soft and warm. “True.”

You shift under the blanket, self-conscious. “I didn’t mean to steal it. I just… wanted to smell like you.”

He stills.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The tension creeps in. Thick. Slow. Heavy. He watches you like he wants to climb through the screen.

“I miss you,” he says.

You blink. “You miss me or the free childcare?”

“Don’t do that.”

Your breath catches. “Do what?”

“Pretend this doesn’t mean something.” The silence stretches.

You speak first. Quiet. Honest. “It’s getting harder to pretend.”

John exhales. Runs a hand down his face. “You’re in my clothes. In my house. My kid callin’ you Sunny like you’re his favorite damn person in the world.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah,” he says, no hesitation. “You are.”

Your throat tightens. “Come home, John.”

He nods slowly. “I’m trying.”

The call doesn’t end for another hour. But the moment? That lasts the whole damn night.

John gets home just after sunrise.

The house is quiet, humming with the soft static of early morning. No cartoons. No little feet slapping against hardwood. No voice calling out “Dada!” on repeat. Just stillness.

He toes off his boots, drops his bag by the door, and makes a beeline for the living room—half-expecting to find you passed out on the couch with the baby monitor tucked under your arm.

But you’re not there. You’re in his bed.

The door’s cracked. Enough for him to see. You’re curled under the blanket, deep asleep, wearing the hoodie you mentioned and nothing else he can see. And tucked into your side—sprawled across your stomach like a starfish—is Elijah, his little hand gripping the edge of the hoodie like it’s his favorite blanket.

John doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

He just… stands there.

And tries not to fall harder.

You wake up to the sound of someone clattering in the kitchen and the faint smell of coffee.

Elijah is still snoring on your chest, drooling through your shirt. You shift, stretching one arm and peeking at the monitor. Still on. Still safe.

When you shuffle into the hallway, John’s at the counter. Fresh clothes. Hair damp. Mug in hand. “Morning, Sunshine.”

“Hey,” you mumble, voice rough. He turns, eyes dragging down your legs—bare except for socks and his hoodie, sleeves too long, collar stretched from sleep.

You rub your face and try not to notice the way he stares just a second too long.

“You guys get any sleep?” he asks casually.

“Some. Your son’s a bed hog.”

“Takes after me.”

“I noticed.”

He grins. “You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Good. You’re comin’ with us.”

You blink. “Us?”

“Me. Elijah. You. Target run. Maybe pancakes. You in?”

You pretend to groan. “Are you asking me on a date or kidnapping me?”

“I’m asking if you want to spend the morning with a grown man who folds laundry like a soldier and a toddler who can’t pronounce ‘banana.’”

You lean against the counter, smile soft. “Hard to say no to that.”

It’s so painfully domestic it makes your chest ache.

John pushing the cart with one hand, Elijah babbling nonsense in the seat. You trailing alongside, tossing snacks and wipes and sippy cups into the basket. Every few minutes, Elijah reaches for you—chubby fingers opening and closing with a determined “Sun. Sun!”

John doesn’t stop smiling the whole time. “You’re his favorite,” he says as you wrangle Elijah into his little jacket in the parking lot.

“He’s mine too,” you murmur. John looks at you. Long. Quiet. You look away first.

A week later and John’s gone again. Short mission. Three nights, maybe four. He doesn’t like leaving Eli, but Olivia’s schedule is slammed and—well. There’s only one person he trusts with his son when he can’t be there.

You.

You don’t think twice. You’re at the house within twenty minutes of his call, hoodie in your bag, toothbrush already stashed in the bathroom from last time.

By the second day, you’re back in the rhythm. Morning cartoons. Afternoon walks. Bedtime meltdowns and storybooks read on loop.

And John? John’s texting you nonstop. Sometimes it’s just to check in. Other times? Other times it’s more.

You hesitate.

Then give in.

Snap a quick one in the hallway mirror—bare legs, messy bun, oversized hoodie swallowing your frame. No makeup. Just you.

That should’ve been it.

Light flirting. Nothing new. But you’re feeling reckless tonight. Sleep-deprived and warm and just buzzed enough from the glass of wine you allowed yourself after bedtime.

So you snap another photo. A little bolder this time. It’s still the hoodie—but this time you’re lying on the bed. The zipper pulled down just enough to show the dip of your collarbone. The swell of your breasts. A sliver of skin and nothing else. No caption. Just the photo.

And then:

The op’s supposed to be clean. Quiet. One-and-done extraction with minimal resistance and no unnecessary fire.

But then again, John should’ve known it wouldn’t be easy the second you stepped out of the briefing room in tactical gear and laced boots, stretching like it was just another Tuesday.

You lock eyes with him as you tighten your gloves. “You ready, Captain?”

He swallows. Hard. “Always, Sunshine.”

He’s seen you tired. Grouchy. Makeup-smudged and hoodie-drowned with a toddler half-asleep on your chest.

But this? This is something else entirely.

On the field, you’re fire and honey, all swaying hips and lethal grace. You move like a weapon—fast, fluid, fucking mesmerizing. You’re not flashy. You’re precise. Efficient. A ghost on the wind. And still somehow the brightest thing in the middle of a goddamn warehouse full of shadows and gunfire.

John nearly walks into a crate watching you dodge a stun charge.

“Eyes up, Walker,” Yelena snaps. “Not on her ass.”

“That’s a damn lie and you know it,” he mutters, adjusting his grip on the shield.

Ava chuckles. “You’re doomed.”

“Shut up.”

You don’t even notice the way he watches you. You’re too busy calling shots, redirecting momentum like a pro. You press your fingers to your comm, murmur something about extraction windows, and when you duck behind cover beside him, you’re all heat and focus.

You glance up, eyes shining with adrenaline. “Having fun yet?”

“Define fun,” John says, voice lower than it needs to be.

You flash a smirk. “I’d define it for you, but then you’d owe me dinner.”

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t been planning that since day one.”

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t been letting you.”

And just like that—boom. He’s gone. The second it settles—operation over, intel secured, comms cleared—John’s pacing outside the extraction van like a man possessed.

He’s not thinking about the objective. He’s thinking about the way your knee brushed his thigh when you both slid behind cover. The curve of your mouth when you called him Captain with a grin. The way you looked—covered in sweat and dirt and pride—laughing with Ava like none of it touched you.

He’s fucked.

He’s in love. It hits him hard. Like an elbow to the solar plexus. Because this isn’t just a crush or a phase or something he’ll sleep off when the hoodie doesn’t smell like you anymore. This is real.

And he’s John Walker.

The dumbass. The joke. The emotionally-stunted dad with the bad PR and the even worse track record. You deserve someone stable. Someone who knows how to hold it together when a woman like you steals his breath and calls his son “baby.”

So he does what he always does.

He covers it up with bullshit.

“You looked good out there,” he says once you’re alone in the back of the van.

“Thanks,” you murmur, leaning your head against the cool metal wall. “You did alright too. For an old man.”

“Old?” He snorts. “You gonna start tucking me in after bedtime too?”

“You want me to?”

You don’t see it—but his jaw tenses. “Depends. You bringin’ the hoodie you commandeered?”

“It’s still mine.”

“I’ll allow it. On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You wear it to bed again.”

Your eyes flick to him. Heat under your skin. “That almost sounded like a fantasy.”

“It is.”

Silence.

Thick.

And then—you both look away at the same time.

Like cowards.

Later that night, while you’re showering off the mission grime in the team’s safehouse, John’s lying on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, phone in hand.

He re-looks the last photo you sent. The one in his hoodie. No pants. Just legs and attitude and a caption that said: You’re missing the best part of your house.

He groans.

Slaps a hand over his eyes.

And says aloud, to no one in particular, “God help me, I think I’m gonna marry her.”

The post-mission bar isn’t glamorous, but it’s open late, and no one questions IDs or how many weapons you’re packing. The music’s loud, the lights are low, and the air smells like cheap beer and sweat.

Ava’s halfway through her second whiskey when she leans into John’s side, eyes narrowed. “You’re in love with her.”

John doesn’t look up from his beer. “Nope.”

“Liar.” Yelena slams her glass down and spins toward him on her stool, grinning like a gremlin. “I give it two weeks before you combust.”

“I’m not combusting,” he mutters.

“You were literally hard for half the op.”

John chokes on his drink. “Excuse me?!”

“I was behind you,” Yelena says sweetly. “Trust me. If there was a roundhouse kick, I would’ve caught friendly fire.”

“Can’t help it,” Ava adds, sipping. “Guy’s walking around with a lightsaber in his pants.”

“Val warned us during onboarding,” Yelena stage-whispers. “Special equipment.”

John groans, dragging a hand over his face. “You two done?”

“Not even close,” Ava says. “You were panting watching her knock out that merc in one hit.”

“She was hot!” John defends.

“Uh-huh,” Yelena grins. “You know what else was hot? Your entire face when she touched your arm. Looked like you were gonna propose.”

“You think I’d propose that fast?”

They both blink. “…So you’ve thought about proposing,” Ava says.

He slams his glass down. “I’m getting another drink.”

You find him twenty minutes later at the edge of the dance floor, sipping bourbon and looking like he’s trying not to die inside. You nudge him with your hip. “You hiding?”

“I was until you found me.”

You grin. “Poor baby. Girls giving you hell?”

“You mean the two harpies dissecting my facial expressions like I’m on trial? Yeah.”

“Can’t imagine why,” you say innocently.

“You want in on it too?”

“Nope.” You lean in, hand sliding around his wrist. “I just want a dance.”

He stiffens. “Here?”

“Scared?”

“Of you? Always.” Still, he follows when you tug him forward. Onto the floor. Into the blur of moving bodies and pulsing bass.

You press close. Not inappropriate. Not quite. But close enough that his breath catches when your hand slides up his arm. When you sway your hips to the beat and your chest brushes his. “You okay, Captain?”

“Peachy,” he says, voice tight.

You smirk. “Liar.”

He’s holding you too carefully. Like if he moves too fast, he’ll break the illusion—or maybe lose control entirely.

And you? You’re not helping. Your hand drags down his chest, slow and deliberate. His fingers curl into your waist. “You’ve been quiet all night,” you murmur against his ear.

“Trying not to say something stupid.”

“Try me.”

“You wore my hoodie. You sent me that photo. Then you walked onto the field like a goddamn fever dream. And now you’re doing this.” His voice drops, low and sharp. “You know exactly what you’re doing to me.”

You blink. Your smile softens. “Then stop pretending you don’t want it.” He exhales like he’s in pain.

Then Ava’s voice cuts through the crowd.’“Wrap it up, Walker! You’re two pelvic thrusts away from turning this into an HR violation!”

You laugh. He groans. The spell breaks. But the damage? It’s already done.

It’s well after midnight when you finally give in.

The house is too quiet. No Elijah babbling in the monitor. No cartoons humming from the TV. Just you. Alone in John Walker’s bed.

In his hoodie.

Wrapped up in sheets that still smell like him.

You’ve been here before. Dozens of times. But not like this. Not without the reason of babysitting. Not without the excuse of a sick toddler or a late mission briefing.

He’s away.

Elijah’s with Olivia.

And you’re still here.

Because when he handed you the spare key, it meant something. Even if neither of you said it out loud.

You roll over, check your phone, thumb hovering over his name.

It’s stupid.

You shouldn’t.

You do it anyway.

It rings. Once. Twice.

“Sunshine?” He sounds half-asleep. Low. Raspy. Like he rolled over to answer it without opening his eyes.

You breathe into the receiver. Just a second. Just long enough to gather the courage. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah?” His voice lifts a little. “You at home?”

Your heart stutters. “Yours.”

“…Wait, what?”

You curl tighter under his blanket, nose brushing the collar of the hoodie. “Mhm. Just—couldn’t settle down. Didn’t wanna be alone.”

He goes quiet for a second too long. “You’re at my house right now?”

“Yeah. In your bed.” Still quiet. Except now you hear it: his breathing changes. Deeper. Sharper.

“You wearin’ my hoodie?”

“Mhm.”

“Jesus.”

You press the edge of the phone tighter to your cheek. Say nothing.

“I didn’t think you’d actually go over while I was gone.”

“I didn’t plan to. Just… ended up here.”

“Yeah?” His tone softens. “That why you called? Wanted to say hi?”

You pause.

Then, barely above a whisper. “Wanted to hear your voice.”

He stills completely. You add, slower this time: “It helps.”

“…Helps with what, baby?”

You let out a soft, shaky breath when he speaks. But the second he calls you baby, a small, involuntary whimper slips out.

That does it.

He groans. Low. Rough. Like he can feel you through the phone. “Don’t do that, Sunshine.”

“Do what?”

“Sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re laid out in my bed, in my clothes, legs squeezed together, and all I’d have to do is say your name a little softer to make you fall apart.”

Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten in the sheets. “John…”

“Yeah, baby?” It’s devastating—how he says it. All breath. All heat. Like he’s already half-undone just imagining you.

“I miss the way your arms felt around me. When we danced.”

He swears softly under his breath. “You’re killin’ me.”

“You started it.”

“Nah, sweetheart. You started it the second you put that hoodie on and sent me that picture.”

“I didn’t send you a picture tonight.”

“No, but I can see you. Right now. In my head.”

Another breath. Yours this time. Desperate. “John…”

“You need me there?”

“Yes.”

“You needy, baby?”

“You don’t get to tease me when I’m calling you like this.”

“I’m not teasing,” he says, voice gravel-thick. “I’m picturing it. You, all curled up in my bed. Hoodie soft on your skin. No pants, I bet.” Your throat is too tight to answer. “Bet you smell like me,” he murmurs. “Bet that’s why you’re in there. That’s what helps you sleep.”

You whimper again. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I’d put money on the fact you’re wet right now. Just from me talkin’ like this.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Then stop soundin’ like you wanna come apart just from my voice.”

You press the phone against your cheek, half-wrecked. “You’ll be home soon, right?”

“I’ll break every damn speed limit to get there if you keep talkin’ like that.”

“You’d better.”

“Sleep, baby. I mean it. I’ll be there soon.”

“You’ll hold me again?”

“Yeah,” he says, soft now. Reverent. “First thing.”

You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing on the other end. And the promise that the next time you call him like this… he’ll be there to answer with more than words.

The week after your last mission is brutal.

Not because of the job. The job’s easy—scouting, tailing, extraction, report.

What’s hard is the distance.

You and John are never in the same place at the same time anymore. Olivia’s got doubles, John’s doing recon, and you’re still watching Elijah whenever you’re in town.

John always leaves the house spotless for you. Your favorite snacks stocked. A fresh towel on the bathroom hook. Sometimes he texts you before he even lands. But it’s the late-night texts that really start to unravel you.

Tuesday, 11:47 p.m.

Wednesday, 12:06 a.m.

Thursday, 9:32 p.m.

By Friday, you’re calling him and asking what this is. What you’re doing. He meets the conversation head on— and then you talk.

You talk about dominance and softness. About control and being needed. About how you don’t want a savior—you want a partner. Someone who sees through your sharpness and knows you’re a little needy underneath.

He tells you he hasn’t wanted anyone like this in years. That it scares him how much you get under his skin. He talks about how he wants you physically. Emotionally. You swear you hear his voice shake when you tell him how safe he makes you feel.

You’re counting down the minutes until he comes home.

But you break on Saturday night when Elijah’s asleep. Olivia’s schedule didn’t change, so you’re staying over again. You’re alone in John’s house—his hoodie on your body, your thighs bare against his sheets.

And you miss him so bad it makes your whole body ache.

So you take a picture. You’re curled on your side in his bed, phone angled low, tank top pushed up a little. A flash of hip, the waistband of your underwear, the soft fall of your hair over the pillow. You send it. The only caption? please call me.

He calls five minutes later. You answer on the first ring. “Hi.”

He sounds wrecked. Like he sprinted somewhere and hasn’t caught his breath. “Sweetheart…”

“I’m sorry—”

“No. Don’t apologize.”

“I just—God, I missed you. I know I’m clingy, and I know I’m needy, and—”

“Hey. Hey.” His voice softens. “You’re allowed to need me.”

You swallow hard. “It’s embarrassing.”

“You wanna know what’s embarrassing?”

“What?”

“I saw that picture and had to excuse myself from the fuckin’ briefing room. Told Val I had heartburn. She’s gonna make fun of me for months.”

You laugh. It cracks under the weight of your chest. “You in my bed right now? In my clothes?” He asks voice warm.

“Yeah.”

“Goddamn. You touching yourself?”

“Not yet.”

“You want to?”

Your breath hitches. “Yeah.”

“You wet, baby?” You nod, before realizing he can’t see it. “Say it.”

“I’m wet.”

“For me?”

“Only ever for you.”

He groans—low, helpless. You hear a shift—his back hitting the headboard, his voice gravel-thick. “Slide your hand down.”

You do. “Under your panties.” You whimper. “How’s it feel?”

“Warm. Slick. I—John—”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you. About your hands. Your arms around me.”

“Fuck.”

“When we danced,” you whisper, “I didn’t wanna let go. I still don’t.”

He swears. You hear it muffled—like he’s trying not to fall apart with you. “You talk pretty when you’re needy,” he murmurs.

“So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Talk you through it. Make you come with nothin’ but my voice.”

“Only tonight?”

“Every night if you let me.”

Your hips roll into your palm. Slow. Desperate. “Tell me what to do.”

And he does. God, he does. Soft at first. Then sharper. Then reverent. His voice sinks into your skin until you’re squirming, moaning into his pillow, one hand clutching his sheets while the other follows his every word. “That’s it. Just like that, baby. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“John—”

“Let go.” And you do. Quietly. Completely. His name is the only thing you know how to say. When it’s over, he’s still on the line. “You okay?”

“I think I saw stars.”

“You’re fuckin’ amazing.” He groans, and you laugh. Then he takes a deep breath. “I don’t want almost anymore.”

“Me either.”

“We’re gonna talk. When I’m home.”

“Promise?”

“Swear to God, Sunshine. I’m comin’ home to you.”

John doesn’t tell you he’s coming back. You open your front door to let in more light, and there he is—car keys in hand, Eli balanced on his hip like nothing in the world’s changed.

Except everything has. Because when he sees you? He smiles. Like it means something. You don’t even get a full hello out before Elijah squeals, arms outstretched. “Sunny!”

He practically launches from John’s hold, and you catch him with a little spin, laughing as his tiny hands grab at your cheeks. “Hey, buddy. You missed me?”

“Mhm,” he mumbles, head tucked into your shoulder. “Missed snackies. Missed you.”

John watches from the threshold—quiet, lingering. “Told him that you were gonna cry,” he teases.

“Shut up,” you say, voice thick.

He just grins and reaches out to you. “C’mere,” he purrs and wraps an arm around your waist as he presses a kiss to your temple, one hand still resting on Elijah back between you. He doesn’t let go for a long time.

You spend the day with the boys. John takes Elijah to the park while you sit on the blanket and read and sneaks you gummy bears while Eli isn’t looking. He grills for lunch, makes fun of your overly complicated burger preferences, and threatens to throw you over his shoulder when you sass him. It’s… domestic. Easy. Like it’s always been this way.

Later, when Elijah goes down for a nap, John leans against the hallway doorway with his arms crossed. He’s quiet. Thoughtful.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Yeah.” He nods toward the living room. You follow him there, sitting close on the couch. Your knees brush. He doesn’t move away. “I’ve been thinkin’.”

“Dangerous.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “I told you before. I don’t want this to stay… halfway,” he says.

You look up. “This?”

“You and me.”

Your heart flutters. “Me neither.”

He nods. Glances down. Like it took everything in him just to say that. You lean in and he meets you half way. When he kisses you, its not soft. Not tentative.

It’s hungry. Hot. His hand in your hair, your knees pulled across his lap, your body flush against his as his mouth takes yours over and over again like he’s starved for it.

And then—

A knock at the door.

You both freeze. “It’s probably—”

“Yeah.”

He opens it and Olivia stands there. You sit up, adjusting your shirt, face flushed. Olivia glances at you. Then at John. Then back. She raises an eyebrow. “Well, it’s about damn time.”

You blink. “Wait, you’re not mad?”

“Please.” She waves a hand. “I’ve known for weeks. Eli calls you Sunny like it’s a love song and I know he had to pick that up from somewhere.” She casts a pointed look at her ex husband.

John groans, but she continues with a smile. “I’m here to talk about my cousin’s grad party next weekend. But I can come back.”

“No, no,” you say quickly, standing. “I should head out anyway.” You brush past John with a small smile and he trails you out the door.

“You good?” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll text you.”

“You better.” You kiss his cheek and walk to your car.

He watches you until your car vanishes off his street.

You don’t know what to expect when John says he wants to take you out properly.

Not just for dinner. But for a date.

He said the words exactly like that—voice low, serious, a little shy. “Let me take you out. Like… not just ‘grab food and come back to my place.’ I want to do this right. A date.”

So when he shows up at your door—clean-shaven, in a dark button-down that fits him too well, bouquet in hand, eyes soft—you just… blink.

“Hey, sunshine.”

You laugh, breathless, and step aside to let him in. “You got me flowers?”

He shrugs one shoulder, a little bashful. “They’re not great. But they’re yellow. Thought they’d be fitting.”

You smile, ear-to-ear. “They do.”

You let him watch you put them in water. He doesn’t say anything, just leans in the doorway and watches like he’s memorizing something private.

He takes you to a quiet place on the edge of the city. No press. No fanfare. Just dim lights, good food, and a view of the water. It’s not fancy. But it’s perfect.

John pulls your chair out. Orders your drink without asking, because he remembers. You talk. You laugh. You tease. But under it all, there’s a softness neither of you names yet.

He looks at you like he’s still in disbelief.

“You ever get tired of starin’ at me?” you tease, sipping your wine.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Not once.”

You blink. He grins, not cocky—just honest.

“I’m serious. You’re the best thing I’ve seen in years.” And then, quieter, he adds, “I think about you even when I shouldn’t.”

Later, when you’re walking side by side along the water, his hand brushes yours. You link fingers without a word.

He squeezes.

You squeeze back.

“You’re different,” he says.

“How so?”

“You’re the only person who ever made me feel like I could be good without tryin’ to prove it.”

That one hits. Deep.

You stop and turn to face him. “I already know you’re good, John.”

His jaw works. Like he’s trying to keep it together. You cup his cheek and smile as he leans into it.

“I don’t care about the shield,” you whisper. “Or the past. Or what the world sees. I care about the man who holds his son like he’s the whole world. The one who lets me borrow his hoodie and watches cartoons with me. The one who shows up.”

He blinks. Hard.

And then he kisses you. Slow and deep. Nothing rushed. Just steady and real.

Back in the car, your hand stays on his thigh. He holds it there, thumb brushing the back of your knuckles like he’s trying to say thank you without words.

At a red light, he glances over. “You wanna come home with me?”

You smile. “Always.”

He lets out a breath. Like he didn’t know he was holding it. “You sure?”

You lean in, kiss his jaw. “Yeah, John. I’m sure.”

You kick your shoes off by the door and watch as John shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it neatly on the hook beside the fridge. He doesn’t even glance at it—but you notice the way his muscles move under his shirt when he lifts his arms.

“Want tea?” he asks, like he hasn’t been fighting the urge to kiss you again since the car.

You nod. “Sure.”

He puts the kettle on. You slide onto the couch. It’s familiar here—the soft click of the stove, the muted hum of the baby monitor in the other room (Elijah’s already tucked in at Olivia’s for the weekend). The space smells like cedar and coffee and laundry detergent. It smells like him.

You curl your legs beneath you and watch him move. The way his hand braces the counter. The flex of his forearms when he opens a cabinet. He’s domestic and devastating all at once.

“I had a good time tonight,” you say softly.

He glances over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

You nod. “You were sweet.”

“I’m always sweet,” he deadpans, but there’s a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

The kettle whistles. He pours two mugs and brings them over, sitting beside you with a quiet grunt. As you take your tea cup from him, your fingers brush, sending a small jolt through your spine. You sip in silence for a few seconds.

Then—

“You keep lookin’ at me like that, sunshine,” he murmurs, “and I’m gonna forget how to be a gentleman.”

Your gaze flicks to him. “I like you better when you’re not trying so hard to be one,” you reply, voice soft, teasing.

That gets you a huff of a laugh. But he doesn’t look away. Neither do you.

He shifts a little closer, the warmth of him seeping into your side. His fingers brush your knee. Then rest there, calloused and steady. “You keep wearin’ my hoodie to bed?”

“Mhm.”

“You sleep in my shirts, too?”

“I like to pretend you’re still here.”

His hand tightens slightly on your leg. His voice is rough when he speaks again. “You think about me when I’m gone?”

You nod. “Too much.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you. “I think about you, too,” he finally says. “Sometimes I get home from a mission and this place’s too quiet. Too clean. Makes me wish you were already in it.”

You look at him, startled by the honesty. “John.”

He sets his mug down and turns toward you fully. Then, softly asks, “Can I kiss you again?”

You nod.

He kisses you like it’s instinct.

No rush.

No fight.

Just mouths brushing, hands finding skin. The slow, deliberate kind of kiss that builds. You end up straddling his lap before either of you really registers the shift, your arms looped around his neck, his hands splayed over your hips.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs into your mouth.

“You love it.”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I do.”

You roll your hips once, slowly. He groans. His fingers dig into your thighs. He looks up at you—eyes heavy, breathing uneven. “You wanna take this to bed?”

You nod. Breathless. Wanting. He stands, lifting you with him like it’s nothing.

His hands are firm on your hips as he carries you, your arms looped around his neck, your nose brushing his jaw.

It’s quiet in the bedroom when he sets you down.

But your pulse is loud. So is his breath.

He leans down, presses a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your mouth—soft, almost cautious, like he’s waiting for you to flinch.

You don’t.

You chase his lips instead.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you murmur, your fingers at the buttons of his shirt.

He helps you, undoing the rest with shaking hands. You drag it off his shoulders, and your breath hitches at the sight of him. Strong. Solid. Familiar, and yet so intimate like this.

“Your turn,” he says, low and warm.

You slip your top off and toss it aside, bare from the waist up. He stops. Just stares for a second. Then reaches out like you’re something holy.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re beautiful.”

You pull him close, skin to skin now, and he makes a noise that sounds like something breaking open.

You fall back onto the bed together—slow, careful, a tangle of hands and mouths. You’re not rushing. He touches you like he’s trying to learn you. Like he wants to memorize every reaction. Every sigh. Every shiver.

His mouth trails down your throat, across your collarbone, between your breasts. He kisses slow. Hands anchoring you to the bed.

You’re already trembling.

“Still good?” he asks, looking up at you.

You nod. “So good.”

“You nervous?”

“A little.”

His palm slides up your thigh. “Me too.”

You laugh softly. “You?”

“I’ve never wanted to do this right so badly.”

That admission—so honest, so raw—makes you kiss him again, hard and deep.

He groans into your mouth and presses a knee between your legs, parting them. He strokes over your panties, eyes on your face the whole time.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs. “For me?”

You nod. “Only you.”

He kisses you again. Then slides those panties down your legs, slow and reverent.

You feel bare. Exposed. But never unsafe.

When his fingers slide through your folds, your whole body jolts.

“Shh,” he soothes. “I’ve got you.”

He keeps his touch slow—teasing circles, dipping shallow just to watch your face. He kisses you through every gasp. Every twitch. When he sinks a finger in, your hips rise.

You’re clinging to him already.

“I love how you fall apart for me,” he murmurs.

You arch. “John—”

“I know, baby. I know.”

You tug at his jeans, and he chuckles as he shimmies out of them, followed by his boxers. When he presses against you—bare, thick, heavy—you freeze.

Oh, fuck.

Your eyes go wide. He’s thick. Long. Veined. Heavy in his hand. You whimper.

“That’s the sound I like,” he mutters. “Scared little gasp like you know I’m too big for this sweet little pussy.”

“You are,” you breathe.

“I’ll make it fit.” He notices the look in your eye at his words and pauses for a moment. “Still okay, baby?” He asks, tone soft again. Reverent.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just… it’s a lot.”

He grins, a little cocky now. “It is.”

You swat at his chest. “I mean emotionally, jackass.”

But you’re laughing.

So is he.

It breaks the tension. Eases you back into it.

He lines himself up, the head of his cock nudging your entrance.

You’re soaked. Sensitive. Wrecked already.

And he knows it.

He leans down, mouth to your ear. “Gonna split you open, baby. Real slow. Let you feel every inch.” He promises. “But you can stop me any time.”

You nod. And when he finally pushes in—slow, stretching, breath catching in his throat—you clutch him like a lifeline.

He curses softly. “That’s it,” he groans. “Take it. Just like that.”

He bottoms out, hips flush against yours.

You breathe through it, feeling every inch. The burn fades to fullness. To pressure. To something deep and real. “You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. “Don’t stop.”

“Atta girl,” he purrs. He starts to move—shallow thrusts, careful, eyes locked on yours. You’re gasping into his shoulder, legs wrapping around his waist, trying to pull him closer.

He kisses your cheek. Your neck. Your temple. “I’m right here,” he whispers. “I’ve got you, baby.”

You’re not just moaning anymore.

You’re feeling.

Letting go.

He speeds up slightly, still controlled, but deeper now. His hand finds yours on the pillow, fingers threading tight.

“I missed you,” you say, voice breaking. Because you can’t say I love you yet. Not without feeling like it would be weird.

He kisses the corner of your eye, catching the tear that slips free. And you wonder, for a brief moment, if he knows what you really mean when he says, “I missed you, too, sunshine. So fuckin’ much.”

You come first—shaking and overwhelmed, sobbing his name into his neck as he holds you through it. He follows with a groan so low and deep it curls your toes, burying himself as far as he can go.

And when it’s over—

He doesn’t move.

Just stays inside you. Kisses your shoulder.

Then your hand.

Then your lips.

Like he’s still trying to believe it’s real.

You don’t plan to move in a few months later. You just… start forgetting things. A toothbrush here. A hoodie there. A mug you like. Socks in his laundry.

John notices. Of course he does. He just doesn’t say anything—until he trips over your slippers in the hallway.

“These yours?” he asks, holding one like it personally offended him.

You look up from where you’re folding laundry. “Yeah.”

He just looks at you like he’s waiting.

You raise a brow but smirk as you speak. “Say thank you.”

“For what?”

“For finally admitting you like me being here.”

He snorts, tosses the slipper at your leg, and walks off grumbling something about “taking over his damn closet.”

The next week, Elijah insists on brushing his teeth next to you. He drags a little stepstool to the sink, looks up at you through the mirror, and declares, “I like when you sleep over. You make Dada eat pancakes.”

John, walking in with wet hair and a towel slung low on his hips, blinks at you both. “I do not eat pancakes.”

Elijah grins, toothpaste foam on his chin. “You had four.”

You grin at John, handing Elijah a washcloth.

“Busted.” You tease.

It builds from there. A basket of your skincare products in the bathroom. Books on his nightstand. Elijah’s drawings on the fridge—stick figures labeled me, Daddy, and Sunny.

You overhear John on the phone with Olivia one night, pacing the hallway. He doesn’t say coworker. Doesn’t say babysitter. Doesn’t even say girlfriend. He just says, “She’s here. Yeah. Home.”

And your heart does something it’s not supposed to do that casually.

You still argue sometimes. About dumb things—dish soap, laundry folding methods, whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie. About serious things. But you always prioritize communicating and not going to bed angry.

“You’re folding that shirt like a sociopath,” you say, elbow-deep in laundry.

“It’s a tactical fold,” he deadpans. “For maximum drawer efficiency.”

“It’s ugly.”

“You’re ugly.”

“You want me to fold your shirts or fold you?”

“Yes,” He smirks and wiggles his eyebrows at you.

You throw a sock at his face.

One night, Elijah’s having a bad dream. You’re up before John even hears the cry, already halfway down the hallway. When John catches up, you’re rubbing Elijah’s back, murmuring something soft while he curls into your side, hiccuping through sleepy tears.

John leans in the doorway. Watches. Says nothing. Just crosses his arms over his chest and exhales like it hurts. Later that night, when he climbs into bed, he kisses your shoulder without a word and tucks you into his side a little tighter than usual.

One Saturday morning, Elijah’s curled into your lap on the couch, watching cartoons and feeding you dry cereal from a cup with sticky fingers. John walks in from a run, sweaty and flushed, and pauses in the doorway.

You glance up. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothin’. Just…” He walks over, leans down, and kisses your temple. “You two are somethin’ else.”

Eventually, you realize half your wardrobe lives in his dresser. Your name’s on Elijah’s emergency contact forms. The barista at the corner shop starts calling you the “Walker order.”

You still have your own place. But every time you walk into this one— it feels like the only place that matters.

The house is dark when John returns.

He’s dusted with exhaustion, boots muddy from the field, duffel heavy on his shoulder. His neck aches. His mind’s still half on the debrief. But all of that vanishes the second he steps through the door.

Because it smells like home. There’s a familiar mug in the sink—your mug. One of Elijah’s little socks on the hallway floor. A quiet cartoon menu screen flickering on the living room TV.

And then—

Soft snoring.

He moves quietly down the hall, pushing the bedroom door open with careful fingers. There you are.

Asleep on top of the covers, legs tangled with Elijah’s, the two of you curled like a matched set. His son’s tiny hand is tucked beneath your cheek. You’ve got one of John’s hoodies on—oversized, worn soft—and your face is turned toward Elijah’s like you’d never dream of letting go.

John forgets to breathe. Because this? This is the part of his life he never thought he’d get back. Not after everything. Not after who he became. But it’s here. In his bed. In his house. With his son.

And you.

Always you.

He crosses to the edge of the bed and crouches down, elbows on his knees, just watching for a moment. His eyes drift over the soft rise and fall of your chest, the way Elijah sleeps with one foot tucked under your leg like he knows this is safe.

“Hey,” you whisper, barely stirring.

John blinks. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” Your voice is groggy. “Just… felt you.”

He swallows hard at that. His hand finds yours where it rests near Elijah’s shoulder.

“Mission go okay?” you ask softly.

“Yeah. Long.”

“You hungry?”

“Not for food,” he says, before he can stop himself.

Your eyes flick to his.

Something shifts.

Carefully, you ease yourself out from under Elijah’s weight, whisper a soft kiss to his curls, and meet John in the hallway, closing the door gently behind you.

And then it’s just the two of you. In the warm hush of the hallway. Nothing between you but air and months of everything.

“I missed you,” you say, voice tight.

John steps in, close—too close—and cups your cheek with one calloused hand.

“You’ve ruined me,” he murmurs.

You blink. “What?”

“You. This. I used to think I didn’t get to have soft things. That I didn’t deserve a second shot.”

Your heart beats faster. “And then you showed up in my house. Made Elijah laugh over and over. Took over my closet. Argued with me about dish soap. And I didn’t even realize I’d let you in until you were already home.”

You reach for him—palm to his chest. Right over his heart. “You’re not the only one who didn’t think they deserved this,” you whisper.

He leans in, forehead resting on yours. “I love you,” he says, rough and sure and without a single inch of hesitation.

Your breath catches. “I love you, too.”

He kisses you—slow and deep, not hurried or hungry, but like he knows. Like he’s trying to memorize how it feels when everything finally clicks. When he pulls back, he grins—thumb brushing your cheek, forehead still pressed to yours. “You’re in my bed every time I come home.”

You arch a brow. “Problem?”

“No,” he says quietly. “It’s my favorite damn thing.”

A pause. Then he says, “I don’t want you leaving it anymore.”

Your heart stutters. “John—”

“I mean it,” he says, voice rough now. “Don’t go back to your place. Don’t wake up somewhere that isn’t next to me.”

You look up at him—brows drawn, breath caught, that dangerous, tender thing stretching between you. “You asking me to move in?”

“I’m asking you to stay,” he says. “For good.”

You snort. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” he says. “I can be ridiculous.”

Then, softer, he murmurs, “only for you, sunshine. Always only you,” as he presses a kiss to your temple.

Elijah’s asleep. The dishes are done. The house is quiet. You’re curled into John’s side on the couch, wearing one of his old shirts and nothing else, your legs tangled under a shared blanket. He’s got a hand on your thigh, thumb brushing absentminded circles. On the coffee table, your mug sits next to his. Matching. Lived in. Home.

“You ever think we’d end up like this?” you murmur.

John smiles, kisses your temple, and pulls you closer.

“Not once,” he says. “But I’d do it all over again just to get here.”

394 notes · View notes

runicarbiter02 · 15 days ago

Text

i've got sunshine

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ thunderbolts x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ a sunshiney reader brings warmth and healing to the hearts of the Thunderbolts—John Walker, Yelena Belova, Bob Reynolds, Ava Starr, and Bucky Barnes—each responding to their light in different, deeply personal ways. through detailed bullet points and intimate mini fics, the post explores how these broken, complex characters slowly learn to love and be loved.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ none besides bad words

John Walker has no damn idea what to do with you because you are going to kill him one day…

You call him “sweetheart” first—and he almost short circuits. He mutters “don’t call me that” the first few times, but never really means it. Eventually, he gets real quiet every time you do, like it hurts and heals at the same time. He literally would worry if you stopped saying it. In fact one day you don’t say it and he is like “what happened to sweetheart.” And you are all in.

He gets protective to a fault. You smile at a barista and he’s already squinting like, who the hell is this guy and why is he breathing near you? It’s not jealousy—it’s fear. Fear that someone like you will get hurt because of someone like him. He literally has to go everywhere with you even if it interferes with his life because if anyone hurts you he needs to be right there.

He doesn't know how to accept gentleness. The first time you brush your fingers through his hair after a nightmare, he flinches. The second time, he leans into your palm like it’s the only time he has ever felt someone love on him. He loves the way you take your time touching him in any circumstance so slowly and with ease.

You talk during breakfast; he listens. He never interrupts, just sips his coffee with his elbows on the counter, looking at you like your voice is sunlight filtered through dust motes. He never thought mornings could feel safe again. You love to tell him about your weird dreams and at first he is like “what the fuck.” But eventually he just laughs along and asks little questions.

He gets weird about his scars. You kiss the one just under his ribs and he jerks away like he’s been burned. Later that night, he kisses your shoulder and whispers, “You make me feel so damn weird.”

He doesn’t do pet names until he does. It slips out one day—“baby”—when he’s scared you’re going to leave. It’s hoarse, desperate, like the word’s been sitting on his tongue for months. He barely breathes after saying it. And immediately the world melts around you and even though you maybe don’t forgive him you can’t help but just hug him.

He tries to “warn” you off. Tells you he’s too far gone, too angry, too violent. You just look at him with that soft, infuriating smile and say, “Then it’s a good thing I’m not scared of the dark.”

He loves your laugh like it’s sacred. Every time he hears it, something inside him unclenches. It’s like proof that the world can still be good, that he didn’t ruin everything. He will go out of his way to make you laugh when he really can’t listen to the world anymore.

He doesn’t believe he deserves you. Not deep down. Every time you tell him you love him, he swallows it like a blade. But he clings to it like armor—your love becomes the thing that keeps him from spiraling.

He’d burn the world down to keep you safe. And the terrifying part is—he could. But he doesn’t. Because you remind him that staying is the bravest thing he’s ever done.

🥀 good morning soldier

Your bare feet pad across the cold kitchen floor, humming some half-remembered melody from a playlist he’d never admit he listens to. The sun hasn’t fully risen yet—just enough light to spill gold across the countertop. John’s already there, mug in hand, back leaning against the sink like he’s been up for hours.

You grin, rubbing your eyes. “Hey, sweetheart.”

He looks at you like the word physically hits him. His jaw tics and his eyes target you, “You shouldn’t call me that.” He sets his drink down and just like every other morning he spins around to face the sink and turn on the water.

Walking all the way over to him you stand as close as you can to him and pour yourself some coffee. “Then stop blushing when I do.”

“I don’t blush.” He jumps back a bit from the water steaming the sink that he just had his hands under not paying attention to what he had done.

You laugh, and it’s unfair how easily it cuts through his defenses. He looks away. The silence sits thick for a beat. But then you notice the half lidded eyes, the still in pajamas outfit, and the fact that your coffee was cold, “You have another nightmare?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps his eyes on the window, watching the empty sky. You slide into his space, standing between him and the sink putting your hands on his chest, “You know you don’t have to stand alone every time something hurts, right?”

He swallows hard.

“You shouldn’t say that either,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re starting to make me dumb. I forget who I was when you act like this.” He doesn’t move he just stares at you with what little opening his eyes are giving him.

You move your hands up his chest a little more—right over that old, angry heartbeat that still hasn’t learned how to trust. “You’re not who you were.”

His breath stutters, and you can feel his heart kick up a bit. “You don’t know that.”

You step up onto your tipt toes, brushing your lips just barely across his. “I do.”

He kisses you just as gently as you chose to approach him. And when he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, “I don’t deserve you.”

You smile, soft and maddening. “Good thing I’m not asking you to.”

Yelena Belove thinks you might be an Alien or worse real…

She pretends not to like you at first. All sarcastic quips and fake eye-rolls like, “Why are you smiling? Did I miss something?” But she notices everything—your laugh, your warmth, the way you care. The way you hear she likes music and makes her playlists, the way you give her different eyeliner colors to try, and the way you make sure she eats, drinks, and sleeps.

You bring her little things. A weird trinket from a thrift store. A hot sauce bottle shaped like a cat. A donut with a smiley face. A pot that you sat and decorated because you had nothing else to do. She acts unimpressed—until you catch her hoarding them in a drawer like treasure, you kindly offer to take your trash and throw it away, and she simply says “Are you crazy? No.”

She calls you annoying instead of saying “I love you.” “Ugh, you are so annoying,” she mutters when you kiss her forehead or help her fix her hair. But her hand doesn’t leave yours and she is always smiling at you when you aren’t looking at her.

She becomes very defensive of you. The moment anyone makes a snide comment or flirts with you too aggressively, Yelena’s voice gets dangerously calm. “Say that again. Slowly. So I can break the right fingers.” And she makes you stand behind her and hold her hand, not because you can’t fight for yourself but you shouldn’t have to. You also do not match so she needs to make sure everyone knows who you are with.

You sneak softness into her life. She goes from “I do not need flowers” to “I kill anyone who touches this pressed daisy in my journal” real fast. Especially if you gave it to her. She also loves when you make her things special, like inside she gets all giddy.

She gets flustered when you compliment her. “You’re so pretty it makes my chest hurt,” you sigh. She immediately chokes on her drink and shoves a pillow in your face like “NO.”

You make her laugh when she doesn't want to. After missions. After nightmares. After she punches a wall. You’re just there with a dumb joke or an armful of snacks and a movie queued up. And she hates how much it helps.

She learns what safety feels like—with you. She never used to sleep through the night. Now, with your hand resting on her stomach and your breath in her hair, she sometimes forgets the world exists.

She lets you fix her up. Cuts, bruises, bullet wounds—she lets you clean them, grumbling like a wounded animal but never pulling away. Sometimes she kisses you when you're concentrated, just to feel your love in real time.

She falls in love before she realizes it. One day, she looks over at you singing to your plants in a hoodie that’s way too big, and it just hits her. “Oh no,” she whispers. “I would actually kill for her.”

🥀 you talk too much and i like it

“You talk too much,” Yelena mutters, leaning back on your couch while you animatedly explain the plot of Criminal Minds. Though she is finding it amusingly disturbing she can’t help but comment.

You pause mid-rant. “Excuse me?” You plop down on the couch practically sitting on her lap as you do so.

She raises an eyebrow. “You do. You talk too much. About everything. Movies. Animals. Crime. It is like listening to a podcast that smiles at you. Yelena puts her hand on your leg absentmindedly as she scrolls on her phone.

You cross your arms, pretending to pout. “Fine. I’ll shut up.” You are now staring right at the TV not saying a word anymore. You completely ignore her hand and you don’t say anything about her makeup.

Silence falls for a beat. Then her voice softens. “Don’t.” You look over. She’s not watching the TV or her phone anymore—she’s watching you. Like the world’s already on fire and you’re the only thing not burning.

“I like your voice,” she says. Barely above a whisper. She clicked the TV down a few volume ticks and throws her phone onto the floor.

You blink.

“I like the way you talk when you think no one’s really listening. I like the way you ramble. I like…” She swallows, jaw tight. “I like you.” You throw your arms down and then move her hand throwing it back at her as you climb onto her lap.

You put your thighs outside of hers and put your hands around the back of her neck. “Even when I sing to myself?”

She groans, tossing her head backwards. “Ugh, especially then. You are so weird.” Her hands find their way around your waist pulling you close. But she looks up and you look down slowly you bring your face closer to hers until you are barely kissing. Because sunshine like you? It’s the first real warmth she’s ever known.

Bob Reynolds feels like it is rain hitting gold…

He doesn’t understand you at first. You bring him coffee with a little heart drawn in the foam. You bring a second mug just in case he doesn’t like the first one. You say things like “Have you eaten today?” with that sunny curiosity that makes it feel like a love letter, not a chore. He stares at you for a solid thirty seconds before answering—because no one’s asked that in years. Everything you ask him about himself is so strange to him because you really care about his day, how he feels, if he feels like he can take care of himself, if he has taken care of himself, and what he wants to do. All of that matters to you.

He thinks you’re too good for him. He watches you dance in the kitchen to the radio as you help him clean up, barefoot and glowing in the golden light of afternoon, and all he can think is don’t touch it, you’ll ruin it. He stands in doorways and doesn’t step forward. He watches more than he speaks. Not because he doesn’t want to—but because he doesn’t believe the light will let him stay.

You catch him crying over small things. You offer him your scarf when he forgets his coat. You make a point to fold his sweaters so they don’t lose their shape. You hum when you brush your teeth. It’s these things. The tiny soft normalities that gut him open. That whisper, you’re allowed to do those things with her.

He touches you like you’re a miracle. At first it’s hesitant—just a hand grazing yours, his shoulder leaning into your side on the couch. But when you kiss him, really kiss him, his hands shake. He cups the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. He pulls you into his lap like he needs the weight of you to stay grounded. You get so excited and you are so happy to touch him and feel how warm he is.

He watches you sleep to remind himself this is real. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep at all. He just lies beside you with his hand gently curled over your hip, counting your breaths like prayers. You drool a little. Snore softly. And he still thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

You make him laugh like a boy again - You tell the worst jokes imaginable and wait for his reaction with this eager little smile that kills him. The first time he laughs, you don’t even register how monumental it is. But he does. He excuses himself to the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror for ten minutes, hand over his mouth like holy shit.

He tells you about the Void in fragments. It starts with a bad night. He says, “There’s something inside me.” Then: “It’s not always under control.” Then: “It wants to hurt everything I love.” When you hold his hand through it, he cries like a man unworthy of forgiveness. But you don’t let go.

You learn how to pull him out of the dark. It’s not with screaming or logic. It’s with little things. You name five things in the room. You tell him where you are. You sit with your knees touching and say, “You’re here, Bob. Right now. With me. Not there.” And it works, sometimes. Not always—but enough. When it doesn’t work that way you go on runs with him, you take him on drives, and you stay up all night with him.

He tries to leave you. He writes a letter. He packs a bag. He almost disappears. But you find him—always. Sitting in a motel off some highway, pacing in a parking lot, crouched in an alley like he’s back in a war he can’t name. You find him, and you don’t say why did you run. You say, “Are you ready to come home now?”

He’s terrified of being loved fully. Because love means vulnerability. Means closeness. Means you see him. And if you see him, then you’ll see the rot. But when he panics, when he spirals, when he screams that he’s not safe to be around—you cup his face, brush back his hair, and whisper, “I don’t need perfect. I just need you.”

You teach him softness. You show him that being held isn’t the same as being restrained. That being needed isn’t a burden. That crying in front of someone doesn’t mean weakness—it means trust. And one day, without even realizing it, he smiles first.

🥀 sanctuary

The walls are shaking. Not physically—but inside his skull, he can feel the vibrations and it hurts. Inside the Void, where the air is thick and wrong, where the voices hiss about destruction and obliteration and how dare you let this happen—

He is sitting in the freezing cold outside on the concrete stairs on the library, he is not tired, he is not even feeling human at this point. He can no longer hear the buzzing of the streetlights or the sound of the cars fighting for one side of the road where the road work is not. But then there’s a light. Your voice. Soft and steady.

“Bob.”

He can’t answer. His throat is locked. His hands twitch. You kneel in front of him, legs folded beneath you, your hands reaching for his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He is freezing, his hands do not even feel like they have skin they are so solid. “Come back. Come here. Come home.”

“I can’t,” he chokes on his own spit, he forgot to swallow, he can barely hear you. “I—I’m not—I’m not safe. I could hurt you. I could—”

“You won’t,” you say. No fear. No flinching. Just absolute conviction. You feel so bad, he usually does not suffer like this, in fact he had been good for months. But like he was addicted to drugs his brain is addicted to this and he has no control. “Not with me.”

He lets out a sob and tries to pull away—but you follow. You always follow. Your forehead touches his, and your thumbs swipe the tears from his cheeks letting his shaky hands sit wherever he lets them lay as you whisper:

“You’re not the monster in the dark, baby. You’re the boy who came back to the light.”

And that breaks him. He curls into your shoulder hugging you, even his clothes feel like ice. He clings like a man drowning. Bob starts to realize that he can barely feel his own body, but he can think and he is truly so happy you are there with him. He keeps his face in your should as you rub his back and push your head against his, whispering, “You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re mine.”

And for the first time in years, the Void goes quiet.

Ava Starr believes you have changed her whole orbit…

At first, she doesn't trust the sunshine. You smile too easily. You're gentle in a way that makes her skin itch with confusion. People like you—happy people, softpeople—usually get swallowed by the world she lives in. So she assumes it's fake. It has to be. But it’s not. You just... are.

She keeps waiting for the mask to drop. Ava tracks you, like a threat. Watches your body language for signs of manipulation. Keeps mental notes on every kindness you show her. But weeks pass, and it’s always the same: soft eyes, warm hands, a voice like safety. She realizes one day that you never were wearing a mask. You’re just light. Real light. And that’s somehow scarier.

She tries to push you away with sharp edges. “Don’t get close to me,” she says. “I’m not safe.” You grin. “Neither is the sun, but here we are.” It’s the first time she blushes in years.

She doesn’t know what to do when you fuss over her. You put lotion in her bag because you noticed her hands crack in the cold. You bring her tea and sit with her in silence after missions. You brush her hair away from her eyes during bad days. She stares at you like you’re speaking a foreign language. Like no one has ever cared for her without needing something in return. And you don’t. You just do it. Because you love her.

You’re the only one who can touch her without flinching. Ava’s afraid of what her phasing will do—afraid of hurting you. But you cup her face gently, pressing your forehead to hers, whispering: "I trust you. I trust your control." And she doesn’t cry—but she does shake. A quiet surrender.

You give her a place to land. When the pain gets too loud, when the ghost-scream of her molecules starts shredding her calm, she finds you. She doesn’t even need to speak—you just open your arms, and she’s home. She can phase through walls but never through you. You ground her like gravity.

She protects you with a terrifying ferocity. Someone raises their voice at you once—and Ava is instantly on them. No words. No warning. Just a look that promises blood and consequences. It’s not a bluff, either. You're the one who has to tug her back and say softly, “It’s okay, baby. I’m okay.” (But you secretly like it.)

She learns how to soften for you. She’s not good with affection at first—her hands hesitate, her voice comes out clipped. But she learns. Learns to hold your waist when you’re cooking, to rub your back when you’re anxious, to whisper “I missed you” into your collarbone like it costs her something to admit it. But she does. She admits it. Because you’re worth the burn.

You’re the first person she lets see her scars. She shows you the damage. The places her body never fully healed. The marks from machines, from labs, from the life she never asked for. You press kisses to each one. “This one means you survived,” you say. “This one too. All of them.” And for the first time, they feel beautiful.

She plans a future with you—but can’t say it out loud. She thinks about what it would mean to build a life, not just survive one. She pictures a little apartment with books you leave open on the couch, toothbrushes side-by-side, you dancing in her hoodie to awful music while coffee brews. She can’t say it yet—but she wants it. God, she wants it.

You tell her she's not broken—and she almost believes you. You say it like a promise: “You are not your pain, Ava. You are not a weapon. You are a woman who lived through hell and still chose to love.” She closes her eyes and leans into your shoulder. “I don’t know if I believe that yet.” “That’s okay,” you whisper. “I believe it enough for both of us.”

🥀 phase

You wake to the hum of the quantum static. Ava’s back is arched, breath ragged, hands clenching the edge of the mattress like she’s barely holding herself together. Light pulses under her skin—white-hot and wrong—as she phases in and out of reality.

You don’t scream. Don’t flinch. You sit up slowly, crawl to her side, and whisper: “You’re okay. I’m here.”

She tries to pull away. “No—get out—get away from me—I can’t control—” You wrap your arms around her waist and press your face to her spine.

“I trust you,” you say. She lets out a sob like a wounded animal. Her body shakes. Her phasing slows. The light dims. Your warmth seeps into her chest, and she slumps back against you like it’s all she’s been waiting for.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she mumbles brokenly.

“I don’t care,” you whisper. “You’re not alone.”

She clutches your hand, fingers trembling, and for the first time in weeks, her body stays whole.

Bucky Barnes thinks you have the smile he will always chase…

He does not understand why you care about him. Not really. Not yet. Bucky Barnes is used to people fearing him or needing him. Used to being either a weapon or a tragedy. When you show up with that light in your eyes and a handmade lunch in your bag for him, smiling like he’s something good, he can’t compute it. “You always bring me stuff,” he mutters, picking at the corner of your container. “Even when I’m an asshole.” “And you always eat it,” you tease. “Even when you’re trying not to smile.” The corner of his mouth twitches. He doesn’t smile, not really. Not yet. But his hands stop shaking.

He never grew up learning how to deal with gentleness. Bucky knows how to take a punch. Knows how to survive brainwashing, torture, decades of guilt. But he doesn’t know what to do when you crawl into his lap, pepper kisses along his stubbled jaw, and whisper, “Hi, handsome.” He freezes. Every time. You can feel the tension running through him like a high-tension wire. Not fear. Just disbelief. Like he thinks he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone. “Relax, Buck,” you say, pressing your hand to his chest. “I’m here.” He’ll press his forehead against yours like it’s a prayer. And breathe, slow and shaky.

He’s gentle in ways he doesn’t even realize. He stands on the street side when you walk. Sleeps closest to the door in hotels. Keeps his vibranium hand curled behind your back in public, silently shielding you. It’s in the way he opens your car door and then pretends he didn’t. In how he silently memorizes your coffee order after you say it once. In private? He touches you like you're porcelain and he’s still learning how to use his hands again. You make him slow down. Let him feel. Let him choose.

He’s scared to sleep next to you at first. Not because he doesn’t want to. But because he’s had too many nights waking up in cold sweats, fists clenched, not knowing where—or who—he is. The idea of hurting you, even by accident, keeps him curled on the couch for weeks. But one night, you find him mid-nightmare. He’s on his knees, breathing ragged, eyes wild with Winter Soldier panic. You kneel in front of him, press your hand to his cheek. “You’re here. You’re safe. You’re Bucky. And I love you.” He crumbles. Arms around your waist, face buried in your chest like he’s five seconds from shattering. After that, he sleeps in your bed every night.

He’s constantly looking at you like you’re not real. In the morning light, when you’re brushing your teeth in his t-shirt. When you fall asleep in his lap while watching reruns. When you kiss his shoulder absentmindedly while reading a book. There’s a look he gets—faraway, reverent. Like he’s staring at something too good for him. Like he’s waiting for the day you realize you deserve better. You catch him one day. “You okay?” He shakes his head slowly, voice a rasp: “I’ve never been this okay.”

He’s terrified of how much he needs you. You’re light. Ease. A sunrise he never thought he’d live to see again. And that terrifies him. Because he’s lived in shadow so long, it feels like the sun might burn him. When he pulls away sometimes, disappears into his own head, you don’t chase. You wait. You sit close. You remind him: “You’re allowed to need things.” Eventually, he whispers back, “I need you.”

He starts learning softness from you. Slowly. Clumsily. You teach him that he’s allowed to laugh. That he can tease, flirt, tickle. You start to see a version of Bucky who’s silly.Who hides your snacks just to watch you pout. Who writes terrible sticky notes and leaves them on your mirror. Who starts humming in the kitchen when he thinks you’re asleep. He’s awkward with it. But so proud when he makes you laugh. “That wasn’t even that funny,” you giggle one day. Bucky shrugs, smug. “Made you snort, sunshine.”

He lets you touch his vibranium arm—and it undoes him. No one ever touches it. Not like that. Not with tenderness. But you’ll grab his hand with zero hesitation, press your cheek to the cool metal, trace the Wakandan etchings like they’re something beautiful. “Even this part of you deserves love,” you whisper once. He doesn’t respond. Just pulls you into his arms and holds you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground.

He learns to want a future with you. It’s small things at first. Sharing a toothbrush holder. Bringing home flowers. Letting you paint that little spare room whatever ridiculous color you picked. Then it’s bigger. A key to his place. Matching mugs. You in his dog tags. He doesn’t say it out loud. But the way he looks at you when you fall asleep beside him? That is his vow.

You’re the reason he stays. There are still hard nights. Still days when he wonders if he’s worth saving. But you don’t flinch. You never leave. You just pull him close, press your lips to his temple, and remind him again: “You’re not broken. You’re becoming.” And he holds on to you like a lifeline.Because you are.

🥀 the quiet place

Bucky wakes before the sun finishes rising. The room is bathed in the soft gray haze of morning, curtains drawn halfway, just enough to let the light pool across the floor in long, golden ribbons. The world outside hasn’t woken yet—no cars, no birds, no sound. Just the gentle, rhythmic hum of your breathing beside him.

His body’s still tense when he stirs, like it always is when sleep lets go of him. For one awful second, his brain jolts into the habit of survival. He doesn’t know where he is. Doesn’t know who’s next to him. The phantom buzz of a trigger word rattles behind his eyes. Then you murmur something, half-asleep. A soft, incoherent noise. And you burrow closer.

Your arm, draped over his stomach, flexes just slightly as you pull yourself tighter to him. Your leg’s hooked over his hip like you’ve claimed him. There’s a faint line of drool at the corner of your mouth, and your cheek is pressed to his bare chest. Your hair is a mess. He can feel the heat of your breath fan over the curve of his ribs. It anchors him.

He exhales slowly through his nose, the panic ebbing. His heartbeat evens out. He lets his eyes flick open, just enough to look at you. Really look at you. You’re here. You’re still here. He doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t try to. Not right now.

Instead, Bucky stays still. Motionless. Reverent.

The weight of you on him is everything. A reminder. A heartbeat. Proof. He watches you sleep for minutes that feel like hours. His eyes trace your features—your lashes fluttering, the softness of your mouth, the curve of your jaw. Your hand twitches against his stomach like you’re dreaming something good.

You never look at him like you’re afraid. Even when he flinches in the dark. Even when his nightmares crack him open at 3am and he curls into himself like a wounded dog, shaking from the echo of memories he never asked for. Even when he forgets how to speak without guilt heavy in his throat.

You look at him like he’s home. He swallows around the ache building in his chest. Carefully—so carefully—he raises his vibranium hand, fingers shaking just a little, and brushes a strand of hair out of your face. The tips of his fingers linger at your temple. You don’t wake. But you sigh. Soft, pleased, safe. Bucky’s eyes sting suddenly. He blinks up at the ceiling.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he whispers.

It’s a prayer. It’s a confession. It’s all he can say. But you stir then, just barely, and mumble sleepily without opening your eyes: “You lived.”

He doesn’t cry. Not really. But something inside him cracks, slow and aching and full of light. He closes his eyes again. Not because he’s tired. Not because he’s slipping into a nightmare. But because, for the first time in a long, long time, Bucky Barnes is allowed to rest. And this time, he does. Wrapped in you. Wrapped in peace.

1K notes · View notes

runicarbiter02 · 15 days ago

Text

SLEEPY HCS WITH THE THUNDERBOLTS

INCLUDES -> yelena belova, bob reynolds, john walker, bucky barnes WARNINGS -> literally all fluff! no need to fear angst here (there is some minor swearing tho); walker calls the reader beautiful, and bucky calls them 'doll' NOTES -> y'all i feel crazy about thunderbolts. i haven't had a writing kick like this in YEARS. also, no one hate me for john in this one, he's my problematic wife, ok? also i want wyatt russell bad. anyways, my requests/asks are open! and as always comments and reblogs are much appreciated <3

YELENA BELOVA. — sleepy movie night? you got it. there's snacks, blankets, a random movie, and so many cuddles.

"are you sure you don't want to go to bed, love?" yelena mutters to you. the tv softly glows in front of you both, whatever period piece was playing long forgotten. you've been curled around her side since the movie began, but now your arm is draped over her and your head has fallen to her shoulder.

"no, i'm up," your voice is rough from sleep, but you pick your head up anyways and stretch. "see?" yelena rolls her eyes at your loopy, exhausted smile.

"whatever you say," she replies with a teasing smile.

"mhm..." you adjust your position under the blanket so you can be sitting upright next to her. but the blanket is just so soft and yelena is so warm, and before you know it, it's only a few minutes before you're curled against her once more.

yelena works hard to stifle her laugh when you fall asleep, but she lets you stay there. the movie plays on dully—the man in it has made some apparently irredeemable mistake that the woman he loves will no doubt forgive him for. yelena leans her head against yours, swearing that she'll get up once the movie is over so the two of you can sleep in a proper bed.

the next morning, when bucky is getting coffee he sees the two of you curled up on the couch and can't help but smile. it's nice seeing that yelena's found someone she trusts.

BOB REYNOLDS. — both of you are up late at night, entirely unable to sleep. you because you're working on tech for the thunderbolts new avengerz, and bob simply wandering the tower at night.

bob doesn't exactly sleep well these days, not after the mess with the void. it isn't unusual to find him roaming the tower at odd times, and this time it's your turn to run into him.

you're working in some old lab that you assume was tony stark's back in the day. your back aches, your fingers raw from tinkering with yelena's widow equipment, and you can hardly keep your eyes open. it's a miracle you haven't electrocuted yourself already.

"you're still up?" a voice softly speaks from the hallway.

your heart nearly stops right there and then. "holy shit!"

"sorry," bob steps into the dim lights of the lab, his hands up in a show of peace. "i didn't mean to scare you."

"no, no, it's fine! you're fine." you smile at him. "what are you still doing up, sweetheart?"

"i can't sleep," his response is sheepish.

you stand, stretching your arms above your head, and walk over to him. "let's see if we can do something about that." you pull him along by the hand, fingers entwined.

by the time you both get to bed, your eyes are heavy with sleep. you pull bob closer to you, letting his heartbeat lull you gently to sleep. the comfort of your body against his, a reliable weight to keep him still and grounded, has him dozing in no time.

JOHN WALKER. — he's the one up, unable to sleep. you're fast asleep and he just takes in everything about you. maybe it's the slight frown you have in your sleep, or the way your hair falls into your face just a little, but he's captivated.

john lays opposite of you on the bed, just tracing your features with his eyes. he takes everything in slowly: the flutter of your eyelashes, the curve of your cheek, the curl of your lips. you're so beautiful, and honestly, john has no idea how he got so lucky.

with his track record, it's a miracle you-

"why'd you stop?" you mumble, still half asleep, interrupting his train of thought entirely. his hands, which had been tracing patterns softly over your skin, have long been still.

"didn't wanna keep you up," he mumbles back, and you crack open an incredulous eye at him.

you grumble something under your breath that john can't quite catch before pulling yourself closer to him.

"it was nice," you say, sleep already calling your name. so john continues.

he traces abstract patterns from the nape of your neck to your shoulders to your back. he feels the way your muscles loosen beneath his touch and the way your breath evens out.

and you know what? fuck his track record. if he got lucky enough to be graced by you, he damn well won't mess it up.

BUCKY BARNES. — this time it's you who can't sleep, and it's a good thing bucky has a tendency to stay up obnoxiously late reading his novels despite his other old man tendencies.

a soft knock comes from the door, startling bucky from his book. it's too late for anyone to need him urgently for anything, so he's almost inclined to ignore it until your voice rings through the door.

"bucky? you still up?" you're tentative, almost wary, as you ask for him.

"yeah, doll, i'm up." he sits up, ready to open the door for you when you walk in wrapped in a blanket.

"can i stay with you?" you mutter, still standing a ways away from the bed.

without saying a word, he pats the spot next to him on his bed and leans back against the headboard, leaving enough space for you to curl up next to him.

"what're you reading?" your voice is muffled by his shirt and the blankets wrapped around you.

"the hobbit. mind if i keep reading?" you shake your head, listening to the steady beating of his heart.

"it was at this point that bilbo stopped. going on from there was the bravest thing he ever did. the tremendous things that happened afterwards were as nothing compared to it..." bucky's voice rumbles soft in his chest, gentle despite the intensity of the moments he read out to you.

2K notes · View notes

runicarbiter02 · 16 days ago

Text

376K notes · View notes

runicarbiter02 · 16 days ago

Text

❝ 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after getting injured on a mission and dismissing your help, you can’t seem to shake why john doesn’t like you. the answer is more complicated than you thought.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.0K (sorry!)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), teammates to lovers, angst, talk of insecurities, john is an asshole who’s emotionally constipated, mention of violence, wound tending trope, heavy kissing, groping, teasing, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, mild body worship, hair pulling, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, missionary position, john has a huge praise kink, aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: listen ,,, I know he’s a bad person & he’s flawed but he’s so well-written and hot … and it’s wyatt russell !! first time writing for john and I loved this, I hope you guys love it too! thank you so much for your support! 🫶

Ash floats through smoke-laden air in the aftermath of an explosion, chunks of a building blown into the streets, screams of civilians pounding within your ears. Time stills, as if it’s come to a crawl, and everything slows around you.

Missions still paralyze you from time to time, fear and doubt creeping in, keeping you frozen in-place. It’s gotten somewhat easier, adapting to chaotic situations, attempting to fit in with your new teammates.

A clammy perspiration clings to your flesh beneath your suit, the design nondescript. Valentina had pushed for something flashy, more in-line with your abilities, but you refused. The less that you stuck out, the better.

It wasn’t nearly as impressive as the rest of the team, healing powers at the expense of your own energy, but you were designated as the ‘medic’, for obvious reasons. Whenever someone was injured or too roughed-up, you were there to help.

“You still with us over there?”

John Walker’s snide quip emanates from the communication link sitting in your ear, and it’s enough to effectively shatter your stupor. It wasn’t a malicious remark — just a little annoying, likely furthered by his tone of voice.

Steve Rogers was someone you knew, years ago — an acquaintance, really, but he’d helped get you out of a bind with undercover H.Y.D.R.A operatives. When he wore the shield, when Sam wore the shield, it stood for something greater than themselves.

Walker had been thrown into enough turmoil already; losing the role of Captain America, murdering an innocent, losing his family. It was all his fault, he knew this — it didn’t make the pain any less, knowing he was at the root of it all.

The both of you butted heads more often than not, two differing personalities that clashed in verbal sparring matches or thinly-veiled hostility. You’d tried to empathize with him, but he made it difficult with his condescending attitude.

Bucky had played mediator more times than you could count — you didn’t enjoy getting angry, the feeling never benefited you. Nevertheless, you were trying to get along with Walker and learn to work better as teammates.

Things were progressing, albeit slowly. Even after extending the olive branch and being kind to him, maybe too nice, he still held some lingering indifference towards you.

“I copy.” In the aftermath of thwarting enemies of the state, you prefer to help the civilians, ensuring that they were out of harm’s way, healed. Jogging toward a group of people attempting to move rubble aside, you’re quick to assist.

“There’s still one more, if someone wants to take care of it,” Ava’s voice comes over the communicator, muddled by background noise of emergency vehicles. “Unless you need help.”

“I got it.” Quick to volunteer, Walker’s voice cuts in before dissipating. You’re busy helping move wreckage aside, freeing any trapped citizens and making way for ambulances. Wailing sirens fill the air, and things move swiftly.

The air smells of burning, intermingled with a twinge of copper, a streak of crimson splashed upon your cheek. It’s a shallow cut, something trivial and minor, muscles aching with a dull throb after the dust begins to settle.

Helicopters begin to circle overhead, the media soon to follow. It was some rogue section of former H.Y.D.R.A operatives that had caused this mess, and with the formation of the New Avengers, these threats seem to appear more often.

The public is torn — one side openly celebrating that there’s protection again, the other side scornful of a ragtag group of government rejects. You aren’t one to pay attention to the discourse, focusing on finding your own footing, building relationships and making amends.

Despite having the team to lean on, you had a complicated relationship with your own family. After your powers manifested, you became isolated, kept at a distance, prompting you to run away and find S.H.I.E.L.D, when it still existed.

Still, you felt alone sometimes, but the pain had lessened with the passage of time. Alexei, of all people, treated you like a daughter, and Ava proved to be a reliable friend, despite her constant grimace. The more you assimilated with them, the more the bitter sting dissipated.

The team was a conglomerate of fragmented pasts — scars, veiled wounds, regrets; but they had become your family, or something close, and that meant the world to you.

As first responders began to flood the scene, you regrouped with the rest of the team, scraped and battered from the fighting, but all intact. Bucky and Yelena typically helmed any media events following a battle, but this time, everyone wanted to go home.

“Look at us,” Alexei laughs, placing a hand on John’s shoulder, and Yelena’s. “We are good team! The best team that the world has ever seen!” He cheers, and you find his enthusiasm endearing. John winces, stepping away from the Russian’s hold.

“You say that after every mission.” Yelena points out, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The jet is somewhere down the street, and you all begin the arduous process of walking back.

“It is to remind of the truth, of our strength.” Alexei boasts, gleeful as ever as he jogs to keep up with Bucky. Bucky’s taken to letting him pretend that he’s the “co-captain”, just to keep his spirits high.

Morale is Alexei’s specialty — there is never a dull moment when he’s around, and his enthusiasm evokes a small smile from you, curling at the corners of your mouth. Dull, throbbing pangs of sore muscle ebbs through your body.

Straggling along at the tail end of the group, you step through some of the smaller pieces of rubble, a majority of what remains to be disposed of by a clean-up crew. Your mind is elsewhere, and the idea of sleeping once you’re back to the Watchtower is very appealing.

John is there too, uncharacteristically quiet as he walks a pace or two ahead of you, and you notice the slight stutter in his gait. There’s crimson blooming from a gash on the back of his suit, a deep wound, and your brows furrow together.

He didn’t say anything about it, which is typical, but you can’t help but be concerned. You didn’t dislike John, simply abhorred his attitude and the way he sometimes believed that he wasn’t at-fault.

Closing the distance, you come up on his flank, softly clearing your throat. “You’re hurt,” You murmur, low enough for only him to hear. He has an issue with getting injured, as if his pride is simultaneously bruised, so you keep it cordial. “I can take care of it.”

He’s always been reluctant to accept your help, allowing himself to fester within the pain, as if it’s some sort of penance for all the wrong he’s done. His muscles ache, and the gash, bruises, and cuts don’t make anything easier.

“I’m fine,” Dismissive, John brushes your concern aside, focusing on getting back to the jet without collapsing. The serum does its part, easier to manage the pain, but it doesn’t take away the sting. “It’s not that bad.” He utters, hoping you’ll drop it.

It’s his tone again; bitter, indifferent, swatting your offer aside as if you’re more bothersome than helpful. For reasons you can’t explain, it makes you angry, as if he’s too good for your help. Your jaw clenches, and you try again.

“There’s nothing wrong with accepting help, John. When we get back to the Watchtower, I can —”

“I said I’m fine.” Walker retorts, snapping at you without hesitation. It’s born from an amalgamation of agony and his own innermost demons that he’s wrestling with. He stares ahead, not wanting to look at your expression.

Bewildered, you fight against getting frustrated with him, wondering if there’s something that extends beyond his surface-level condescension.

Though, you wonder what you did to make him hate you so much — you sparred about the past, sure, but you were trying to bury the hatchet.

As if pierced by something sharp, you scoff, attempting to smother the flicker of fury that burned within your chest. It overrides your judgment, mouth moving before you can tell yourself to stop. “What’s your problem with me? Jesus, Walker, I just want to help you.”

The both of you are far away enough for the rest to remain oblivious to your sudden squabbling, and John grits his teeth, a sharp inhale splitting his lungs. “I can handle this on my own.” His tone is edged, but there’s something more beneath the surface.

Cerulean hues issue a warning for you to drop the subject, and you do, albeit reluctantly. Anger diminishes into confusion, uncertainty; you didn’t understand. Despite your efforts, he continued to swat you away as if you were a pest.

The splinter of desperation in your cadence turns his stomach, verbal sparring settling into a tenuous silence. John steals a glance despite himself, noticing the forlorn look that is etched into your brow, as if you’ve done something wrong.

He knows it’s not you — never has been, it’s him. John’s agitation dwindles into guilt, knowing that your intentions were wholly good, selfless. It’s something that he wishes he could have, and he’s working on it, but the process is emotionally heavy.

Scorned, you keep pace with him, even if he’s pushed you aside, ensuring that he makes it to the jet intact. The rest of the team regards you with perplexity, though you’re dismissive of it, settling into the webbing of your flight-seat.

The aftermath is often hushed — bodies catching their breath, a wordless recuperation, senses beginning to climb down from heightened adrenaline. Bucky’s piloting you out, heading back to the Watchtower.

Exhaustion settles in, replacing the exhilaration that comes with missions, the surge of vigor in your bloodstream. Tilting backwards, your head meets the cool interior of the jet, engine’s idle buzz thrumming beneath your boots.

John sits beside you, unexpectedly, his strenuous sigh rattling your body, passing from the bulk of his bicep to you. His visage is contorted into a look of thinly-veiled wistfulness, glancing sideways at you, a faint grimace of apology.

Quiet, you don’t relocate, simmering in the silence without so much as a murmur. Copper stings your nostrils, the scent of his blood, and you pretend that it doesn’t phase you; it does.

Your arms loosely fold over your chest, listening to the drone of the quinjet. The ride home is short, shorter than expected, and you’re eager to crawl beneath scalding water and let it burn the rush away.

As Bucky prepares for landing on the helipad outside, your gaze flutters toward John, whose stare is attempting to sear through the metal walls of the jet’s interior. He seems gone, as if his mind is a thousand miles away.

It was the same look he had when you were in the Void with him; loathing, conflicted, ripping himself apart for you to see.

The jet tremors violently as it descends onto the helipad, the noise scraping against your ears, a sound that’s still jarring to you. John remains unphased — he’s done it hundreds of times, terse as the hull begins to open.

Saying something now seems meaningless, words fading to ash within your throat, raw from thirst. Your fingers idly curl into the sleeves of your suit, tension relinquished as the team begins to file out of the jet, bearing the bruises and scrapes from the mission.

When you enter the Tower, a sense of relief finds you, the comfort of home, shoulders slouched as you make for your room. Bob is lingering beside the window, a book in his hand, headphones dangling from his ears.

“Good work today,” Bucky calls, attempting to boost morale. He’s at the helm, trying to steer this ship in the right direction, but it’s harder than it looks. “Get some rest.” He moves toward the lounge, hoping to get a status update on the cleanup.

Alexei chimes in with an echoed remark about how everyone did a good job, mirroring Bucky’s own statement. A smile curls at the corner of your mouth despite yourself, feet dragging as you sluggishly stumble toward your room.

Through the light clamor, you don’t see John, disappearing through the tinted pane of your door, feeling it hiss and click behind you. Your room is warm, cozy; it’s a sanctuary you’ve created, making something within the ruins of your old life.

A hush falls throughout the Tower, typically a quiet evening after returning from a mission. Outside, the skies turn to a swirling ink, veiled by heavier clouds that signal the onset of rain.

Peeling away your suit, your flesh is exposed to the coolness of your quarters, glittering with a layer of perspiration, body speckled in light cuts and fresh bruises. The shower calls your name, inviting, and you marinate beneath the water for half an hour.

Bruises pulse with a dull ache, remnants of crimson swept away by the water, leaving you renewed as you change into loungewear. Perched along the edge of your bed, you towel-dry your hair, gaze flickering toward your door.

You shouldn’t be the one to apologize.

The thought of checking on John crosses your mind, and then it stays, leaving you frustrated and torn. You didn’t hate him, you never have; if anything, you were left wondering why the strange hostility still lingered, after everything.

Even then, your desire to help overrode the brief spat that you had. He was your teammate, and leaving him to lick his grievous wounds without ensuring his safety felt cruel.

A tremulous inhale invades your lungs, steeling yourself as you cross into the corridor, leaving your room behind. His quarters are down the hallway, towards the very end, marked by blanched lights on either side.

No one sees you, and you creep over the cold tile as if you might be apprehended in the process. The walk there feels as if it’s stretched on for an eternity, taunting you with each step as you make it to the tinted panel.

His lock is off, you realize, and you try to knock, the sound eerily soft. There’s nothing, only an awkward stretch of silence that makes you shift uncomfortably, the chill of the floor sending a shiver down your spine.

“John?” Abandoning the use of ‘Walker’, you idly pace before the door, weaving in idle circles as you wait for him to answer. Still, nothing — you wonder if it’s intentional, if he’s purposefully ignoring you to prove a point.

Intending to ask for forgiveness later, you slide the door open, stepping into his room with a twinge of anxiety. You shouldn’t be skulking around in here, but his lack of answer had you worried — more than you should’ve been, really.

“So much for knocking,” His voice cuts through your scrambled thoughts like a serrated knife, though lacking the sardonic poise. “Could’ve waited a minute.” John utters, and you spot him in his bathroom.

Startled, your gaze draws to him, attempting to patch himself up with bloodsoaked fingertips and a disgruntled countenance. His back is facing the mirror, head craned over his shoulder, blonde brows creased together, throat stirring with a noise of agitation.

“You didn’t answer.” With a weak protest, you hover in the doorway, shuffling forward to let it close with a subtle click. Everything seems devoid of personal decorum in his room, as if he’s still deciphering what goes where, some belongings still in boxes.

“You didn’t give me a chance.” John retorts, lips parted to make room for a strained sigh. He’s been harsh enough today — he recollects, composes himself, and lets his guard waver.

“I was worried about you.” The weight of your confession brings him pause, hand poised against his back, attempting to apply gauze. He’s failing miserably, cerulean hues darting toward you, arms folded over your chest.

John stops, jaw tense as he huffs with frustration, discarding the roll of gauze onto the bathroom countertop. The low glow of the light glitters against his skin, pleasantly sunkissed, muscles taut and broad, speckled in violet bruises.

There’s a rawness to him, sinewy yet firm, the honed strength of a trained soldier. He’s visceral, nothing grossly herculean, but he’s worked for his physicality, sacrificed plenty for it.

You realize you’ve been ogling him, gaze carefully tracing over the blonde hair smattered over his chest, trailing along his abdomen before it disappeared beneath his tactical pants.

Tendrils of heat snake across the back of your neck, a twinge of something desirous stirring within your stomach. You aren’t used to it, and you feel yourself attempt to rip your gaze away to something else; and you can’t.

He’s a man beneath it all, beneath the shield, the armor, the facade of an inflated swagger, all of the peacocking — he’s vulnerable, now. John’s countenance softens, startled by the sincerity that permeates your voice.

It’s unusual for him to be this quiet, as if you ripped the bravado and smugness right from his throat. Pacing forward, you decide to extend the offer again, hoping that he’ll accept your help and throw away the pride.

“I can help,” Your tone is disarmingly tender, something that John knows he’s undeserving of, given his behavior towards you. You vex him, but not because of your demeanor — he’s falling, and he’s trying to stop himself; he can’t. “Please.”

John concedes, head bobbing in a brief nod as he turns to face the mirror, lukewarm water ridding the crimson that stained his fingers. Coiled muscle cuts across his back, flesh littered in old scars and a colorful variety of bruises.

With a soft exhale, you awkwardly move into the doorway of the bathroom, blanketed by the pale orange of the lights, the distant buzz something of a comfort to you. The gash stretches from his left rib to spine, an ugly wound, oozing red that trickles over his back.

Scraped, calloused hands grip the edge of the counter as he props himself up, gaze flickering toward your reflection in the mirror. Your hair, still damp, tousled and disheveled, a cut on your cheek, mannerisms somewhat shrewd.

It’s quiet — too quiet for your liking, but you don’t want to be the one to break the ice. Wordlessly, you reach out, palm beginning to mist with wisps of a faint green, your powers manifesting.

“I’m sorry for today,” John murmurs, stopping you in your tracks. The mist wavers, concentration effectively shattered by his apology, which happened to be entirely unexpected. “About not letting you help me.”

“Is it something I did?” Your inquiry evokes a pang of melancholy, as if his heart is bleeding, still halfway stitched together. “Listen, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m trying to move past it.”

John sighs, exiting through his nostrils; measured, restrained. “You didn’t do anything,” He’s learning to admit when he’s the problem, digits tightening against the dark granite; it groans beneath his grasp. “I don’t hate you.”

Relief blossoms within your chest, as if some weight is lifted from your shoulders. Still, you wonder what exactly is wrong with him, festering below the surface, something he’s trying to bury. “Be honest with me — what’s wrong?” You question, brows furrowing together.

He’s reluctant to tell you why he’s comfortable with sitting in the pain — why he feels he deserves it. John knows that you mean well, always looking out for everyone else, showing kindness when you didn’t have to.

“This is what I deserve,” John utters, cadence embittered, withholding a wave of emotion. Tears swim, unshed within his eyes, and he actively fights against it. “The pain — for what I did, for what happened.”

For Lemar, for Olivia, for the blood on his hands, for the son who’ll only know his father as a deadbeat. He hates himself, deep down — he’s learning to be a better man, if that were even possible.

His transparency startles you, attempting to process this information in a way that evokes empathy. No one on the team is truly, wholly good — there’s amends that need to be made, most of them in the healing process, including you.

It’s a bleak contrast from the man constantly barraging you with snarky remarks, constantly engaging in banter with you. You don’t remember him opening up like this with anyone else.

Still, your hand drops, fingers twisting together as you scramble to come up with some encouragement. You’re so accustomed to his general smugness and cocksure attitude that this blindsides you.

“Just because you’ve done bad things doesn’t mean that you deserve to suffer, or rake yourself over the coals again,” It’s gentle, sound advice — John’s eyes screw shut. “Everyone deserves to heal, including you.”

The blood on his hands feels heavy, like some anchor dragging him down. After being stripped of the role of Captain America, spiraling, losing his family, he briefly considered it — a way out. He was glad that he never went through with it.

In the Void, when you found your way into his room, it was the moment Lemar had been killed. Replayed, over and over again, unable to be prevented — but his reaction could’ve been.

He could’ve been a better man.

In the beginning, he tried to justify it, rationalizing killing someone in cold blood. After time passed, he knew how wrong he was, how he desecrated the shield, the mantle; all for something else, to sate his rage. No matter how much healing he did, that would haunt him forever.

“Thanks.” He grits, as if he doesn’t fully believe your words. John understands your intentions, that you’re being empathetic and kind despite the abrasive way he’s acted towards you. It makes him feel worse. “I am trying.”

“I know,” Placating, your digits begin to shimmer with wisps of emerald energy, your power manifesting. “I know you are, John.” Oozing with a tender amiability, you can hear the tremor in his exhale.

When you called him John, it startled him; he’d gotten so accustomed to ‘Walker’, but he didn’t mind this in the slightest. Despite the rough beginning the both of you had with one another, he was warming up to you.

Admittedly, he thought it was the right thing to do, not fully letting you in to protect himself. When you had cordial conversations, he felt your kindness shroud him like a warm blanket; you’d moved on from the past.

Quiet, your hand finally lifts to his wound, brows creased in concentration, energy expelled into healing mist as it curls around the flesh. It feels like cold water, albeit soothing, pluming over torn skin and blood until it sinks inward.

A low grunt rips through his throat, somewhat startled at the sensation of your powers; simple, but wildly effective. It’s as if he’d never been slashed to begin with; the bruises and scrapes don’t go away, but the rest of it does.

Strained, your arm quivers, resolve slipping as you step away, using the doorway as a form of support. You’re always a little weak after you’ve healed someone, almost as if it’s an exchange of life.

“Better?” With a tender smile, you watch as he nods, inspecting himself in the mirror; nothing left behind. “Next time this happens, I hope you’ll let me help you.” You prompt, and he chuckles; it isn’t the typical condescending chide he gives you, either.

“I can’t make any promises.” John’s tone loses that bite, the indifference; it’s disarmingly soft. “Thanks again, for that. I’ve been an asshole to you — wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to help.” He murmured, tone lacking mirth.

“You have, but that can change,” Lips remain poised into a smile, one that makes his heart lurch within his chest. “You don’t have to keep being an asshole.” Your remark makes him scoff, though it’s more of a bemused sound, than anything else.

“I’ll lose my charm,” John counters, but he’s being sarcastic — somewhat, at least. You suspect he’ll still remain sharp-tongued and smug, but lose the indifference with you. “I know it’s something I need to work on.”

Grateful for his acknowledgment, you finally feel your energy return, a slow ebb that spreads throughout your body. Leaning off of the doorframe, you awkwardly step aside, figuring that this was your queue to leave.

“For the record, I never disliked you,” He utters, jaw clenched as he carefully navigates on what to say next. “Never had a problem with you, either. Your problem with me was justified.” John shrugs, his stare even-keel.

Bewildered, you let the pang of surprise fester, head cocking to one side. “I never really had a problem with you, or disliked you,” After this, you were beginning to understand why he was an asshole sometimes. “It’s all in the past, now. I want us to move forward.”

John’s halfhearted smile oozed with sincerity, a genuineness rarely seen by others. “I can do that.” Even still, he wouldn’t blame you if you had some sort of gripe against him, but you were kind — you were good, even if you didn’t think so.

His gaze hasn’t left you, cerulean hues fluttering over your countenance; you’re beautiful, eyes beset by kindness, half-dried tresses strung over your crown. The shirt you’re wearing is a size too big, sweatpants baggy, too.

He’s acutely aware of how obvious he’s being, ogling you; he always thought you were pretty, but in the bathroom’s faint glow, you’re stunning. You weren’t subtle either, he knows this, catching your shrewd gaze as it lingers on his arms.

John’s hands reach for his shirt, black spandex all wrinkled, balled up, stained with dried blood. The tension becomes unusually thick, mere embers kindled to life, now a fire that he doesn’t know if he can extinguish.

“Can I ask you something?” Your inquiry pierces through the tenuous silence, and there’s some momentary relief you gain from it.

“Yeah.” John’s tone is barely above a whisper, warm; as if he’s trying to calm himself down, ease the tension. With his shirt still clenched in one hand, he’s offering you his undivided attention.

With arms loosely folded over your chest, your fingers idly pluck at frayed stitching on your sleeves, a fleeting distraction. “Why were you always indifferent towards me, if you didn’t hate me?” You’re not accusatory, just curious.

Shit — John’s mind is scrambling for an answer that doesn’t make him seem strange. He’s got feelings for you, and you’re slowly drawing them out into the open; he doesn’t know how to handle it.

“Sometimes it’s easier for me to not let somebody in,” He shrugs, gaze wavering, flickering toward the ground. The vulnerability is something he’s still growing accustomed to — rawness of pain, feeling his emotions, choosing the right way to cope. “Because of what’s happened.”

Even then, his explanation still feels like he’s covering up for something else. Nevertheless, you let it rest, offering him a threadbare smile. “We don’t judge here, if you haven’t learned that already,” You sigh. “I’ll be here for you, if you choose to let me in.”

He already has — he’s appreciative, nodding as a display of gratitude before he finds your gaze again. “Thanks.” John smiles despite himself, swallowing down the words that want to escape him.

Silence settles between, the same tension simmering like before, causing you to shift your weight. He’s staring again, but you’re oblivious to it this time, angled away, trying to figure out what to do next.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, your shoulders begin to slouch with relaxation. “I should probably go — you need rest.” You blurt, fumbling over your words, maintaining a sheepish smile as you shuffle toward the door.

John doesn’t really want you to leave; and he knows it’s selfish of him. His lips part, as if to ask you to stay, but he’s frozen, rooted in-place. Still, he nods, quietly resigning to letting you go back to your room.

His feet feel anchored to the floor, each step a drag as he trails after you, following you to the doorway. He’s quiet, still deliberating, turning over every word, every action within his mind. John comes up short, watching as you stop to say something else.

The closeness is sudden, wracked with tension; you’re nearly brushing arms with him, gooseflesh crawling along your spine. You’re both reaching for the door panel simultaneously, fumbling, fingers ghosting over one another; you recoil like you’ve been burned.

In the slim proximity, he catches a whiff of your shampoo — vanilla and peach, something sweeter, causing his jaw to tick. He’s looking again, unable to stop himself, gaze wandering over your body, appreciative; he grips the door frame as a distraction.

When you catch his stare, it burns you, something incendiary, as if he’s searing you into his mind. A subtle hitch forms within your throat, and you’re prepared to tell him goodnight, end it there — but you won’t move.

Silence stretches on, the sort of contemplative quiet before the onset of a storm, the deep breath before the plunge. Bodies linger within arm’s reach, screaming, and you have the audacity to stare at him, doe-eyed.

Then, you say his name, a feather-light whisper, gentle and placating. It barely registers, but he hears it, notices the parting of your lips, the way you haven’t recoiled from the closeness.

John’s mouth is suddenly pressed against yours in a heated frenzy.

A sharp inhale splits your diaphragm, lungs quaking, filled with a sudden surge of ecstasy when he kisses you. There’s a gasp stuck in the back of your throat, swallowed by the snare of his mouth.

His lips are unexpectedly soft, a stark contrast to the sharpness of his smart mouth. There’s a charged passion that echoes beyond the kiss, as if he’s walking the fine line of restraint.

Bewildered, your head is spinning, brain foggy, as if someone knocked you out. Left reeling, you don’t know what to say, what to do. Though, you’re receptive, mouth shyly moving against his, hands frozen at your sides.

When he pulls away, gauging your reaction, you appear as shocked as he does.

Each breath is labored, wrought with the sudden sting of exhilaration, butterflies beginning to pool within your belly. “I’m sorry.” John’s voice is low, a pleasant hum within your ear, but you don’t seem upset by what he did.

“Don’t be.” Without pause, your lips fly to meet him again, reciprocating the kiss, one that seems sluggish and passionate instead of frantic.

He’s kissing you back, hand dropping from the door to your hip, calloused digits caressing you through your shirt. The gesture ignites a fire within your bones, unable to stifle your mounting excitement.

Shyly, your hands move toward his chest, soft like velvet, smoothing over his pectorals as he presses you up against the door. A low groan vibrates through his chest, reveling in the feeling of your skin touching his.

There’s a poised strength coiled within his body, firm, flesh and blood, chest rising and falling underneath your hands.

His kiss is disarmingly gentle, something unexpected, but not unwelcome. You feel his body nudge against yours, distance now nonexistent.

You don’t know what’s gotten into you, gotten into him, but you’re enjoying yourself — you want him, need him, starving for contact.

He tastes metallic, an amalgamation of copper and a natural musk. Digits idly smooth over the coarse, blonde hair that covers his chest, descending toward his groin. The thought alone makes your knees weak.

Each kiss sends you spiraling, clawing for his mouth, leaving you ragged, desperate for his touch. You can’t remember the last time someone kissed you like this — even then, your experience is thin.

His scruffy countenance melds with yours, bleeding heat, kissing you with enough vigor that it prompts you to hold onto him. Your heart gallops, races — it’s quick and erratic, beating in your ears.

Recoiling from the kiss, your fingers tremble, deftly tracing over his collarbone, over scar-kissed skin, over faint clutches of freckles. “John, I — Are you sure?” You whisper, hoarse, afraid that he might regret it all in the morning.

“Wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t sure.” John murmurs, voice low, curling thickly as his hands rub circles into your hips. He’s strong, secure — you didn’t expect to feel so comfortable with him. “I’ve thought about it for a while.”

His lips make contact with your jaw, mouth clamoring over your skin, kissing the spot beneath your ear. Flush to you, his confession makes your bones lurch, and you wonder what else he’s thought about, too.

Flustered, you’re quick to melt into him, visibly smitten, as if you’ve wound yourself into a tight knot. John notices, mouth twitching into a smirk as he places a string of kisses beneath your jawline.

“John …” A soft mumble rolls from your tongue, hands beginning to trail from chest to shoulders, anchoring yourself to him. His beard burns against your flesh, a pleasant scratch, reminding you that he’s real, this is real.

Warm breath feathers over your throat, your jaw, your cheek — he’s still smirking, too. “You’re getting shy on me.” He mumbles, able to taste the heat that bristles from your flesh. A hitch forms within your throat, his remark making you burn.

“No,” Posturing a weak defense, your body succumbs, lips parted to make room for a dizzying sigh. “I’m not.” It’s pathetic, your retort, but he’s still grinning as if he’s caught you in a trap, attempting to reign in the smug attitude.

“Right.” John’s cadence is dangerously low, little more than a pleasant husk that scratches the back of your brain. He’s teasing you still, cerulean hues alight with mirth, fingertips barely skirting underneath your shirt.

He’s charming — too charming, and it makes your flesh burn with an embarrassed heat. His lips plume over your throat, hips brushing against yours, and that’s when you feel it. Something firm through his kevlar pants, briefly grinding against your pelvis.

A noise echoes from John’s throat, somewhere between a grunt and groan, causing you to smile, as if you’ve discovered his secret. “Already?” It’s playful, sure, but you’re simultaneously flattered that it didn’t take much work.

It’s his turn to blush, scarlet crawling over handsome features, red spreading towards his neck. “Can’t help it,” John mumbled, gaze briefly meeting yours. “You’re beautiful.” His low timbre made you shiver.

Unable to smother your smile, you urge him closer for another kiss, digits clamoring for the nape of his neck, toying with the blonde hair there. Each entanglement of lips seems to grow in fervor, charged with mutual excitement, passion.

His hands are fisted in your shirt against, giving it a soft tug, as if silently asking you for your permission. Mouths continue to clash, a mess of lips and teeth, tongue when John initiates it, eliciting a moan from your maw.

With a brief nod, he breaks from you, only to assist in removing your shirt, tossing it elsewhere in his room. You aren’t wearing a brassiere, which catches his attention, stopping in his tracks as he admires your physique.

“Jesus,” John sighs, rapturous, noticing the doe-eyed look you’re giving him again. Lips part, jaw unclenched as he not-so-subtly ogles your collarbone, letting it drift toward your chest. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Swallowing your anxiety, you feel yourself melt beneath his stare, incendiary enough to turn you to cinders where you stand. “The thought hasn’t crossed my mind.” Barely above a whisper, your gentle teasing evokes a half-smile from him.

A huff leaves him, hand steady as he kneads into your hip, dipping lower, grasping at your haunch as he lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his hips. You’re still kissing him, held aloft by John’s arms, bearing your weight without effort.

He carries you to his bed, gray sheets already disheveled, laying you down as he crawls on top of you. A soft exhale whistles through your nose, arousal beginning to coalesce between your thighs, warmth pooling in your belly.

“You sure?” John murmurs, wanting to ensure that you’re certain about this. He is, but he wants to make sure that all cards are on the table. He’s not used to this, to showing vulnerability, but it feels comfortable with you.

“Yeah, I am,” Gazes twine together, the only illumination being the glow from the bathroom, blanketing you in swirls of orange and shadow. “I want you, John.” Your admission is saccharine, steeped in a warmth that he clings to, savors.

Christ, he wants you, too — craves you more than air, cerulean hues glistening with a thinly-veiled ardor. It’s a sudden shift from how things were before, but the tension had finally come to a boiling point, and he was glad that it had.

Mouths connect instantaneously, eliciting a pleading moan from your throat, swallowed by his kiss. Your legs drop, spread apart to accommodate for his frame, lean muscle wedged between your thighs.

His palm kneads into your calf, dragging to the crook of your knee, caressing you over your baggy bottoms. Your hands thread against the nape of his neck, taking handfuls of his blonde tresses, ensuring that you weren’t rough with him.

Chests brush against one another, firm muscle exuding warmth, peaks of your breasts ghosting over his pectorals. Each kiss rips the air from your lungs, leaving you reeling, gasping as you feel his tongue prod against yours.

A whine bubbles from your throat, smitten, tongue shyly mingling with his as the kiss turns into a mess of passion. Your fingers are carding over the back of his skull, slipping over his hair as his teeth catch upon your bottom lip.

John grunts, the tent in his pants grinding recklessly against your core, friction causing both of you to writhe. As if to torment him, you roll your hips forward, evoking a groan from him, his gaze pleading with you to stop.

“Don’t,” He warns, strained, attempting to hold himself together. Your mouth quirks into a smile, one that he feels even as he kisses you again, your palm splaying over his shoulder. “Can I take these off?”

His hands curl into your sweatpants, fingers teasing the waistband as he waits for you to consent. As soon as you nod, accompanied by a breathy ‘yes’, he’s tearing into them, the stitching splitting apart beneath his inhuman strength.

A gasp slipped from your mouth, writhing beneath him to free yourself from the fabric, kicking them to the floor. John marvels at the sight of you, your body something perfect, malleable within his grasp, mouth planting a kiss against your jaw.

Cool air plumes over your heated flesh, offering some alleviation, a reprieve from the fever-pitch of your body. John’s hand smooths over your leg, squeezing into your thigh, digits flicking over the hem of your panties.

The brief gesture makes your head spin, desperate for him to touch you. He’s already got an idea in his head, calloused fingers rough like leather as he drags his hand between your legs.

Knuckles ghost over your clothed cunt, feeling the tangle of damp cotton, the way your throat sputters with a subtle gasp. Your thighs twitch, knees trembling on either side of him as your nails trace over the back of his neck.

“Christ,” He huffs, forehead nearly flush against yours, watching as you squirm from the brief caress. John repeats the motion, feeling your nails dig harder into his skin, mouth screwed open. “You like that?” His murmur makes you feel weak.

With a nod, you want more, hips urging into the friction of his hand. To your delight, he doesn’t torment you, doesn’t make you work for it as his fingers slip beneath your panties.

Two fingers stroke along your cunt, gathering the warm slick there with one sluggish swipe. To your utter bewilderment, he lifts his digits to his mouth, sucking them clean before he lavishes your throat in a myriad of kisses.

“John, please.” Moaning his name, the sight he just treated you to is sure to be burned in your mind forever, causing your thighs to rub together. Kissing a trail down your neck, he finds your sternum, mouth voracious, ceaseless.

A boyish grin settles onto his features, deriving enjoyment from your reaction, continuing to worship your flesh in rapturous kisses. No inch of skin is safe as he descends, lips pluming over your breasts, your ribs, navel; lower, and lower again.

You taste sweet, as if your skin oozed with sugar, and he’s savoring every piece of you, kisses steeped in a disarming reverence. His beard tickles your flesh, goosebumps cascading down your spine as he makes it to your waist.

His muscles flex, pulled taut as he crawls lower, face hovering beside your hip as he eases your panties down, letting them creep over your thighs. Everything feels hot, body set ablaze, arousal coalescing against your cunt.

Lips press to your thigh, shoulders creating space, bullying your legs apart. Digits flex, trembling as they lower to card through his tresses, gaze ensnaring with his own, causing you to shiver.

John kisses a trail over your inner thighs, toward the glistening heat at your apex, listening to your breath hitch. It’s labored, wrought with exhilaration as your back begins to arch.

That ghost of a cocksure grin feels like a hot brand against your thigh, softening when you make a strangled, pleading noise. Nearly prone against the sheets, he lets your legs recline against his shoulders, hands gripping your hips.

The first rake of his tongue over your cunt is agonizing, hot embers, scorching against your flesh as he laps traces the length of your slit. It’s sluggish, exploratory — he’s keen to know what makes you writhe.

With parted lips and eyes wrenched shut, a needy moan splits past your throat, unable to keep quiet. John’s chest stirs with a low grunt, greedy tongue deftly splitting past your folds, tasting you with a sudden fervor.

Still, he’s gentle, disarmingly so, careworn palms massaging into your hips, keeping you slotted against his face. The scruff of his blonde beard scratches ragged over the inside of your thighs, sandpaper to silk, the sensation pleasant.

John eases you into it, committing every detail of your body to memory; hoping there’s a next time, thumbs tracing circles into your skin. Lapping against your core, his ministrations slowly gather haste, nose grazing your clit.

A myriad of moans leave you, attempting to keep the sound hushed, as to not alert any unwanted attention. Your legs tense, flex on either side of his head before his shoulders nudge you apart again, mouth dragging over your cunt.

He maintains something of a rhythm, attempting to walk the line of restraint, as to not overwhelm you. Your body rattles beneath him, spasmodic tremors of delight rolling down your spine, waves of bliss felt all over, ebbing through your veins.

One hand haplessly fists at the sheets, fingers curled so tightly that you want to rip it apart. He’s too good at this, which surprises you — he doesn’t give that impression, initially.

The room feels like a furnace, bodies bleeding heat, each breath hoarse, tight with rapture. His mouth is a thing of perfection, pleasuring you as if it’s his sworn duty, tongue lapping at every inch of your cunt.

John’s gaze flutters from the task at-hand to your countenance, contorted into an expression of ecstasy, effortlessly pretty. His heart skips a beat; you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.

You’re wound up, coiled over and over again, into a tangle of heat, furled desire that’s begging to be released. Carding through his tresses, you gingerly scratch at his crown, briefly tugging on his hair, hips wantonly urging into his mouth.

“G—God, John,” A sheepish moan falls from your mouth, coupled with a sharp inhale that rips through your diaphragm. Your cunt clenches pathetically around nothing at all, back arched from the mattress. “So good at this.”

It’s an inkling of praise, but it’s enough, evoking some hunger from John, who's eager to please. The tent in his tactical pants is borderline painful, erection grinding against the bed in a pitiful attempt to alleviate some of the friction.

Driven to the brink, you feel as if you’re beginning to toe the line of some steep plunge, his lips urging you closer to a release. Everything feels hot, as if you might combust, arousal coalescing between your thighs.

John has you pinned down, nose ghosting over your folds, tongue still ceaselessly lapping at your core until there’s a shift in rhythm. He presses a kiss to your clit, listening to the tremor in your exhale, feeling your legs tense.

Teeth catch across your bottom lip, biting down with an absent pressure, digits beginning to lightly curl against his scalp. His name emerges from your mouth again, desperate and wanton, breathy as you squirm.

“You’re easy to rile up.” John murmurs from between your legs, a breathy chuckle floating from his chest when your fingers pull on his hair. He plants a reverent kiss to your thigh, teasing, but the break doesn’t last for long.

If it weren’t for his lips pursing around your clit, you might’ve clawed for a retort, but he rips any remark from your throat. The sudden ripple of bliss sends you reeling, choking on a simpering whine as you shift beneath him again.

His mouth gingerly laps at that sensitive clutch of nerves, shockwaves shattering through your body, tingles of ecstasy following suit. A strangled moan snares in your throat, slipping through when he drags his tongue along your cunt.

He’s right, though — you are easy to vex, and he’s mapping you out as if you’re intimately familiar to him already. John’s mouth is voracious, tongue endlessly greedy, eating you out as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

You’re getting close, body being pushed to a blissful oblivion, the white-hot heat that threatens to consume you. His hand drifts from your thigh to the slick warmth between, thumb seeking your clit like a missile, slowly circling around it.

“Fuck,” You moan, the expletive uncharacteristic of you, but he finds plenty of enjoyment in you saying it. His name is soon to follow, a bedroom hymnal, repetitive as it spills from your tongue, crying out his name to the ceiling. “J—John!”

It’s pathetic how easily he’s got you squirming, tension beginning to unfurl, the knot within your belly stretched to the brink. He’s careful, tender, intimate in a way that makes your features surge with warmth.

“That’s it.” John murmurs, timbre little more than a drawl as he coaxes an orgasm from you, thumb continuing to toy with your clit until you burst. He’s mesmerized, a super-soldier reduced to a lovesick boy, watching you with a thinly-veiled rapture.

With one simple circle of your pearl, you’re gone, ecstasy bleeding from you in one wave, nearly overwhelming. You’re blinded by euphoria, white-hot stars crossing your vision until you’ve melted into the sheets.

Nerves are frayed from bliss, tossed into the throes of pleasure, one that you may not fully recover from. Stars linger still, head foggy, dizzy from a desirous haze as you try to find a scrap of composure.

He tastes you again, one last time, committing it all to memory as he kisses your leg, kneeling in-between your thighs. You’re shaking, chest tight with drawn-out sighs, gazes ensnared, burning with adoration.

“You’re really good at that.” A soft whisper rolls from your lips, appreciative, but John looks like you’ve just called him perfect. He’s starved for praise, reduced to a mere beast, laying at your feet, preening for more.

John’s up on his knees, staring a hole through you, hands reaching for his belt. Driven by both excitement and instinct, you sit up, fingers clamoring with his own as you’re helping to wrestle his belt off, unzipping the front of his tactical pants.

“You drive me crazy,” John groaned, feeling you grow smitten in the wake of his admission, desperate to be inside of you. “Can’t think straight.” He utters, and you know it’s an intentional compliment.

He repositions himself, hunched in, blanketing you with his bulky physique, lean muscle glued to your frame. He’s much larger than you, you realize, listening to the shuffling of fabric, feeling his cock press incessantly against your navel.

You’re intimidated, bewildered by his size, startlingly large, unabashedly so. Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, your hands come to hook around the back of his neck, no space remaining.

As if to ignite the tension further, your mouth catches his, lips locking together in a heated kiss. You can taste yourself, an added layer of debauchery, but he’s groaning into your lips, fisting the pillow near the side of your head.

John’s other hand finds your thigh, kneading into your haunch as he steadies himself, cock heatedly grinding against you. Mouths tangle, clash — it’s a war of teeth and tongue, thirst instead of hunger, as if he needs you more than anything.

Wanton, exhilarated breaths drag between bodies, the warmth of his sigh pluming over your features, his beard ragged against your cheek. His blonde tresses are tousled, disheveled — he’s painfully handsome, kissing all over your mouth.

He withdraws, heads flush together, mere centimeters apart as he adjusts himself, cock nudging against your folds. You’re clinging to him, a twinge of anticipation churning in your belly.

“You alright?” He utters, low and husky beside your ear, actively restraining himself from being too spirited. There’s something intoxicating about the way you’re staring at him; it’s tender, more than he deserves, he thinks.

Slowly, you plant a kiss against the scruff of his jaw, and then beneath, where a yellowing bruise sits. Hands wander to the firm muscle of his shoulders, kneading over freckled skin.

John exhales; a drawn-out, contented sound that releases coils of tension from his shoulders. With a nod of consent, you let yourself get comfortable. He drags his cock over your cunt again, biting back a stifled groan.

“Go slow,” You squeak, body already sore from the mission — he might add to it, if he isn’t careful. His lips seal themselves to your throat, peppering your flesh in a myriad of sweet kisses, nose brushing over your jugular. “I need you.”

Serum-infused blood pumps through his veins, oozing raw strength, but he knows to rein himself in, head bobbing in a brief nod. “Say that again.” John grunts, cock prodding against the warmth of your cunt, preparing to push past.

His head is partially buried into the hollow between throat and shoulder, beard prickling your flesh, a satisfying sensation. An excitable buzz wracks your body, sending tingles all over, a throbbing pulsing from between your legs.

“I need you,” Wantonly, your palm splays over his shoulder-blade, nails digging into his skin, eliciting a low groan from your paramour. “J—John, please!” It’s a plea, a desperate one, spoken through a beguiling cadence, one that winds him into tight knots.

With a shudder, John is thirsty for your embrace, a man lost within a desert, finding his oasis. His forehead nudges beside your temple, hotly grunting into your ear, sending waves of ecstasy through your belly.

His hips slowly urge forward, flushed head of his cock pushing into you with mild resistance. Disarmingly gentle, John doesn’t move quickly or rough, heeding your words as he fists at the pillow, body kissed by perspiration.

The tightness of your cunt drives him to the brink of madness, huffing beside your ear, fighting against baser, lesser instincts. Clinging to him as if he might fade through your fingers, he moves at an agonizing pace, not wanting to hurt you.

He doesn’t, a husky groan ripping through his diaphragm when your hips accidentally roll, feeling his muscles tense beneath your hands. “Jesus,” John grits out, feeling your nails dig crescents into his shoulder. “You’re perfect.”

A moan tumbles from your parted lips, his cock filling you completely, nearly bottoming out as he sinks forward. Intermingled groans and hot sighs tangle in the thin space between, heat against heat.

Your knees squeeze near his waist, legs kept spread apart by his musculature, bodies clawing for one another, ardor thinly-veiled. John’s countenance is contorted into a look of concentration coupled with bliss.

“S’good,” You moan, having adjusted enough, allowing yourself a moment of composure; it won’t last, and you know it. “Move.” Breathy and wrought with exhilaration, you give him the signal to take things further.

John’s resolve is crumbling, foundation swept away in the wake of your affections, and your wanton moan doesn’t make anything easier. Propping himself up on one arm, the other holds steadfastly to your thigh, an anchor.

Foreheads knock together, noses ghosting over one another as he begins to thrust into you, bicep flexing with exertion. The first drag of his hips sends you reeling, and you know that you won’t last long — and neither will he.

A string of hoarse expletives flutter from his mouth, barely above a whisper, setting your bones ablaze as he pulls back and pushes forward.

The fit of him is tight, cock oozing with heat as he draws back again, following through as he jolts forward.

Beneath you, the bed frame creaks — faint, as if it shows some give with the super-soldier on top of you. Your digits coax him in for a kiss, mouths colliding in a messy clash of tongue and needy lips, fire feeding fire.

John groans into your mouth, pushing and pulling, hips urging into yours, cock filling you with each thrust. Between fervent kisses and pleading moans, your head is foggy, dizzy with desire.

He develops a rhythm, the pace steady, each drag of his hips ripping a moan from your mouth, and he earned it. His hand kneads into your thigh, squeezing on occasion when the pleasure mounts, muscles coiled within his stomach.

“Y—You’re perfect,” The praise leaves your tongue as a hoarse whine, a noise that leaves goosebumps trailing over John’s spine. It’s the validation he desperately craves, the veneration, knowing he’s doing something right. “Don’t stop.”

A husky, throaty groan pierces through his chest, the noise making you shiver, arousal slick and warm between your thighs. It makes each snap of his hips easier, cock sinking into you over and over again.

It’s unintentional, his shifting pace; it begins to climb, from drawn-out and steady to needy, rutting into you as if each stroke would be his very last. John is trying to keep himself controlled, but you make it so difficult.

He slows again, the pleasure mounting, a knot that is becoming frayed at either end, prepared to be pulled apart. His cock throbs incessantly, pulsing inside of you, feeling your cunt clench around him.

Perspiration glitters along his brow, glistening along his hairline as he hunches in over you, and you feel all of him, viscerally.

The bed frame rattles in protest, as if bowing to his strength, and he’s already tearing the stitching in the pillowcase beside your head. A soft gasp slips from your lips, his mouth ghosting over yours.

Grunts of ecstasy leave him in droves, cock easing in and out of your cunt as if you’re made for him. John’s countenance is one of bliss and concentration, frustration now dissipated.

Each snap of his hips drags you further into the throes of ecstasy, and he’s nearly there, cock spearing into you. His breathing is growing ragged, raspy as it curls beside your ear, hot breath pluming over your face.

Noises surge in volume, filling his room with the sounds of vigorous lovemaking; he doesn’t care if the team hears anymore. John’s rapturous groans make you shiver in delight, head flush to yours again, the closeness addicting.

Another grunt ripples through his chest, the sound stretched, the rest tapering off as his hips begin to stutter, pace erratic and desperate. He’s close, weighing the odds of finishing inside of you, nearly whimpering when your legs hitch around his hips.

His name spills from your lips like a confessional, sobbing to the heavens, feeling your body begin to unfurl with tension. Bodies move within one another, his cock buried deep, kissing your cervix with each thrust.

From the tension in his muscles alone, you can tell that he’s about to burst, combust like fireworks in your hands. You’re on the pill, and so you urge him closer, wanting him inside of you even still.

When your name emerges from John’s mouth, you’re awestruck, flustered by the way in which he says it so tenderly. “I’m on the pill.” It’s all you’re able to say before he’s swallowing your words, covering your mouth with his.

The kiss is voracious, needy — John is unable to mask how he feels about you, letting it all bleed into tangled lips as he cums. He releases inside of you with a groan, followed by a rush of warmth that blankets your insides.

Tingles of delight wrack your body, a subdued release that seems to twine with his, a muted buzz surging through your bones. John’s hips crawl to a sluggish rhythm, agonizingly slow, as if to absorb the last few traces of friction.

Each breath heaves for composure, shallow and taut with exhilaration in the aftermath, sweat-slick skin melded together. His forehead nestles against yours, labored breathing evening out quicker than yours as he stills.

His spend and your arousal feel slick between your legs, making a mess of his sheets, joined bodies bleeding heat. You’re reeling, slower to recuperate as he pulls out of you with a soft grunt, rolling over to lay beside you.

John doesn’t leave, cerulean hues glued to your countenance, as if his whole sense of gravity has been shifted, changed. It’s hushed, save for your labored sighs, in-tandem with one another.

Wordlessly, he coaxes you closer, muscled arm hooking around your middle, inviting you to lay against his chest. One palm remains splayed, flat against your ribs, soothing you with easy caresses.

“Are you still with me?” John’s wisecrack makes you blunder, a soft laugh escaping you, hand playfully bumping against his chest.

“Yeah,” Unable to smother your smile, you’re delighted to sink into his embrace, keeping your hand on his chest. The hair beneath is something you trace through, over muscle, over old scars and greenish bruises. “I …”

As you trail off, John’s head cranes down enough to brush his lips against yours, the kiss sweet, bristling with a thinly-veiled affection. He lets you finish your thought, watching as you sit up enough to see him fully, perched on your stomach.

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” You utter, agonizingly soft, cadence wrought with an amalgamation of sentiments. John’s trying to be better, and it’s something you want to be a part of, if he’ll let you.

Neither did he, admittedly; it’s something John’s willing to admit to. “The thought never crossed my mind,” He murmured, blonde lashes fluttering as his hand cupped your jaw, calloused and careworn over satin skin. “But I’m not perfect.”

“I know, that’s why I like you.” With a dazzling smile, he’s caught right in the crosshairs, lips parting with a placating huff. It turns into a hum of a chuckle, his hand still firm against your side.

In a gentle clamor, his lips find yours, beard tickling your skin again, the sensation wholly pleasant. The kiss lingers, something that feels closer to home, a newfound warmth that the both of you desperately crave.

John’s mouth twitches into a half-smile, a peculiar mirth beginning to touch his eyes. He feels you plant a kiss against his shoulder, and he knows he’s completely screwed — you’re falling, but he’s falling harder.

3K notes · View notes

runicarbiter02 · 16 days ago

Text

You know what isn't a crime, but definitely should be one? The casual mischaracterization of Sentry in fan content. I'm so done😭

1. I hate how he's often depicted as cruel, he's not, look at him, fucking look? And when Ava asks about the hair dye, what does he do? He looks to Val for an answer, he's constantly fidgeting, trying to find an out for the bunch of misfits who previously helped him in the vault.

2. I hate how people try to turn it into a Marc Spector, Steven Grant and Jake Lockley situation when it's. Like. Not?? This is such a disservice to both Moon Knight and The Sentry, and real people who relate to the two characters' (very distinct very different) mental health issues. Bob doesn't have DID, if anything, the movie leans towards him being bipolar. Sentry is Bob, the guy literally tells Yelena in the vault that he has high highs and low lows, the high is Sentry, the low is the Void, that's it. Bob is both Sentry and The Void. What's so hard to understand? It's the mania (Sentry), followed by depression (Void) then he forgets. That's how Bob describes it in the first act of the film, that's how it happens in the third act.

3. This is not a contradiction to point 1, but Sentry is unhinged. He is awkward and somehow soft spoken? But he is unhinged, and invincible, and fucking terrifying. I'm tired of the stoic depictions in fics like🙂‍↔️ idc if you wanna write fics for comic Sentry, just don't tag them as mcu stuff. (WHO AM I KIDDING COMIC SENTRY IS FUCKING SCARYYY STOP THE BABYFICATION)

4. He is not evil (the fact that we have to spell this out... media literacy is truly dead huh), no shit the Thunderbolts* will be scared of him, of course they will be– he kicked the ever-living shit out of them. But he's not malicious, he doesn't use unnecessary force. Call it condescending, but he's going easy on them, toying with them, and deals arguably softer blows to Yelena, John and Ava, the trio he already met at the vault (because he's the same person, yk? jesus)

5. Prespective is a thing, the team wasn't there to see Sentry tell Val he doesn't want to kill them (they're no threat to him), it's the root cause of their disagreement, it leads to the New York Blackout TM, but we, the audience, were. So tell me why the fuck do I see stuff with this guy terrorizing that team for no reason? 😭 bfr guys.

6. So what? So while I can buy you showing me Ava or John or Alexei or Bucky or Yelena being fearful of the Sentry, or Val (hahaha eat shit Val), I simply can't get behind him actually being a threat to them, on purpose and beyond swatting them like flies, because hi hello have you seen the movie? Yeah.

7. Have I mentioned Sentry is unhinged? Yeah. Yeah. We got glimpses of it with Val before Mel pressed the kill switch but!! Sentry!! Is!! Unhinged!!

8. Find a middle ground, he doesn't have to be uwu or straight up satan or stoic as a rock, he is Bob in mania, so that's inherently Bob with high levels of energy and a higher self esteem (more like a GODLY EGO) and impulsivness and dillusions of grandeur (except they're not dellusions anymore? So rip), so do with that what you will.

Fingers crossed for more in-character Sentry content, at least the Sentry depicted by Lewis Pullman, who put his all into this performance but whose character is still somehow misunderstood? Anyways.

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.

3K notes · View notes

runicarbiter02 · 16 days ago

Text

Crying Lightning

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Lab Tech!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You have been studying a flower that Bucky brought back from one of his missions. When Bob comes to visit you in the labs to bring you lunch and messes with the unbloomed item you realize the sinister effects of it very quickly.

Warning: 18+ Minors DNI! Ahem…We got a sex pollen fic, so there is smut, and fluff afterwards, and aftercare as well. Reader and Bob are close, and both of them have feelings for one another but it has all gone unspoken…Until now at least lol. There is swearing too.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (…Y’all know what I’m gonna say. Wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Handjob, There’s a little bit of dominance from Bob/Sentry…And he talks you through it ahhahahahahah (oh god), Messy/Sensual Sex, There are like hints of primal energy sprinkled in here, but nothing too major, there’s mentioning of pheromones and stuff like that, Praise/Worship Kink, Spitting, Dirty Talk, Scratching, Some Choking (not rough), Cum eating, Aftercare.

Author’s Note: Woot Woot! We love a good sex pollen fic lol. Did I expect to be writing one? No. But I’ve always liked the concept and I’m so glad @mccinnamon-bun asked me to do this! Thank you <3, I really loved writing it! So so fun! Enjoy!

Word Count: 15,684

“I brought you something,” Bucky announced, stepping into your lab just as the doors slid open with their usual quiet hiss.

You didn’t look up right away. Perched cross-legged on the edge of your workbench, you were half-buried in mission reports that were a week overdue, scribbling notes with one hand and nursing a cold cup of coffee in the other. Your head snapped up, however, the second you heard the rustle of fabric and gear–a familiar sound you’d grown used to distinguishing in crowded hallways.

Bucky stood in the entryway, wind-tousled and still in partial tactical gear. The sleeves of his black shirt were pushed up to the elbows, revealing the flex of muscle and dull gleam of vibranium beneath. He had a look in his eye that was hard to read–half sheepish, half pleased with himself–and he was already fishing through one of the many compartments in his bag. He didn’t speak again until he pulled something out with a sort of slow care.

”Ta da.” You raised an eyebrow at him, seeing him pull something from his bag like it was a treasure he’d smuggled across enemy lines. You hopped off the bench with a soft thud and crossed the room toward him, curiosity instantly piqued–mostly because Bucky Barnes was not one to say ‘ta da’. Not unless he was hiding something behind that half-smirk of his.

Your eyes immediately caught sight of what he was holding.

The flower hadn’t bloomed yet, but even in its dormant state, it was breathtaking. The outer petals were tightly furled, each one smooth and iridescent like the type you would find on shells of certain mollusks–but it was shaded in a gradient you couldn’t quite place. They started as an inky, oil-slick blue at the base, then rippled out into smoky violets and blushing wine tones near the tips. Delicate veins shimmered faintly across the surface, catching the lab lights with a strange metallic luster, almost like the petals were dusted in powdered silver.

The stem curved gently, a deep green tinged with gold, and the leaves were narrow, slightly translucent, and lined with fine threads of coppery red. Even when it wasn’t fully bloomed, it had an energy to it. A heat, almost. As if it were responding to the proximity of warm skin and breath. You squinted at it.

”Bucky, if this is your idea of asking me out on a date, you really need to brush up on your courting skills.” He let out a sharp bark of laughter, head dropping forward briefly with a grin.

“Hey,” He said, handing the flower over to you carefully, “You’re the one who told me, if I saw anything weird, unknown, alien, or otherwise ‘botanically suspicious,’ I should bring you back a sample.” You gingerly accepted the stem, trying not to touch the tightly closed bud itself.

”Yeah, I meant specifiers, not some interstellar looking thing.” You shot back. He leaned against a nearby counter.

”Don’t say I never do anything for you.” He commented back. You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth betrayed your fondness.

”You absolutely broke every rule of containment protocol by walking this thing straight into my lab, but…” You gave the top of the flower another slow once-over, still entranced, “Thanks for thinking of me.” You turned, crossing to your bench and plucking a clean beaker from the rack. You filled it with a few inches of distilled water, and set the flower inside, watching it float just enough to stay upright. The petals didn’t open, but they flexed slightly–like they were stretching, or drinking the water you had put the stem in.

”So,” You started, glancing over your shoulder to where Bucky was still leaning, “Where’d you find it?” You asked, watching him give you a small, casual shrug.

”There was a patch of them, right off the tree line. I spotted them on my way back to the quinjet. Figured I’d snatch one up before anyone else trampled it.” You hummed, turning your head away–not noticing the way his gaze lingered on the flower for a beat too long. You were too busy cataloguing the possibilities in your head. It was too vibrant to be terrestrial, but it wasn’t necessarily alien. Possibly hybridized. The energy you felt coming off of it could’ve been psychosomatic–but you weren’t one to write something off without running tests.

“And you’re sure no one else touched them?” You asked, looking back over at him to see if you can spot any of the tells he had when he was lying. His brow lifted toward you.

”I mean…I touched one obviously.” You gave him a pointed look, and he immediately held up both hands.

”Didn’t eat it. Didn’t stick it up my nose. I was the only one that touched anything. Scout’s honor.” You snorted, and shook your head.

”Alright, Barnes…I’ll bite. I’ll run some diagnostics. Spectrograph, chemical composition, basic pollen analysis when it blooms…All the sciencey things that you don’t understand, then I’ll get back to you.” He gave you a mock salute and pushed himself off the table he was leaning against, going toward the door.

”Just make sure you name it after me if it ends up trying to kill you.”

”Noted,” You called, “But if it ends up giving me superpowers instead, I’ll be naming it after myself.” He was still laughing as the door slid shut behind him. You turned back to the flower, now gently swirling in the water–its petals flexing once more, as if hearing your voice. You leaned in just a touch, and breathed in slightly.

You could’ve sworn it hadn’t smelled like anything before, but now…

Now it smelled faintly of summer rain, citrus, and the soft trace of jasmine. It was warm, soft, and inviting, like it was trying to beckon you to come closer to it. You straightened slowly, then reached blindly across the workbench for a spare sheet of scrap paper, grabbing the pen you had tucked behind your ear.

”Initial scent: None. Notable change after water exposure–New profile: humid, citrus notes, floral base (jasmine like). Unsettling–shift occurred in under two minutes.” You tapped the end of your pen lightly against your chin, your gaze never leaving the beaker. The flower was still half-closed, petals fluttering slightly in the water like they were breathing–like they were aware. The surface tension of the liquid shimmered faintly around the base of the stem, as though reacting to something within the plant.

You didn’t like that.

Flowers didn’t just change their chemical profile that fast. Not unless they were highly volatile. Not unless they were engineered.

A muscle tensed along your jaw.

You slid the note aside and moved quickly now, grabbing a glass containment dome from one of the side drawers–a heat-tempered cloche you typically used when running long-term decay tests on bio-samples. It wasn’t hermetically sealed, but it would be enough to contain most airborne particulates.

Just in case.

You placed it gently over the beaker and the flower with practiced care, watching as the edges sealed against the bench with a soft thunk. The scent dimmed immediatel-ybut didn’t vanish. It clung to the air like it had already soaked into the fibers of your clothes, your skin.

You took a step back, and another, suddenly aware of the way the heat of the room felt a degree too warm.

Your eyes narrowed. You made another note.

“Mild thermal increase noted (subjective). Investigate potential volatile compounds. Possible synthetic ancestry. Unknown reaction to water exposure–possible activation trigger?”

You stood still for a moment longer, arms crossed over your chest now, staring at the flower like it might start humming.

Then you exhaled through your nose, gave your head a small shake, and muttered, “Okay, mystery plant. Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

You turned on your heel and crossed to the far side of the lab, grabbing gloves, pipettes, and a test slide. You didn’t see the way the petals quivered beneath the glass dome. Or the way the center of the bud pulsed–slowly, rhythmically–as if something within it had begun to wake.

You were too busy prepping your tools.

You’d get your first sample from the outermost edge of the petal, where a small amount of condensation had begun to form–right where the flower had interacted with the water. It wasn’t much. Just enough to suggest a subtle chemical discharge. A secretion, maybe. Or pollen.

Your gloved fingers hovered just beside the dome.

You paused.

A thought scratched quietly at the back of your mind, the way instincts sometimes do when they’re not fully formed.

You didn’t ignore it.

You stepped back again.

Instead of removing the dome outright, you retrieved your small fume extractor arm—used mostly for soldering–and wheeled it over until its head hovered just above the cloche’s apex. You flicked the switch, and a soft hum filled the room as the extractor began to filter the air directly above the sample.

Another note:

“Smell is still detectable after containment. Strong. Possibly psychoactive. Proceeding with caution.”

Still, despite your wariness, you found yourself walking back toward the glass.

One more glance. Just to be sure.

The flower was still closed–but now its bud looked fuller. Like it had begun to swell. One of the petals had unfurled the tiniest bit. Barely a sliver.

But just enough for you to see a glint of gold pollen resting in the shadows of its center.

It shimmered like dust caught in a sunbeam.

You stared.

And then, carefully, you reached over to your comm unit and tapped the call button for your assistant team over in the biocontainment lab.

“Hey,” You said when the line clicked open, voice low. “I’ve got a…Weird one. Found by Barnes. It’s stable, but I want a second containment unit prepped in case things escalate.”

A pause on the line. Then:

“Escalate how?”

You glanced back at the flower. That scent. That impossible shimmer. You didn’t know yet.

“Just…Prep it,” You replied. “I’ll send over a sample in a few.”

And then you muted the line.

You looked down at the flower one more time.

It was no longer just beautiful.

It was waiting.

———————

It had been three days since Bucky dropped the flower off, and by this time it had bloomed. Not delicately, and certainly not in the way flowers usually did–with gradual graceful predictability. No. This thing had opened like it knew it was being watched and studied by you.

When you came down to your lab the morning after Bucky brought you the mysterious flower, the petals had fully unfurled–broad, sweeping things with a high-gloss sheen and hypnotic gradients that shifted from gold to scarlet to bruise-dark purple depending on the light. The stamen in its center now pulsed visibly, a slow inhale-exhale rhythm that made the entire structure look…Alive. The pollen shimmered every time it moved, a near-invisible cloud that never seemed to settle but floated in still air like it was defying gravity. Or logic.

You had kept it sealed tight under the reinforced cloche, and had the triple-filtered vents on and the entire section of the lab cordoned off with containment protocols. Your notes had doubled in size, and still, nothing definitive had come back from the biocontainment team. There were just vague updates telling you that they were behind on other specimens and that they would get around to it when they could.

So you worked around it. You monitored. You wrote. You catalogued symptoms–your own included, though they were still annoyingly ambiguous: mild temperature spikes, random surges of adrenaline, difficulty concentrating in bursts. But no rash, no lesions, no hallucinations. There was a kind of pressure, similar to urgency but just on the cusp of it, desire maybe–but for what, you had no clue. You had only inhaled a bit of the pollen and hadn’t been exposed since, so you didn’t dwell on it–not with your schedule stacked, and not with your own lab being as backed up as it was.

You were just rinsing a pipette when the door to the lab slid open with a soft hiss.

”H-Hey,” Came the voice you’d come to recognize more easily than your own thoughts lately. You didn’t need to look up to know that it was Bob, but you did anyways, just to catch a glimpse of him.

He was towering and soft-shouldered in a dark grey hoodie with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, worn sweatpants hugging the curve of his hips, and his crown of light brown hair was in absolute disarray, like he had it tied up and decided to let the locks fall free in front of his face. He looked like someone who didn’t have the slightest clue what he did to people around him, and he truly didn’t know.

The plastic takeout bag in his hand swung gently as he stepped inside, smiling at you like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Brought y-you lunch.” Your stomach growled at the word lunch, and it echoed through the moment of silence that settled between you, which only made Bob’s grin stretch wider.

”Let me guess,” You started, pulling off your gloves and throwing them into the biohazard bin, “You timed this perfectly because you knew my stomach would start making monstrous noises, didn’t you?”He shrugged, with a small smirk on his face, setting the bag down on your cleared desk near one of your monitors.

”You skipped b-breakfast.” You held out a finger.

”No no…I postponed breakfast.” He shook his head.

”You always p-postpone breakfast,” He said, moving past you to pour you a cup of water from the cooler, his big hands making it look smaller than what it actually was, “And if I d-dont show up with something d-decent by 2 p.m, you would just end up inhaling the vending machine c-crackers and freeze-dried apple s-slices…Which is not s-sustainable i-in the slightest.” You couldn’t help but let out a laugh at his comments.

”Seems like someone has been watching me a bit too closely.” He turned and handed you the water, fingers brushing yours as he didn. His hands were boiling as usual, and it left the paper cup feeling warm from where his fingers had been holding it. His eyes lingered on your face a beat longer than necessary.

”I-I always watch you c-closely,” He said softly, like it slipped out before he could catch it. Immediately his eyes glanced down away from you, dropping to the floor for a second, before flicking away toward the cluttered end of your bench like he suddenly remembered a far more interesting smudge on the tile. His cheeks were red–not just a flush, not just a tinge, but a slow bloom of color climbing from the collar of his hoodie up to the tips of his ears.

You said nothing in response. Not because you didn’t notice–because you did. More because if you said anything, if you so much as looked at him with any kind of expression that acknowledged the truth buried in his voice, he might self-destruct on the spot. So instead, you took a slow sip of the water he handed you, letting the quiet hum of the lab fill the air between the both of you.

Then you turned on your heel toward the takeout bag.

”So what’s on the menu today, Chef Bob?” You asked lightly, pulling the plastic open and peeking inside, “Please tell me it’s not another one of your hot dog stir-fry’s.” He let out a groan.

”Listen…I-It was one time, I-I know nobody was a fan of it.” You grinned as you pulled out a tinfoil-wrapped container, unraveling it with careful fingers. A rich, savoury scent wafted up–soy and sesame and something sweet under it, like cane sugar with more of a freshness that was unexpected, “So what am I looking at?”

”Sticky rice, soy-glazed chicken, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck, “T-There’s some grated g-granny smith apple in the glaze…C-Cause I didn’t have honey.” You raised your eyebrows.

”Pretty decent alternative.” You replied.

”Yeah,” He said, shoving his hands into his pockets like he wasn’t sure what to do with them, “You know how S-Sentry gets with processed s-sugars in his system. Makes him a-all buzzy.” You let out a soft laugh.

”So this is officially Sentry-approved, then?”

“F-For the most part,” He mumbled, “I-I think you’re the real t-test though.” That made you pause, glancing up at him, still holding the half-unwrapped meal in your hands, finding his gaze had landed on you again. This time it held something quiet but vulnerable. Expectant, even. Like he really cared what you thought.

And that was the difference between Bob and everyone else–you knew he didn’t make things just to impress. He made them because it gave him joy to offer them. He brought you food not because he wanted credit–but because he worried you wouldn’t eat otherwise. He brought you books because he remembered which ones made your eyes light up. He let you take his blood every month without protest, even when the Sentry made his pulse unpredictable or his veins hard to find, because he trusted you with every part of him–even that. And because of those little things, you always made sure to praise him.

Even when he burned the eggs.

Even when the pasta came out overcooked.

Even when the hot dog stir-fry almost gave you heartburn.

You forked a bite of the rice and chicken, chewed, and let your eyes widen a bit as the warmth hit your tongue. “Okay. Wait. This is actually good.”

He blinked, caught between shock and a smile. “Y-you don’t have to lie.”

“I would lie,” You said, pointing at him with your fork. “But not this convincingly. This? Bob. It’s delicious.” He looked like he didn’t quite know what to do with the praise. He rocked back slightly on his heels, running a hand through his already-messy hair, trying to hide the shy little grin that was pulling at the corners of his mouth. You watched the way his fingers threaded through the strands, the way his forearms flexed under the soft stretch of the hoodie.

You took another bite and leaned against the counter beside him, letting out a hum of satisfaction.

“Y’know,” You said between chews, “If Val found out you were secretly good at this, she’d start expecting meals during debriefs.”

”She’d want a report first,” He said, playing along, “T-Then she’d make Walker taste it for poison.” The both of you laughed lightly. The silence that followed was companionable. Safe. You brushed your shoulder lightly against his as you leaned forward to set the food container down beside the monitor.

His body went still at the contact.

Not because he didn’t want it. But because he did. You knew that reaction well by now–the micro-freeze, the way he’d let the warmth of your hand or arm settle into him like he was still learning he could have it. That it was for him.

You let your arm linger against his for just a second longer.

Then you pulled back, slow and easy.

He looked at you from the side of his eye. His voice was low when he spoke.

”H-How’s the flower?” You glanced toward the containment dome instinctively. The petals shimmered under the harsh lab light, colors shifting in slow gradients like they were part of something fluid, something still breathing. It looked even larger today. Full-bodied. Restless.

“Still haven’t heard anything back from the biocontainment lab,” You said, turning back to Bob and picking up your fork again. “Apparently they’re still backed up from the Skrull fungus incident.”

His face pulled slightly. “God…D-Don’t remind me of t-that.” You nodded grimly.

“I won’t…But this?” You took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “No movement. Just… opened. Big. Loudly. Like it knew I was looking at it.” Bob followed your glance as you continued to speak, “I breathed in a little bit of the pollen when I first got it–just a trace. It made me really warm. Flushed. But otherwise nothing dramatic. No side effects. No changes. So I think it was just my body reacting to whatever compound it’s putting off–probably a weird hybridization. Something experimental maybe.” Bob’s brow furrowed at this comment.

”You s-should’ve been wearing a m-mask.” You huffed a laugh, nudging your shoulder into his again.

”Please, I’m pretty sure I’ve been exposed to worse.”

“S-Sure,” He said quietly, his gaze fixed on you now, “B-But definitely not like this.” There was something layered in his voice—concern wrapped around protectiveness, softened by something you didn’t dare name.

You didn’t say anything to it. Just took another bite of the meal he made, let the flavor distract you from how closely he was watching you now. He shifted beside you, and you knew it was only a matter of time before–

“How’s the Golden God doing, by the way…Totally forgot to ask.” Bob rolled his eyes, “You know you’ve got bloodwork today, and I know how much he looks forward to that.” He grimaced.

”D-Darn…I f-forgot that was today.”

“You always forget,” You mumbled between bites, mockingly stern in tone, “Even though we’ve had the same schedule for, what–eight months?”

“Nine,” He corrected, “You count too?”

“Only because I have to track your blood chemistry, Bob.” He gave you a crooked smile, “Stick around,” You said waving your fork at him, “Let me finish this delicious lunch and I’ll get everything set up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave you a faux salute, backing off to give you space. You watched him for a moment out of the corner of your eye as he wandered slowly around the perimeter of the lab, hands in his pockets, shoulders soft beneath his hoodie.

Bob moved like someone who didn’t want to disturb anything. Not just the tools and data, but you–your space, your rhythm, your day. Even now, when he stopped in front of the containment dome, he didn’t lean close or peer in like most people would’ve. He just stood there, quietly watching.

The flower didn’t move. But the pulsing in its center seemed to slow, slightly. Steadying. As if recognizing something.

Bob tilted his head faintly.

But said nothing.

You finished your lunch in a few final bites, wiped your hands on a cloth, and pulled on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves.

“All right,” You called, walking over to the locked cabinet beside your centrifuge. “Time to sacrifice a little plasma for science.”

Bob grumbled playfully as he headed back toward the stool you always set aside for him during these sessions. “Sentry’s gonna make it d-difficult again. Last time you had to chase the vein for like five minutes.”

“Oh how could I forget,” You said playfully, drawing the phlebotomy kit from the drawer, “I’ve never met a God who’s afraid of needles. He flared your heart rate on purpose and kicked the adrenaline response. Your veins were literally jumping.” Bob winced at the memory and sighed.

”I-I don’t think he m-means to be a jerk a-about it.”

“No, he just is,” You turned with a teasing smile and raised your brow, “You listening in there Sentry, I called you a jerk.” A flicker of gold passed through Bob’s eyes, and his expression shifted just slightly. A pressure just beneath the surface of his calm exterior. You saw the way his jaw flexed. The way his breath caught on the edge of a heartbeat. It was gone just as fast as it appeared. You gestured to the stool.

”Alright, you know the drill.” Bob sighed and tugged his hoodie over his head with one hand, letting it fall across the nearby stool in a heap of worn fabric and static-charged threads.

Your breath caught for just a second–not that you’d ever admit it.

He was wearing a plain white t-shirt underneath. Simple, but it didn’t leave much to the imagination. The fabric clung in all the places that mattered: broad shoulders, a narrow waist, the gentle taper of his torso. His arms were sculpted, the muscle built from the serum and his own training he did on the side with Walker–solid biceps veined faintly beneath pale skin, his forearms thick and freckled with golden hairs. Even through the shirt, you could see the subtle rise of his chest when he breathed. His body wasn’t exaggerated or showy like some of the other enhanced agents. Bob’s strength was honest, clean and quiet. The kind that didn’t beg to be seen–just was. He sat on the stool, leaned slightly forward, and offered you his right arm without hesitation–palm up, wrist relaxed, fingers curling just slightly where they hung over the edge of your tray. As always, he was warm. Always a degree or two above everyone else. Like the Sentry lived just beneath the surface, pulsing against the skin.

You pulled your chair close and gently cradled his arm in one gloved hand, “You good?” He nodded, jaw ticking faintly.

”Sentry’s a-already getting stirred u-up.”

“I figured,” You murmured, swabbing the crook of his elbow with an alcohol pad, watching the way the fine blond hairs on his arm caught the light, “You twitched when I called him a jerk.” Bob exhaled a shallow breath, half-laugh, half-wince.

”Y-Yeah he–uh–didn’t like t-that.”

“Well, tell him to behave,” you said, voice softening as you spoke, instinctively adjusting your tone. You’d found, over time, that it wasn’t just what you said–but how. The Sentry didn’t respond well to authority. But he did respond to calm. To care. To you.

“I’m going to insert the needle now, okay?”

“Y-Yeah,” He said quietly, “Keep talking through the process, t-that would help.” You gave him a smile–genuine and soft.

“All right…Just a little pressure here…” You slipped the butterfly needle in with smooth, practiced hands, watching the dark blood flood into the first vial like a ribbon of garnet. He didn’t flinch. His fingers curled just slightly, but that was it. You could feel the tension in him, though–not fear, not even discomfort, really.

Just a heightened presence.

You always felt it when the Sentry was nearby. Like a third set of lungs had begun breathing somewhere in the room. Like the molecules in the air shifted their charge.

“I’m taking five tubes,” You said gently. “You’re doing fine. Your blood flow is nice and steady today.”

“Y-Yeah,” Bob said, watching you with his head slightly turned. His voice had dropped to something deeper. Thicker. “That’s because o-of you.”

You glanced up.

He blinked, quickly. “Your voice. It…I-It helps.” You kept working, carefully switching out the first full tube for the second, then the third, eyes flicking to him only briefly.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Or a cosmic honor. One of the two.” That got a smile out of him, even if it was small. The rest of the draw passed in familiar quiet–soft beeping from your equipment, the slow, gentle swirl of the containment fans, the hum of the overhead lights. His blood was warm in your hands. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until you reached the fifth tube and carefully capped it.

You retracted the needle in one smooth motion, placing it in the sharps container before gently pressing a cotton ball to the puncture site.

“Pressure here, please.”

Bob complied, two fingers resting lightly over the spot. You retrieved a bandage, peeled it open, and pressed it into place over the cotton. Your hand lingered a second longer than it needed to. His skin was flushed warm beneath your glove. He smelled faintly of cedar and limes, probably from his shampoo. Then you leaned back in your chair and gave him a mock-serious look.

“So,” You said, cocking your head, “Does Sentry want a lollipop for his troubles?”Bob groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“D-Don’t get him riled up…” You laughed at the way his cheeks turned rosy again, as he attempted to hold back a smile, which failed.

”You sure?” You teased, “You don’t want me to pull out the glittery sticker chart?”

“W-We talked about this…He remembers t-things like that.” You both burst into soft laughter again, the kind that curled at the edges of your ribs and left everything just a little lighter.

And somewhere behind you, the flower twitched.

The petals shifted.

The pulse in its center matched his heartbeat.

But neither of you noticed.

——————

The next day, just after 2:00 p.m., the soft hiss of the lab doors made your head snap up again.

You were halfway through a long-winded notation on the flower’s latest chromatographic analysis when you heard the now-familiar rustle of footsteps and the unmistakable creak of someone cradling a takeout bag with too much care.

“Brought you lunch!” Bob announced.

He looked warm again–an oversized hoodie only blue this time, the same worn sweatpants from yesterday, and hair pulled back messily like he’d tied it in a rush. His free hand shoved deep into his pocket, but the other held a paper bag from a café you liked downtown. He wore the same small, crooked smile that made it difficult to think straight.

“Careful,” You warned playfully, turning in your seat to face him, “If you keep feeding me, I’ll start to expect this kind of treatment.”

Bob shrugged, walking in slow, casual steps toward your workstation. “M-might be worth it…Just to s-see you eat.”

You smiled at that–too caught up in the rare softness between you to notice the way the flower behind its containment dome had begun to stir.

Not much. Just a twitch of its outermost petals. A subtle change in the shimmer of its stamen. But you were facing Bob. You didn’t see the way it reacted to his voice.

“I-I got you the g-grain bowl you like. The one with roasted squash, the f-feta, that spicy vinaigrette you always try to recreate in your lab notebook–”

“I do not take vinaigrette notes in here,” You interjected, grinning.

Bob set the bag down gently on the corner of your cleared space shaking his head at you, glancing over at the dome just as the hum of your equipment shifted slightly. The air changed. Subtle, at first. Like something pressurizing behind glass.

He leaned over–only just–peering closer at the flower inside.

That was all it took.

The dome fogged instantly with a pale gold haze. Then–without warning–the containment glass shuddered with a sharp, pinging sound, like internal pressure had snapped a seal.

Then it ruptured.

The top of the cloche blew off with a muted pop, and a cloud of glittering golden dust erupted from the flower in a slow-motion burst. It expanded like fog, like breath in cold air–drifting, floating–straight into Bob’s face.

You froze for half a second. Then your instincts kicked in hard and fast.

“Shit—Bob!” You yelled, already leaping from your stool and hitting the emergency switch on the wall.

Red lights flashed as the isolation protocols kicked in. Vents slammed shut with a metallic clank, and the air filtration units hummed to life. Your console blinked through a security override as the lab sealed itself airtight. Your heart thudded in your chest like a drumbeat.

Bob had staggered back, coughing hard and pawing at his face, blinking rapidly. The golden dust coated his cheeks, his lashes, the curve of his nose, and clung to his stubble like cosmic pollen. It shimmered with a strange, otherworldly sheen–like it was alive, almost.

“Hey–hey–Bob, come here.” You grabbed him gently but firmly by the wrist, leading him toward the decontamination corner. “Don’t rub your eyes. Just come with me. You’re okay, just–just keep breathing.”

He nodded, still coughing, blinking fast. “I-it got in m-my face–feels like sand, b-but–s-sticky, maybe–” He stumbled slightly as you pushed the lever on the eyewash station.

“Lean in,” You ordered, voice steady. “Both hands on the sides. I’m gonna guide you.” You pressed the large silver button. The twin streams of water erupted instantly, and he hissed through clenched teeth as the cold hit. You steadied him, one hand braced on his lower back as he tilted forward.

”Keep blinking,” You instructed, “Get it flushed out. It’s probably just pollen but I can’t take chances, we still don’t know what that stuff is.”

“It’s–f-fine,” he said, spitting water out, breath hitching. “It doesn’t b-burn, just f-feels weird–” His voice was strained, breathless. You didn’t like the way his skin had started to pink at the edges, how the golden dust had clung even beneath his collar.

When the two-minute flush was over, you helped him lean back slowly, grabbing a towel from the stack nearby and pressing it gently to his face.

“We’re not done yet,” You said, pulling a second towel out and pressing it to the back of his neck. “Blow your nose. Three times. Then cough hard. I want that stuff out of your lungs if you inhaled any of it.”

He obeyed without protest, still coughing lightly between ragged breaths. The dust had left faint shimmer marks down the front of his hoodie, now slightly wet from the eyewash station. You reached over to the wall unit, flipped on the emergency fan array, and turned your console back toward manual override. The air slowly began to cycle through a localized carbon scrubbing system.

You turned back to him, grabbing a disposable cloth and wiping under his jaw, where a little gold still shimmered. His eyes were red-rimmed but clear. Breathing shallow, but not distressed.

You stepped back, hands braced on your hips, the overhead scrubbers humming louder now as the first cycle of filtered air began to push through the sealed lab.

Bob sat perched on the deacon bench, towel still clutched in his hands, his lashes dripping, cheeks damp, and glittered with flecks of gold the eyewash hadn’t quite cleared. He looked flushed–not sick, not distressed–just… warm. Lit from within, like something in him was beginning to glow. But you didn’t let yourself think about that.

Not yet.

“Are you okay?” You asked quietly, kneeling slightly so you were more at eye level with him, voice softening as you scanned his face for any irregularities. “Are you dizzy? Lightheaded? Anything weird?”

Bob blinked slowly, the water still dripping off the tips of his hair as he met your gaze.

“N-No…” He murmured, voice rough with lingering grit, “Just…Feel kinda like I s-snorted fairy dust.” He gave a weak little smile. “M-might be glowing in the dark now.”

You rolled your eyes and let out a half-relieved breath, giving him a playful–but firm–swat to the arm.

“This isn’t funny. You know we have to be in isolation for twenty-four hours now, right?”

Bob groaned, slumping back slightly against the bench. “Ugh. Great. Cool. L-love that.” You crossed your arms.

“We’re both trapped in here. With no way out. The lab is in full lockdown. Airlocked. Everything. Biocontainment protocol 9A.” He sighed, tilting his head toward you dramatically. “

It’s not like we don’t already spend the majority of our free time together or anything.” You narrowed your eyes.

“Don’t act like this is some cozy movie night. You almost got yourself pollinated into another dimension.” Your voice was softer now. More affectionate, more playful. Your gaze dropped briefly–to the faint shimmer still clinging to the edge of his collarbone–and that’s when you noticed it.

You looked down at yourself.

Tiny flecks of gold sparkled faintly across your sleeves, dusted across the dark wool of your sweater and even the collar of your lab coat. The stuff was finer than you thought–so fine you’d barely felt it settle.

“Shit.”

“What?” Bob asked, alarmed.

You pulled your lab coat off immediately, shrugging out of it and tossing it into the nearest biohazard bin. Your sweater followed next, leaving you in the tank top you had underneath–thin, breathable, already damp with nervous sweat. The cold air bit at your arms, but it was better than risking more exposure. You grabbed a clean disposable mask from the supply drawer and tugged it on.

“You got exposed?” Bob asked, sitting up straighter.

You gave him a wry look as you reached for a pair of gloves. “You think that cloud only wanted you?”

He flushed again and shifted where he sat. “S-Sorry…”

“Not your fault,” you said quickly. “You didn’t provoke it.”

Bob’s eyes slid to the corner of the lab where the flower still sat in its shattered dome, motionless now, but unmistakably altered–its petals twitching like cooling muscles, the last of the pollen still floating down like it hadn’t quite obeyed gravity yet.

You pointed to his hoodie.

“That’s gotta come off too.”

He blinked. “W-What?”

“Bob. Your hoodie is covered. You’re basically wearing a glitter bomb.”

“Oh…Right.” He looked down at himself and, reluctantly, peeled the hoodie off over his head, careful not to shake loose any more of the clinging dust. The fabric crackled softly as the static gave way. You moved forward with a biohazard bag already open and waiting.

“Drop it in,” you said, and he obeyed, his white T-shirt riding up slightly with the movement. You caught a glimpse of pale skin, faint golden freckles across his lower ribs, the subtle cut of his hip. You averted your eyes quickly, pretending not to notice.

But he noticed.

You didn’t speak for a beat.

Then:

“Okay,” you said, stepping back with the sealed bag in hand, “Contaminated clothing secured. Isolation timer has started. We’ve got twenty-four hours to kill and a potentially sentient flower that just gas-bombed the strongest man on Earth.”

Bob blinked at you, then gave the tiniest smirk.

“Th-this gonna be in the report?”

“Oh, absolutely,” You muttered, deadpan. “‘Subject A leaned into mysterious glowing flower. Subject B now has fairy glitter in her bra.’”

He laughed. Harder than you expected. The sound echoed softly in the sealed room and you let it hang there for a moment. Eventually his laughter faded, but the heat that was beginning to build in the lab didn’t.

It wasn’t just the tension between you anymore–it was physical. Palpable. You could feel it crawling along the inside of your spine like static. Your skin felt…Tight. Like your clothes were holding in too much warmth. Like the fabric of your tank top was suddenly too heavy in all the wrong places and far too light in others.

You shifted your weight from one leg to the other, hoping it would pass, but it didn’t.

Bob was still sitting on the bench, towel now draped loosely across his lap, chest rising and falling more steadily than before–but even from a few feet away, you could see the faint shine of sweat beginning to gather at the hollow of his throat.

You squinted slightly.

“Is it just me,” You said slowly, brushing a strand of hair off your neck, “Or is it…Hot in here?”

Bob lifted his head toward you, blinking slowly. His cheeks were still pink–flushed in that way people only got when they were either just out of a fever or just getting into something much more compromising.

“I-I thought it was just me,” He said, adjusting how he sat. “I figured the air filters w-weren’t moving much cool air yet. It’s… It’s an enclosed space, so…” He trailed off, eyes catching briefly on your arms, the exposed slope of your collarbone, and then darting away again, as if ashamed of the glance.

You nodded, trying to focus–but it was getting harder. Your tank top clung to the skin beneath your ribs like a second layer of sweat-dampened silk. You could feel the heat collecting at your lower back, a slow, stoked furnace of warmth that wasn’t just the room. Your breathing shifted slightly. Shallower.

There was a kind of pressure building behind your sternum. An ache–not painful, not sharp. Just…Present. Gnawing. Low in your belly. You cleared your throat.

“Do you feel weird?” You asked, keeping your voice as casual as you could. “Like… more than just warm? Any lightheadedness? Sensory changes?” Bob didn’t answer right away. His shoulders rolled back slowly, and his hand came up to drag across the back of his neck. You watched the way his palm moved over the sweat-damp strands of hair, the tension in his forearm, the way his biceps flexed just slightly under the tight stretch of cotton.

He wasn’t looking at you now. But his voice was quiet when he answered.

“M-My heart rate i-is up,” He admitted. “But I d-don’t feel sick. I just feel–” He stopped. Swallowed. Then: “Wound up. I-it’s like I’ve been waiting for something to happen and m-my body’s just trying to stay ahead of it.” You stared at him, hearing as he listed out the same symptoms you were feeling.

Then there was the ache again–twisting low and slow, enough to make you shift your thighs closer together without thinking. You noticed the way Bob’s eyes tracked the motion and immediately flicked away. His chest was rising faster now. His jaw clenched, breath audible through his nose. Something was happening. Something chemical, something hormonal. Something Induced.

You took a slow breath, then glanced at the ruined containment dome, the flower sitting quietly like nothing had happened. Its stamen pulsed gently, and the last wisps of pollen still hovered in the filtered air like gold-lit ghosts.

”You said it didn’t burn when the pollen hit…” You murmured, “Just felt weird…Right?” He nodded slowly, eyes flicking toward your face, then to your mouth, then away. You swallowed hard, wiping a bead of sweat off your forehead. ”How weird?”

Bob exhaled a shaky breath. His hands flexed against his thighs, fingers twitching.

“It just felt really…Light,” he rasped. “Like ash. N-Not like sand–softer. Barely even there. But now–” He trailed off, and when he looked at you, it was like being seen for the first time. His pupils were blown wide, only a thin ring of ocean-blue clinging to the edge. His voice lowered.

“Now I feel like my skin is on fire. L-Like I’m burning…And everything’s so damn sensitive. I c-can’t stop–” His voice cracked, “–I can’t stop looking at you.” Your breath caught. The ache between your legs deepened sharply, twisting upward through your belly like someone had plucked a string that now hummed through your bones. The realization slammed into you with full force. The heat. The ache. The scent. The shimmer. The reaction.

Fuck. You staggered backward from the bench slightly and slapped your hand down on the comm panel by the edge of your lab table, hitting the line for Bucky.

“Come on, come on, pick up–”

“Yeah?” Bucky’s voice crackled over the line. “What’s up?”

“Bucky,” You said, trying to steady your breathing. “Where exactly were you when you found that flower? Be specific. What were the surroundings?”

“I told you, it was near the tree line,” He answered, confused. “On the way back from the ridge. Why?”

“Was there anything else? Anything that stood out?”

There was a pause. Then, “Uh…There was kind of a–garden? Like, a bunch of them. Just a whole patch. Maybe fifty or sixty, I dunno, they were all clumped together.”Another pulse of heat ripped through your core, and you clenched your thighs, biting back a soft, involuntary groan. You half-collapsed, catching yourself on the table edge before sliding down the side of it, pressing your forehead into your forearm.

“Where were they, Bucky?” You grit out through clenched teeth. “Was there a lab? A compound? A goddamn marker on the ground–anything?”

“What? Y/N, I don’t–wait, there was a lab…But it wasn’t even close. Maybe two miles east of it. Looked abandoned. You think it’s connected?”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, voice rough, stomach clenching. Your vision was starting to blur around the edges. “That’s not wild growth, Buck. That’s a planted field. That was cultivated. You brought me a fucking bioweapon.”

There was silence.

Bob had shifted, and when you looked up, he was no longer on the bench. He had crouched behind one of the heavy lab tables on the far end of the room, head bowed, palms braced hard against the floor like he was praying—or like he was trying to hold himself together.

“I-it’s getting worse,” he called out, voice hoarse and echoing faintly off the tile. “I—I can feel it in my hands, my back—like I’m buzzing from the inside out. You need to go to another room, Y/N. Please. I don’t—I don’t know what’s going to happen—”

“There is no other room,” you snapped, clutching your own torso, fingers digging into your tank top like it could peel the sensation off your skin. “We’re sealed in. Remember? Isolation. Twenty-four hours.”

You turned back to the comm, swallowing back the pulse building low in your belly. “Bucky, something happened in that lab. This isn’t just a flower. It’s engineered—enhanced. There’s pheromone manipulation in the pollen. Maybe synthetic hormones. We both got exposed.”

“What kind of exposure?”

You hesitated.

Then you exhaled shakily, voice lowering. “The worst kind. I think it’s… I think it’s sex pollen, Bucky.”

A beat of stunned silence on the other end. Then:

“…You’re shitting me.”

“I wish I was,” you hissed, grinding the heel of your hand into your temple, heart pounding. “And unless I get a suppressant cocktail in the next thirty minutes, I’m going to lose it.”

“What about Bob?”

You turned your head just slightly toward where Bob was crouched, shaking. His knuckles had gone white.

“He’s already losing it,” You whispered.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Nothing,” you said, too fast. “Just…We’re locked in for twenty-four hours. There’s nothing anyone can do. Just… Just keep the others out. Don’t let anyone near the door.”

There was a long pause. Then Bucky’s voice dropped.

“Y/N. What exactly happened in there?”

You clenched your jaw and gave the only answer you could.

“I’ll tell you if we survive it.” Then you hung up the comm, bracing your hands on your knees as the ache spread like wildfire across your thighs, your chest, the hollow between your hips. Everything was overstimulated–fabric too rough, air too dry, skin too tight.

And then there was Bob.

You looked up slowly, panting now, vision swimming with heat and color. You could barely see his face in the shadow of the bench, but you heard his voice.

“I-It’s in me,” he said quietly. “Whatever it is. I can feel it in m-my blood. My skin feels like it’s too small. I’m–I’m shaking. I c-can’t stop it.” His breath hitched, voice breaking apart. “I can smell you. I c-can hear your heart. I can feel every molecule in this goddamn r-room. God, what is this stuff?” You were already dragging yourself across the floor, crawling on hands and knees to the nearest storage cabinet, yanking open drawers for anything–anything–that might help regulate internal chemistry. You were half-crazed with heat, sweat dripping between your shoulder blades, your whole body lit up like it had been set on fire from the inside.

“Okay,” you muttered, teeth clenched. “We’re gonna–we’re gonna figure this out. Just don’t come near me, Bob. Not yet.”

You couldn’t see him now, but you heard the thick, wet swallow from where he hid behind the bench.

“I w-won’t,” He rasped. “But…If you don’t figure it out soon…” His voice was barely audible now. “…I d-don’t know if I’m gonna b-be able to stop myself.” The words weren’t loud. They weren’t cruel. But they hit you like a blow to the chest. A sharp pulse rippled through your core–your muscles tensed like a wire had snapped in your belly. The ache between your legs twisted again, hot and hungry, and a broken sound escaped your lips before you could stop it.

A whimper. Soft, shaken, and needy.

”Shut up,” You gasped, your voice hoarse with panic and arousal, hand bracing against the cabinet, “Just…Stop talking, Bob please…Your voice. Fuck sake.” Another wave of heat surged under your skin like a current of electricity. You curled slightly into yourself, arms trembling, every breath catching high in your throat.

“I–I’m sorry,” Bob groaned from across the room, his voice cracking with guilt and something far darker. You heard him shift, heard the thump of his back hit the cabinet behind him like he’d braced himself against it, like he couldn’t trust his limbs to obey. He let out a loud breath, shuddering.

”G-God, I’m–I’m sorry, I c-can’t even think straight–“ His voice broke on the last word, thick with restraint. You dragged open another drawer with shaking fingers, rummaging through cold metal and sterile pouches, tossing one after the other to the side. Glucose packs. Emergency syringes. No suppressants. No hormonal regulators. Nothing for this kind of exposure.

Your vision blurred as your stomach clenched again. You could feel sweat beading at the base of your spine, making your tank top stick like a second skin. You couldn’t stop panting. Couldn’t stop trembling.

”Fuck…” You hissed, almost on the brink of sob. You slammed the drawer shut with a metallic clang, the sound too loud, echoing in the sealed lab like it was mocking you. ”I can’t–I-I can’t find anything.” You wheezed, voice cracking. You braced your hands on the cold tile, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

The need was crawling over your skin like insects. Every breath was friction. Every shift of your body felt like dragging yourself through static. Your nipples were tight beneath your tank top, aching. You could feel your own pulse in places it didn’t belong.

“Shit–shit,” You whispered, eyes welling with frustrated tears. “Oh my god.”

Behind the bench, Bob made a low, strangled noise.

A grunt. Guttural. Desperate.

You couldn’t see him.

But you didn’t need to.

Because you could feel him.

You could feel the way the air changed when he moved. You could feel the ripple of heat that seemed to follow the sound of his voice. And worst of all–you could feel your body answering it.

Every cell in you was lit up with something heavy and humming. Something wild. Something designed.

You curled forward against the floor, pressing your forehead into your arm. You were panting now–wheezing, almos-trying to hold on. Trying not to cry.

You didn’t hear him crawl over, not until it was too late. Your breath was ragged, and your vision was swimming–and then warmth touched your arm. A large hand. Familiar. It closed over your bicep–but it lit your nerves on fire. You jerked away violently, scrambling back on instinct, collapsing onto your ass with a gasp. Your palm slammed against the tile and you skidded slightly, breath hitching as you spat out–

“Don’t touch me!” Your voice cracked, sharp and wet with panic. The motion made your spine arch, your tank top riding up slightly as your hip knocked into a rolling stool, the metal clattering away. Bob’s eyes widened in horror, hand halfway outstretched like it had betrayed him. He dropped to both knees in front of you instantly, not touching, but close enough for you to feel the warmth coming off his body like a wave.

“Y/N–” He breathed, his voice hoarse, chest heaving, “Y/N I-I feel it too, I p-promise. I feel everyth-ing” His hand hovered near your shoulder again, hesitant. Then, slowly, gently, he reached behind your neck, cradling it with a trembling touch. His fingers were hot against your skin, too hot. “Look at me. W-We’ll be okay. We’ll be o-okay.” You shook your head, lip quivering as the tears came faster now. Not the kind you could hide or blink away–these ones slid heavy and helpless down your cheeks, pooling at the corners of your mouth. You were trembling all over, shoulders shaking, thighs clenching without relief.

”I-I feel like I’m dying,” You whispered, voice raw, “Fuck, Bob it’s so painful.” He nodded once, his face contorting with shared agony, as his hand slipped from the back of your neck to your jaw, like he couldn’t decide whether to hold you or let go.

“I-I know,” He rasped, his other hand gripping his thigh so hard it shook, “I-I’m burning from the inside out. I can smell y-you…I can s-smell everything–“ You swallowed, chest rising in short, hard jerks. Because so could you.

His scent was all over the room now. Thick and devastating. It rolled over you in waves—heat-warmed cedarwood, sweat, and something deeper. Instinctual. Masculine. Not cologne. Not soap. Something completely and totally him. A biological beckoning, chemical and holy and blinding.

It made your thighs twitch and your breath break.

And your own scent…You could smell it, too. Like heat-glazed citrus and clean skin. Something golden and heavy, threaded with notes of sun-warmed vanilla and fresh-cut stems. Like the wild edge of spring. It filled your nostrils, clung to your skin, hung in the air between you like a dare.

Bob’s eyes fluttered, jaw clenching again. He let out a low grunt, like the effort of staying still was costing him something visceral. His voice cracked as he spoke.

“I-Isn’t there…a-any way we can stop this f-from getting worse?” You didn’t want to say it, you really didn’t. But the truth came out anyway, scraped and raw from your throat.

”Only if…” You swallowed. Your tongue felt too thick in your mouth, “Only if we have sex…” The words dropped like a stone.

Bob’s breath hitched so hard it almost sounded like a choke. His throat bobbed, and he blinked down at you, eyes wild and dilated, dark lashes damp with sweat and desperation.

There was a pause–long and shaking.

Then, softly:

“W-Would it be t-that bad if…If we did?”

You flinched. Just barely. The air stilled, vibrating between you. And then you shook your head slowly, tears welling again–not from heat this time, but from something deeper.

“I really didn’t want our first time together being l-like this.”

That stopped him cold. All the breath punched out of him in a single exhale. His lips parted, but nothing came out. His hand fell away from your jaw like it had been burned. His whole posture shifted–still close, but paralyzed with guilt.

You looked away.

Because if you looked at him now–if you looked into that face, flushed and desperate and filled with longing–you’d give in. Your breath hitched sharply—twice—before you folded forward on a gasp, one hand clutching your lower stomach like it might soothe the throbbing pulse building between your legs.

“God,” you choked out, voice breaking. “Oh my god, I—I can’t fucking take it.”

The ache had bloomed into something unbearable—wet and slick and throbbing through your core with every heartbeat. You were drenched, panties stuck to you, heat radiating off your skin like you were about to combust. Across from you, Bob made a strangled sound, his fists tight on his thighs, chest heaving as he forced shallow breaths through his nose—like if he didn’t, he might do something reckless.

“I c-can’t smell you,” He whispered, more to himself than to you. “I–I can’t smell you–I can’t–”

But he could. You both could. Your scent was everywhere–sweet and sharp and thick with want. It hung in the air between you like perfume, like bait, and you knew it was driving him mad.

You twitched again as another rush of slick gushed between your thighs and a broken moan slipped past your lips–soft, needy, involuntary. Your eyes squeezed shut as your hand pressed harder against your stomach, trying to contain it.

But it was useless.

“I can’t–fuck, I can’t take it–” You gasped, and before you could stop yourself, you were lunging forward.

You grabbed his face with both hands–hot, flushed skin beneath your palms–and crushed your mouth to his like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was a collision.

A mess of lips and teeth and spit.

You moaned into his mouth the second you felt him gasp beneath you–his lips parting wide in helpless surrender, his hands flying to your waist like magnets. The second he touched you, it was over. You melted into him, mouths sliding and sucking and devouring with sloppy, panting need.

Spit slicked your chin, his chin, your mouths, your skin. It dripped down between you as your lips broke and reconnected over and over in increasingly desperate, wet smacks. His tongue slid against yours, hungry and hot, and you whimpered into the kiss like your whole body was unraveling.

His hands squeezed your hips, hard–fingertips digging in, dragging you toward him roughly until your knees bumped his thighs and your chest hit his. You felt the tremble in him, felt the heat pouring off his body as he let out a low, feral grunt into your mouth, like he was trying to hold himself together and failing.

You pulled back just an inch, breath catching in your throat as a strand of spit still connected your lips, both of you panting so hard it echoed in the sealed lab.

“Fuck–” He gasped, chasing your mouth again, not even giving you time to respond before crashing back into the kiss, even hungrier this time. “You taste like–God–l-like sunlight–like h-honey–fuck, I can’t–can’t stop–”

“Don’t,” You moaned, sliding your tongue into his mouth again, letting it tangle with his, swallowing his sounds, his heat, his everything. “Don’t stop. Please. Don’t stop.” Your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking at the damp curls as his hands roamed, gripping your waist so tightly it made you whine. He guided you into his lap without thinking, until your knees straddled his thighs and your body pressed flush to his. You could feel everything–the twitch of his erection beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants, the way his breath hitched when your hips brushed his, the way his hands couldn’t stop moving–gripping, sliding, needing. Every inch of you was pressed tight to him, and he felt all of it. The heat. The wetness. The hunger.

”G-God…” He gasped, his head dropping to your shoulder for a split second, voice thick, “I c-can’t–can’t stop–need…Need something–“ And then his hands flexed, dragging you forward–against him. You cried out, the sound strangled and high as he rocked your hips into his, grinding you against the thick line of his cock through his sweatpants. The friction sent a lightning bolt through your core, and your whole body spasmed in response, clutching at his shoulders as the contact jolted through your nerves.

“Oh–God–” You moaned, tearing your mouth from his as your head tipped back, spine arching. “Oh fuck–do that again–” He didn’t even answer. Just groaned–loud, filthy–and rolled your hips again. Rougher. Harder. Enough that your soaked panties dragged hot and slick over the outline of him, soaking into the soft cotton of his clothes and yours.

You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders as your thighs trembled on either side of his lap. Your hands found his hair and tugged–hard–and he moaned so deeply it vibrated through your ribs. His mouth trailed down to your jaw, your throat, open-mouthed kisses dragging over sweat-slick skin. His tongue was everywhere–greedy and reverent–and then you felt him kiss the top of your chest, right along the edge of your tank top.

You were panting, shaking, drenched in sweat and arousal. You couldn’t stop grinding down against him now, couldn’t stop chasing that friction as you rolled your hips again and again, letting your swollen heat drag along his cock in slow, devastating passes. The pressure built fast, sharp and aching, pulsing low in your belly with every movement.

Bob’s mouth trembled where it kissed just below your collarbone. His fingers slipped up your sides, shaky but sure–and then they hooked under the thin straps of your tank top.

“P-Please–” He rasped, looking up at you like he was about to fall apart. “Can I—can I see you?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes. God, yes.”

He didn’t wait. He dragged the straps down your arms, kissing the slope of your shoulder as they slipped, one by one. Then he tugged the neckline down–slow, desperate–and bared your breasts to the heavy, sweat-damp air.

The second your nipples were exposed, he let out a groan–a sound so broken, it barely sounded human. His eyes glazed with worship, with hunger.

And then his mouth was on you.

He wrapped his lips around one tight, aching nipple and moaned–like he was dying for the taste of you. His tongue flicked, sucked, lapped, over and over, and you cried out, hips jerking uncontrollably in his lap as you rutted down against him.

“Oh my god–Bob–“ You gasped, fingers burying in his hair, yanking him closer, needier. “That–fuck–you’re so good…” He didn’t stop. If anything, he got more desperate. His tongue traced circles around your nipple, sucking it deeper into his mouth with each slow pull of his lips. One of his hands gripped your ass, guiding your hips faster against his erection, grinding you down until your whole body was quivering.

“Y-You’re so warm,” He panted between kisses. “So soft–God–“ And then he took the other nipple between his lips, just as eager, just as mindless. His tongue licked a long, slow stripe across the swell of your breast and you sobbed at the contact, your whole body arching into him. Bob groaned around your nipple one last time before pulling off with a wet pop, his mouth red and slick with spit. His eyes were blown wide, pupils so dilated there was barely any blue left–but there was something else swimming behind them too, something ancient, hungry, waiting to surface. His breath caught in his throat as he leaned in close, nudging your jaw with his nose, mouth grazing your cheek. Then suddenly–

He surged forward.

Your back hit the cold tile in one fluid motion, the breath punching out of your lungs as he guided you down with firm hands, mouth still dragging across your chest. The contrast between the icy floor and the furnace of your skin made you cry out softly, arching up into his touch.

“Bob–” You gasped, but your words cut off with a moan as his hands slipped low, gripping the waistband of your pants and underwear in one practiced motion.

“L-Lift your hips,” He instructed–voice rough and tight with restraint. You obeyed instantly, and he peeled both garments down your legs in a single fluid movement, baring you to the air, to him, to everything.

Your thighs quivered as the rush of cool air met the wet heat between them. You leaned up, grabbed the hem of your tank top, and tore it over your head. It hit the floor behind you just as Bob stripped off his shirt–his chest gleaming with sweat, muscles flexing, dusted with faint gold shimmer and a constellation of freckles across his collarbones.

You barely had a second to breathe before he dropped between your thighs again, mouth finding yours in a kiss so urgent and deep it knocked your head back against the tile. It was messier now–hotter, more desperate, his tongue fucking into your mouth with wild hunger.

Then he broke away just far enough to speak.

“I-I’m going to c-crawl on my fucking knees,” He growled, “And you’re gonna spread those thighs wider for me, and let me eat you until you come on my tongue.”You arched up with a moan, hips twitching off the floor. Your hands reached for him blindly, pulling at his shoulders as he trailed kisses down your throat, your chest, your ribs.

“I need you so fucking bad,” He whispered, his voice darker now–lower, smoother. The stutter was gone.

You blinked through the haze, the heat, the sweat clinging to your lashes–and that’s when you saw it. The eyes. Not Bob’s soft blue. Gold. Molten.

“Sentry,” You whispered, breath catching.

But you didn’t stop him.

You didn’t want to.

His teeth scraped gently along your stomach, sending electric pulses through your nerves, and then he kissed the inside of your hip bones like he was worshipping an altar.

“You smell so fucking sweet,” He murmured, nose dragging through the crease where your thigh met your core, voice reverent and filthy all at once. “I can’t wait to have a taste.” You sobbed his name as your thighs opened wider for him, your body obeying without question. He slid his hands beneath you, lifting your hips off the floor, draping your thighs over his shoulders–his palms spreading across your lower back to anchor you in place.

“Look at you,” He groaned, lips brushing against your soaked folds without yet tasting. “You’re drenched…You’re so fucking wet I can see it drip.”

Then he leaned in.

And licked a slow, devastating stripe up your center.

You choked on a scream. Your hips jerked hard against his mouth, and his arms tightened around your thighs, holding you down as his tongue moved again–sloppier this time. Messier. Hungrier. He licked into you like he was starving. Long, deep strokes. Quick flicks. Circles around your swollen clit that had you crying out his name.

“God, fuck–yes–”

You gripped his hair hard, yanking at the sweat-damp strands, and he groaned like he liked it–no, loved it. The vibration of the sound against your core made your whole body shake.

“You taste like summer, like heat, like stars.” He moaned. “Absolutely fucking sinful.” He pulled back only long enough to look at you, his mouth wet, chin dripping with slick.

“I can’t wait to make you come on my tongue,” He growled.

And then he dove back in.

Tongue sliding flat against your clit, then swirling, sucking it into his mouth with slow, rhythmic pulls that made your vision blur. You cried out, grinding into his face, your hands clutching his hair, your whole body vibrating with sensation.

“P-Please–” you whimpered, barely able to breathe, “Please don’t stop–”

He didn’t.

He licked and sucked and groaned like you were his favorite meal, like he could do this for hours. His hands gripped your ass, dragging you tighter to his mouth, keeping you from squirming away.

You were going to come.

It was building fast–tight and white-hot and burning like it had nowhere else to go. You were right on the edge when–

He slipped one thick finger inside you.

You let out a loud gasp. It wasn’t pain–it was too much. Too good. The stretch, the pressure, the way his mouth never stopped moving.

“That’s it,” He murmured against your clit. “Take my fingers…Just like that…You’re so tight, fuck…I’m imagining how you’re going to take me.”

You clenched around him, and he groaned again–louder this time–and slid a second finger in, stretching you open. His fingers curled up, rubbing slow, teasing strokes into that perfect, devastating spot. Your walls fluttered, your thighs trembled.

“Oh god, oh god–”

“Come for me,” He growled. “Right now. Let me feel you.”

And he sped up.

Fingers pumping hard, mouth sucking your clit with filthy precision. You sobbed his name, your back arched clean off the tile, and you shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you like fire, like lightning–your thighs locking around his head, your hands gripping his hair as you wailed through it.

He didn’t stop.

Not when you cried out.

Not when you begged.

He kept sucking, licking, fucking his fingers into you as your body convulsed.

Your body was still twitching when he pulled his fingers free–slick and trembling, your core fluttering from aftershocks as he slowly sat back on his heels.

His chin was soaked. His lips swollen. His eyes–those molten, god-touched eyes–burned down the length of your naked body like sunlight through stained glass.

“I should feel sated,” He murmured, voice too calm for the storm coiled in his chest. “I should be full from what I’ve just taken.”He leaned in. Slowly. Pressed one open-mouthed kiss to your thigh, then another–hot and reverent, just shy of your folds. His breath dragged over you, still sensitive, and it made you whimper.

“But I’m not,” He said low, his nose skimming up the inside of your leg as he worked his way toward your face. “I’m still starving.”

You were trying to breathe, but it wasn’t easy. Not with your pulse echoing in your throat, not with the ache between your legs still pulsing with the memory of his tongue, and certainly not with him looking at you like that.

“I’ve waited…So long to taste you.”

His voice was velvet heat–slick with need, rich with something that throbbed like want and worship tangled together.

He braced a hand on either side of your head as he crawled up over you, hair wild around his face, sweat glistening on the slopes of his shoulders and chest. The weight of him caged you in. It wasn’t heavy–it was all-consuming.

You reached up with a trembling hand and cupped his face. His skin was flushed, warm and slick, his jaw tight as though holding back something enormous.

“I can still feel you,” You whispered, voice raw. “On my mouth. On my thighs. Inside me.”

He smiled at that–but it wasn’t gentle.

It was hunger.

“You’ll feel me even more soon.”His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip, and his gaze flicked down–watching the way your mouth parted for him instinctively. He leaned in again, voice now a whisper of thunder against your cheek, “Imagine what it’s going to be like when I fuck you…” Your hips bucked helplessly beneath him, but he only smirked, catching them with a firm palm.

“Sentry,” You gasped, voice trembling as your thighs clenched under the weight of him, “P-Please. God—don’t you feel it too?!”

His nose brushed yours, breath hot against your cheek. He didn’t answer at first–just let that small, dangerous smile curl across his lips, teeth barely catching his lower lip before he released it.

“Of course I feel it,” He murmured, hips dragging downward, grinding his clothed cock into your slick heat. “It’s everywhere in me. In my chest, in my spine, my teeth.” His voice dropped to a darker pitch, and the gold in his eyes flared one last time before dimming. “I-I just know I’m going to get what I-I need…

Bob sat back on his knees between your spread thighs, hands sliding slow and sure down his stomach to the waistband of his sweatpants. “I-I already came once just from eating you out,” He confessed, voice timid now, “I t-think I have more in me…”

Then he tugged the sweatpants down.

Your breath stuttered in your throat.

His erection sprang free, flushed dark and glistening at the tip, already slick with the evidence of his earlier release. A thick bead of cum sat heavy at the crown, dripping slowly down the curve of his shaft, and your whole body twitched at the sight of it. The raw, shameless arousal surged in your belly like wildfire.

“Fuck–” You whispered, pupils blown wide.

He was beautiful. Veined and heavy and so hard it twitched with every breath. You couldn’t stop yourself. Your hand moved without thought–licking your palm once, slow and deliberate, before wrapping your fingers around him.

Bob groaned immediately–deep. His head dropped forward, curls swinging around his jaw, and his hips bucked into your touch as your hand slid down the length of him in a slow, sticky stroke. His cock throbbed in your grip. Hot. Pulsing.

“Mmmf–fuck,” He growled, the sound rattling against the walls. He dropped one hand down to your thigh to steady himself, the other bracing behind him as you worked him with your slick hand–up and down, tight and wet and slow, like you wanted to savor every second.

His breath came out in sharp pants, his face flushed, his eyes fluttering shut as your thumb rubbed just beneath the swollen head, gathering that leaking slick and spreading it over his cock.

“God, I didn’t even have to touch you and you came.” You whispered,

“That’s what y-you do to me,” he gasped, voice shaking. “I couldn’t help it—god, I couldn’t fucking help it—” He surged forward, kissing you hard, and you moaned against his mouth as his hips began to stutter forward, chasing the motion of your hand with every pass.

It was hot, the way he kissed you–messy. His mouth was open, panting against yours, lips dragging along your tongue, teeth grazing your bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth with a wet pop. He moaned into you with every stroke of your hand, deep in his chest, growling like it hurt not to move faster.

He kissed like he was about to fall apart in your arms.

Like he wanted to ruin you and thank you at the same time.

And you could feel it–he was close again. Already.

“G-God–don’t stop–don’t stop–” he choked out, hips bucking into your grip, his cock twitching hard in your palm.

Then his mouth tore from yours with a ragged moan, his body going rigid as he came–again.

Thick ropes of cum spilled across your stomach in hot, wet spurts–slicking your skin, painting the swell of your belly in messy, sticky heat. Bob cried out, breath catching, his hand clutching your thigh hard enough to leave fingerprints as his hips jerked against your hand one last time.

You watched it all, feeling it dripping down your skin. You slowed your hand, and then looked up at him. His eyes were fluttered closed. His mouth hung open, panting raggedly. His cheeks were red and damp with sweat, hair curling against his temples in loose, disheveled strands.

And then–

You ran your fingers through the puddle of cum on your stomach.

Bob’s eyes snapped open.

He watched, transfixed, as you dragged two fingers slowly through the mess he left on you–slicking them up, glossy with white.

Then you brought them to your mouth.

And sucked them clean.

He groaned–low and guttural, more animal than man. He surged forward and kissed you, hard–his mouth hot and open, tongue licking into yours like he needed to taste what you’d just tasted.

And when he pulled back–just barely–he looked drunk. Starved. His voice was hoarse, reverent.

“W-We taste so g-good together,” He whispered.

You whimpered, eyes wide and glassy.

And then your voice broke.

“I need you inside me.”

His breath hitched sharply. His eyes searched your face like a prayer–like he needed to make sure this wasn’t just the pollen, wasn’t just chemical.

But your body told him everything he needed to know. The slick between your thighs. The tremble in your voice. The way your legs fell open without fear. He saw your hand reaching for him–trembling, open, desperate–and instead of just taking it, he kissed it.

One slow kiss to your palm. Then your wrist. Then each fingertip in turn, reverent and breath-warmed. His eyes didn’t leave yours, even when his lips brushed the soft pads of your fingers. It felt like something sacred.

“I-I’m yours, Y/N…” He whispered, his voice wrecked–hoarse and honeyed, lined with awe. “All yours.”

Your chest trembled. Not from the pollen. Not from the heat. From the weight of it–his words, his body, his need. You brought your other hand to his cheek, touching the sweat-slick curve of his face, thumb stroking over his flushed skin.

“You’re burning up,” You whispered.

“So are you,” He breathed back.

But the ache had shifted now. It was lower. Thicker. No longer frantic. Just heavy. Full. Demanding.

His lips met yours again–slow this time, almost trembling. Not chasing. Not crashing. Just pressing. Full and warm. Your mouths moved in sync, deeper with every pass, until he adjusted his weight above you, one forearm braced beside your head while the other hand snaked down to your thigh.

His fingers curled around the underside of it, tugging you closer until your legs wrapped around him again and your slick heat pressed against his length. He groaned into your mouth at the contact.

“G-God, Y/N,” He muttered, dragging his mouth down to your throat, kissing the line of your pulse. “You’re s-still dripping. I can feel it–so hot, so wet for me…”

His hand shifted, reaching between your bodies. He stroked himself once. Twice. The glide was obscene, slick with both your arousal and his release from before. He cursed low under his breath–voice strained with restraint–and guided the thick head of his erection to your entrance. Then–he paused, letting his forehead press to yours, his nose brushing yours as he whispered

“T-Tell me you want it.”

”I want you, Bob,” You breathed, “I’ve wanted you for so long…Please I want you inside me.” You begged, almost on the brink of tears just from the sheer anticipation that wracked through your body. He let out a long sigh and slid in, with such slowness you felt your whole body tense up.

You both gasped at the same time–loud, broken, raw. Your back arched and your thighs locked tighter around him as he pushed forward, inch by inch, stretching you wide with the thick, pulsing heat of him. He groaned above you, mouth falling open as your walls clenched around him, impossibly wet and tight.

“Oh–f-fuck…” He stuttered, his voice cracking like it couldn’t contain the feeling. “You feel…God…You feel like…Like e-everything.”

You whined under him, nails scraping lightly across his back. Every inch dragged through you like it was carved for you–hot, thick, filling. It was too much and not enough at once.

“You’re stretching me so good,” You gasped, voice shaking. “Bob–go slow–I wanna feel all of it.” He obeyed, hips moving with devastating care, sinking into you until he bottomed out, fully seated, buried to the hilt. The moan that left your mouth was guttural. His wasn’t any better. It came from deep in his chest–an animal sound, trembling and wrecked.

He stayed still inside you, just for a moment, just to feel everything, just to breathe.

Your chest rose beneath him in shuddering gasps, your nails pressing into the flex of his back as your hips trembled beneath the weight of him. He was deep–so deep it was hard to breathe–but it wasn’t painful. It was perfect. Like a lock clicking into place after too many years of holding the wrong key.

His forehead dropped to yours, your sweat-slick skin sticking where it touched, his breath ragged and hot against your cheek. His arms trembled faintly from the restraint, from the fire still licking through his blood, from the unholy grip of your body around him. His hands slid slowly from the curve of your thigh up to your waist, his thumbs brushing over your hips as if memorizing them. One hand trailed higher, tracing the line of your ribs, his touch light, soothing, trembling.

”You feel–“ He choked on the words, voice wrecked and shaking, “–Like…L-Like you were made for every inch of m-me.” Your fingers dug into his shoulders as your back arched slightly, hips shifting. The movement made him twitch deep inside you, and the sound he let out was hoarse and broken. Your lips brushed his, breath mingling.

“I need you to move,” you whispered. “Please, Bob. I need you to–”

He cut you off with a kiss.

Not desperate. Not wild. Just deep. Intentional. His lips dragged against yours in slow, soft strokes, his tongue slipping into your mouth like a secret. You kissed him back with a whimper, your hands cupping his face, fingers sliding into the damp curls at the base of his neck.

Then he started to move.

Slow at first.

A long, slow withdrawal that had your breath catching in your throat, followed by a deep, steady thrust that made you moan into his mouth. His hips rocked forward again, harder this time, but still slow. Still deliberate. Still savoring.

You felt every inch.

And he felt everything.

Your slick heat around him. The way your body welcomed him, tightened for him, trembled from the fullness. He moved like he wanted to stay inside you forever–long strokes that dragged through you with devastating patience, hips grinding at the end of each thrust like he wanted to feel the slick press of your clit against his skin.

He kissed you between thrusts–messy, wet kisses that dragged across your jaw, your cheek, your mouth again. His lips caught your whimpers. His tongue tasted your gasps. He moaned into your mouth when you clenched around him.

And then–

His hand slid up your chest, broad and warm, until his palm cupped the base of your throat. Not tight. Not forceful. Just there. Anchoring. Feeling the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath his fingers like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever touched.

“You’re burning,” He whispered, lips dragging across your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “S-So warm…So soft…So alive…”

His hips rolled again, slow but deep, pressing into you until your breath stuttered beneath his palm. Your body arched into him helplessly, your thighs wrapping tighter around his waist, your mouth parting on a moan that he caught with a kiss–hot, slick, and panting. He swallowed it greedily.

The pressure of his hand on your throat didn’t restrict. It grounded. Like he needed to feel your heartbeat just to believe this was real.

You whimpered, and he pulled back enough to look at you–his curls dripping sweat, his lips swollen and damp, and those eyes, half-lidded and molten gold at the edges.

“G-God, I could be inside you forever,” he rasped, voice trembling like the words themselves threatened to undo him. “I–I never want to l-leave this. Never wanna stop feeling you like this…”

Another thrust–this one deeper, grinding. Your head dropped back with a gasp.

“Bob–” You sobbed his name like it was the only word you remembered, your fingers twisting hard in his hair. He groaned, deep and wrecked, his hips stuttering slightly as you tugged, his body responding like you’d yanked something primal out of him. His mouth found yours again, frantic and hot, tongue flicking into your mouth with messy, desperate hunger.

Then he pulled back just enough to see your face–flushed, dewy with sweat, eyes glassy and wide.

“Y-You’re close again,” He murmured, like it was something holy. His hand still cradled your throat lightly, thumb stroking gently beneath your jaw as he pressed his forehead to yours, “I–I can feel it, you’re tightening every time I move–you’re doing so good for me Y/N.” You whimpered beneath him, your hands clutching at his back, at his shoulders, pulling him deeper, harder, anything–

“I’ve got you,” He whispered, rocking into you again, the friction slow and devastating. “Let go for me. Come around me. I wanna feel it. I wanna feel you fall apart.”

You moaned–high and soft and broken.

“That’s it,” he breathed, voice breaking. “Just like that. You’re doing so good—G-God–you’re so perfect.” Your thighs shook around his hips. His hand slid down from your throat to your chest, splaying wide over your sternum, as if he could feel the orgasm building beneath your ribs. His other hand slipped to your hip, holding you still as he gave one slow, deep thrust that hit the exact spot that made your vision blur.

Your mouth dropped open in a cry.

“Come for me,” He begged, hips rolling again, steady and relentless. “Please–I wanna feel you–let me feel you come around me–”

You shattered.

Your back arched off the floor, your breath catching in a series of sobbed gasps as the orgasm ripped through you. He kept moving, kept whispering praise through your climax, voice ragged with awe.

“That’s it…That’s it, Y/N…You’re so beautiful like this–“ You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you on earth, your nails digging into his back, your body convulsing beneath him with every wave of pleasure. You could feel yourself pulsing around him, feel how it dragged a strangled moan out of his throat.

“I-I’m so close,” He gasped, his voice wrecked, his rhythm faltering. “W-Wanna fill you up–please–can I–?”

You nodded, breathless and trembling. “Yes–yes, please–I want it–give it to me–” With a broken groan, his hips jerked forward one last time–and he spilled inside you. His whole body shook as he came, burying his face in your neck, his arms wrapping around you like he needed to hold every part of you to survive it.

You could feel it–every throb, every pulse of warmth deep inside you. His moans, soft and shaking, buzzed against your throat as his breath caught in your skin.

He didn’t move for a long while.

Just stayed there–buried inside you, mouth warm against your neck, arms tight around your waist like he was anchoring himself to this moment, to the rhythm of your heart against his chest. His breath was still coming in short, shaken bursts, and yours wasn’t much better. You were both trembling a little–not from fear, not anymore–but from the rawness of what had just passed between you. Like your bodies hadn’t quite caught up to the aftermath of something so explosive, so full.

But the heat was different now.

It had shifted. Softened. Still warm. Still thick. But no longer blistering, no longer maddening. Just…Lingering.

Your hands slid slowly up his back, fingers tracing through the sweat that slicked his spine, dragging across the faint bumps of his vertebrae. He let out a soft, shaky sigh against your skin. Your fingertips wandered to his sides, palms smoothing gently over the curve of his ribs as if to say I’m here. Still here. I’m okay.

You tilted your head and pressed a kiss to his shoulder—soft, damp, reverent. His skin tasted like salt and breathless devotion.

Bob shifted then, his arms loosening around you as he lifted his head just slightly, enough to look down at you. His hair was a light brown mess, damp curls stuck to his temples, a few clinging to his cheeks. He blinked at you–slow, still dazed–but there was something clearer in his eyes now. Something tender. His hand dragged along your side, skimming your ribs, and he leaned down to kiss you again.

His lips moved against yours like he hadn’t quite gotten his fill–like maybe he never would. He kissed your mouth, then your jaw, then your neck, peppering slow, breathless kisses along the column of your throat. You giggled once–just a little–as his nose brushed the underside of your jaw, tickling your skin.

He pulled back just enough to blink down at you, lips wet and parted, chest still heaving.

”Y-You know I like you, right?” Your breath caught. Your fingers paused where they rested near the nape of his neck. His voice had cracked slightly on the word like, and you could tell he meant something so much more than that. Of course you knew his feelings for you, it was easy to spot, but hearing him say it aloud–even after the both of you just had the most carnal sex ever–still made you a bit breathless. You swallowed, then nodded–eyes searching his face, your heart fluttering in your throat.

“I like you too,” You whispered, your voice shaky and soft. “Always have…” Your cheeks burned, and not from residual heat. You traced a finger over the curve of his shoulder. “T-The circumstances right now are a bit c-crazy…But…Maybe after this…”You tried to continue, but your nerves tangled the words together.

He finished them for you.

“I-I’ll take you out,” He said, nodding once, as if promising both you and himself. “We…We can go to your favorite r-restaurant. And we can do this right…” He ducked his head a little, voice lowering to a smile. “W-Without the sex pollen.” You let out a laugh–helpless and bright–and leaned up to kiss him again. He grinned into it, just a little, and kissed you twice more, slower now, like sealing the agreement. When he finally pulled back, his thumb was brushing your cheekbone, his other hand still lazily tracing your hip.

His gaze dropped to your chest for a moment, then back to your eyes. “A-Are you still aching?” He asked gently.

You paused, body still humming with the memory of him, but no longer sharp with urgency. You shifted slightly, feeling the wet stickiness between your thighs, the throb finally quieting to something warm and dull.

“It’s dulled a little,” you admitted. “But I think we should wash up…”

He blinked, nodding. “R-Right. Yeah.”

You offered a small smile, brushing the sweat-slick hair from his forehead. “We’ve got that little makeshift shower unit in the corner storage. Emergency setup. I-I can activate it.”

He looked at you, eyes soft, one hand trailing lightly over your ribs again.

“I-I’ll come with you,” He murmured. “Just to m-make sure you’re okay.” His curls hung loose now, wild and slightly matted from where your fingers had yanked at them during your climax. The gold shimmer on his skin caught the low lab lights, making him glow faintly where he hovered above you.

“Aww,” you murmured, brushing a hand lazily over the sharp line of his jaw, “That’s sweet, Bob. Really. But we both know that’s not the reason you’re joining me.” Bob flushed immediately, lips twitching into a bashful grin.

“O-Okay,” He said quietly, nuzzling your cheek with the tip of his nose. “M-Maybe it isn’t…M-Maybe I just wanna wash you, and k-kiss you under the water…Until all this heat dies down inside me.” Your chest stuttered at that, heart tripping over itself. His voice was so soft, so wrecked, so full of you.

“Now that’s much better,” You whispered, leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth. He smiled into it, and you felt the way his arms curled tighter around your middle, the way his cock–still half-hard inside you–twitched slightly at the praise. He sighed, then slowly pulled out, both of you gasping a little at the drag of it. You shivered, and he was already reaching for a nearby towel to cover you while you sat up. His hand cradled the back of your head as you steadied yourself. Always gentle, even now.

You stretched your sore limbs and started for the far corner of the lab where the emergency hygiene setup was stored. Still naked, still glowing with post-orgasm daze, you knelt beside the console and started activating the emergency rinse station–a compact but functional retractable stall with hot water access, a single pressure-nozzle head, and sealed drainage for contamination containment. You flipped open the sanitation kit, pulling out the packet of unscented soap, a washcloth, and the emergency towels folded like paper bricks.

Bob padded over behind you, and you heard him laugh softly as you organized the supplies with shaky hands.

“What?” You said over your shoulder, arching an eyebrow.

He scratched the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “N-Nothing. Y-You just look really focused for someone who’s still naked and covered in glittery sex pollen.”

You snorted. “Yeah, well,” you murmured, standing and turning to face him, “Remind me to access the cameras in here later and delete the footage of what happened…”

Bob raised his brows. “You think there’s audio?”

You gave him a deadpan look. “Bob. We shouted at each other and cried out mid-orgasm while covered in science glitter. If there’s audio, we’re already blackmail material.”

His face turned scarlet.

“Y-You think they’ll–”

“I don’t think we want our sex tape leaking,” You interrupted, grinning wickedly as you flicked the shower head on. Warm water streamed out with a pleasant hiss, filling the space with a light mist and the sound of soft rainfall. You stepped under it first, pulling him gently in after you. The water hit your skin and instantly began washing away the gold flecks still clinging to your chest and thighs.

Bob’s hands found your waist again.

“…M-Maybe I’ll take a copy,” He mumbled.

You looked over your shoulder at him with mock exasperation. “You’ll have the real thing almost every night, Bob,” you said, voice low and teasing. “I don’t think you’ll need a copy.” His breath hitched–barely–and then you felt his mouth press to the back of your shoulder, his arms circling your waist from behind.

“I-Is that so?” He asked, lips trailing kisses up your damp neck.

You tilted your head back against him, smiling into the steam.

“Oh, it’s definitely so,” You said, reaching back to cup the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as the water cascaded around you both–cleansing your skin, but not your hunger.

3K notes · View notes