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Eggnog - Bob (Bob thinks he can handle the spiked eggnog. He cannot.) December 16th

Christmas Tree - Bucky December 17th

Mr. Grinch - John Walker December 18th

Mistletoe - Bob December 19th

Ice Skating - Bucky (Bucky takes you back to Brooklyn and goes ice skating) December 20th

Holiday - John Walker (Visit your parents house for christmas but they don't approve of John) December 21st

Bob December 22nd

Bucky December 23rd

Santa Claus - John Walker (John comes home tired with hiss heavy boots and his Santa beard you wash) December 24th

Sweater - Bob December 25th

[ssvbse]

Invulnerable

Bob Reynolds x F!Reader | 6.1k

Summary: You start to notice Bob acting strangely after he sees John trying to make a move on you.

Warnings/Tags: 18+ at the end, cunninglus so smut, no p in v, lots of fluff and angst from all sides, nurse reader, jealous Bob Reynolds, lil bit of Sentry x F!Reader, sorta flirty/one sided/platonic John Walker x F!Reader, John's just really sad and needs a hug, jealous John Walker

"Jesus Christ, woman!"

You rolled your eyes, halting your needle.

"Oh, lie back down," you scolded. "Quit being a baby."

John glared at you, hissing as you pressed a cold hand to his torso to urge him back down on the cot.

"I thought you were supposed to be a nurse," he grumbled, wincing as you looped another stitch.

"I am a nurse, Walker," you said.

"Then why are you being so aggressive?" he whined.

"I was a field nurse," you told him. "My work isn't meant to make you feel comfortable; it's meant to be effective and it is. You should know that, Private."

He huffed, his entire face twisting in pain as you severed his irritated skin again, slowly insisting his wound closed.

"Pulling that title shit as an excuse is pointless," he grunted. "You just like seeing me in pain."

"I will admit: I do enjoy watching you squirm," you murmured, a teasing smile gracing your lips as you glanced up to his contorted face. "But, believe it or not, I don't like seeing you hurt."

He frowned, staring down the length of his naked chest to look at you.

"You have to say that."

You quirked a brow at him.

"Do I look like I'd hold back my honesty from you, Walker?"

His head fell back to the pillow as you finished the final stitch, knotting and severing the string.

"'spose not," he mumbled, "but I still don't believe you."

"Well," you said, standing from your spot and withdrawing to the counter where the medical wing supplies was stocked, "believe what you want, John. I'm not even going to attempt to convince a stubborn veteran like yourself otherwise."

"I will," he said almost smugly as you bent over and began searching the cabinets for a fresh roll of gauze, "especially when I know you've already lied to me."

"Is that right?" you said, reaching as far as you could manage. "And what example do you have where I have lied to you? Your charming personality?"

"About Bobby."

You promptly hit your head on the top of the cabinet, cursing to yourself.

"Don't be an ass, Walker."

He simply held a hand up as you finally managed to draw yourself fully out of the cabinet, shooting him a glare.

"Don't try to defend your case," he countered, tapping his forehead as he met your gaze with reflected amusement. "Stubborn veteran, remember?"

You bit your tongue at his remark, approaching the side of the cot again and taking him by the naked shoulder to insist him up to his feet.

"Careful," you warned, "or I will purposefully start making it hurt."

His eyes crinkled, the threat going in one of his ears and out the other as you began winding the gauze around his stomach, securing the stitched wound.

"I see how you look at him," he said, voice laced with amusement as you deliberately avoided his eyes. "I'm not really sure what the interest is for," he admitted. "I would've taken you for a gal who would want to enjoy sex, not teach it."

You tugged the bandage tight, allowing yourself the brief enjoyment of the squeak of discomfort Walker let out, grasping your waist for support.

"Shit! Would you quit with that?"

You glared, gaze unwavering from his as he stared down at you, eyes twitching at his initial wince. His hand flexed over your waist, snapping you out of the trance his intense stare trapped you under. You looked away, resuming your work.

"I will when you learn to shut your mouth," you huffed. "It's going to get you in trouble one day."

"It already has," he said, "multiple times."

"Then you should already know when to close it," you said, eyes flickering up to his for a moment.

He shrugged, unbothered by your critiques.

"Just offering my advice."

"It wasn't advice," you said, attempting to keep your tone smooth at his hot head. "It was your opinion, and I don't want to hear your opinion."

A smirk stretched across his face.

"...about Bob."

"What?"

"You don't want to hear my opinion about Bob," he said, "specifically in the bedroom."

You rolled your eyes.

"I don't want to hear your opinion period, Walker."

"It really isn't an opinion either," he said. "It's just a fact; you'd find more pleasure having sex with a more experienced guy."

"Is that right? With who?" you asked, securing the gauze and finally looking up to meet his gaze. "You?"

Something flashed in his eyes, his hands on your waist tightening yet again.

"Of course not," he huffed, unable to maintain eye contact. "But Bobby–"

"Bobby what?"

You looked over your shoulder, and John's hands fell from your waist at the sight of Bob shuffling in the doorway of the infirmary.

"Oh, Bob, sweet thing," you greeted warmly, the risen apples of your cheeks curving your eyes as you stepped away from Walker and approached him. "What are you doing up so late?"

Bob gave a furtive glance over your shoulder to Walker, his eyes glazed over as you gently took him by the shoulder, looking him over.

"Did you have a nightmare?" you asked, affectionately brushing the hair from his face. He pursed his lips, rubbing his eyes as his attention drifted away from John.

"'Couldn't sleep," he mumbled. "'Was hoping you had something I could take to help."

His downcasted eyes roamed over your shoulder again from behind his kneading, balled fists.

"But I can come back later," he said, "if I interrupted."

But you shook your head, insisting him farther inside.

"John was just leaving," you said, making quick work of ripping the spoiled, paper sheets from the cot. "Isn't that right, John?"

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, shrugging his shirt back over his head and wincing as his torso flexed around the movement. He lifted his clinking dog tags back to the outer surface of his shirt, ruffling his hair back into place as you approached the cot with fresh linen.

"You know the drill," you told him as you tossed the fabric over the thin mattress, "if anything comes loose, come back right away. We don't need your innards spilling all over–"

"Yeah, I know," he said, a smug edge to his words as his eyes wandered in Bob's direction. "You tell me every time."

"And yet you still fail to come back until–"

A warm peck of affectionate enveloped your forehead, and Walker was pulling away before you had the chance to knock some sense into him.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he said, shooting you a wink as he retreated to the door. You could only stare, jaw unhinged as you watched him turn around with one last comment, "And let me know if you want to take me up on that offer. My bed is always available."

Not daring to stay another moment, he disappeared out the infirmary door, leaving your hands tightly bundled in the sheets. Your skin was flushed, steam surely radiating off the top of your head.

"Does he..." Bob paused, audibly swallowing, "come here a lot?"

You bristled, scrubbing any remnants from your forehead and willing yourself to continue situating the rest of the bedding.

"You could say that," you huffed, "but you shouldn't worry about him. Let's get you something to help with that insomnia. Take a seat, and I'll grab the good stuff."

He nodded, shuffling to the side of the fresh cot as you began rifling through the cabinets.

The infirmary fell into silence, only the steady buzz of the overhead speakers crackling through the room at the late hour.

"What happened this time?"

You glanced over your shoulder from the array of bottles in your arms, brow cocked.

"With Walker," he clarified.

"He took a shot to the side," you said, looking back at the bottles. "Luckily for him, it went all the way through—not that it matters much with his super healing. He really doesn't need to come for help at all," you said, brows set straight. "I think he just shows up to annoy me."

"You still... take care of him, though, don't you?" he asked. "Even if he doesn't need it? I saw you wrapping his wound."

You paused your reading, rolling your jaw as you attempted to distinguish his tone.

"It's my job," you said, gauging his reaction, "and like I said: I think he enjoys it—the company."

The paper sheets of the cot crinkled, heat beginning to radiate from his position in the room.

"You two are... close then?"

"I wouldn't say that," you murmured, dipping back down to the cabinet. "He's a very consistent patient of mine," you said, "so we know a lot about each other," you said, feeling your eye twitch. "Too much if you ask me."

Bob was quiet.

"And... the bedroom thing?"

The scrape of the bottles was suddenly all too loud.

Your face burned, and your fingers skimmed the floor of the shelf in defeat.

"It's nothing, Bob," you decided. "Just Walker being a flirt."

He settled in silence again, but the temperature continued to rise.

"I don't–" he began, but sighed heavily. "Are you... going to do it?"

You furrowed your brows.

"Do what?"

The heat flared.

"Go with... Walker."

You drew yourself out of the cabinet, finally turning to face him.

Hunched in his sitting position on the edge of the cot, Bob's rigid posture gripped the sheets, the thin material smoldering at the edges of his finger tips. His hair draped in front of his fallen face, unable to meet your eyes as you slowly approached him.

"Are you okay?"

His eyes flickered up to you, widening when he noticed your minimizing distance before quickly looking back down to his swinging legs, giving a quick nod.

"Yeah, I just–" he tried, but stopped, shaking his head to himself. "I think I need to go to bed. My head... it's getting a little fuzzy."

You brushed aside the winding locks of hair in his face, gently pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. His skin was hot to the touch, flushed as he sat up a bit straighter, and when his almost ashamed, fallen eyes finally looked up, you realized the reason for his fever.

Around his blown wide pupils was a holy, golden ring, his irises glowing a faint yellow. He blinked, the hint of threatened violence disappearing as his attention fell to the bottle in your hand.

"Did you find it?"

You blinked, frown digging into your face.

"Yeah," you said slowly, unscrewing the top. "I think I'll give you two. If it doesn't seem to help tonight, I'll give you three the next time you have trouble, alright?"

He gave a weary nod, taking the pair of pills you offered and downing them easily.

"Thank you," he murmured, eyes seemingly permanently pasted to his dangling bare feet. You studied the twitch of his brows and his white knuckled grip on the edge of the cot.

"I'll walk you back upstairs," you decided. "Just let me clean up."

"You don't have to do that," Bob quickly said, shuffling. "I don't want to keep you from anything."

Returning the bottle of pills, you looked over your shoulder at him.

"What would I have going on at midnight?"

A waft of heat radiated off of him as he shrugged his fallen shoulders, his hands clasped in front of him. He blinked, face twitching as a spark of fire erupted in his eyes, but he shook his head, reaching up to scrub the color away.

"M'not sure," he admitted. "Maybe whatever you were talking to Walker about? 'Must still feel bad for interrupting you earlier."

"You don't have to," you reassured, turning back to collect the supplies lounging across the counter. "If anything you saved me."

"Saved you?" he repeated.

"Yep," you said, your cheeks lifting at his incredulous tone. "John wasn't going to leave until I left. You practically sent him running out of the room."

"I did?"

You grasped your personal belongings and turned to him with a smile.

"You did," you assured, hip brushing his knee. "Did you hear that, Bob?" you asked, tucking away the loose strands of hair covering his face behind his ear. "You're my hero. Don't ever forget that."

His face flushed red, eyes practically cross eyed as he tracked your hand back to your side.

"Okay," he breathed shakily, fighting off a smile. "I won't."

"Good boy," you praised, watching the way his back straightened. "Now let's get you to bed, huh? 'Can't have you collapsing before we get you there."

He gave an obedient nod, the heat of his palms enveloping your extended forearm as he slipped off the edge of the cot.

You collected the last of your things, flicking off the lights to the infirmary before insisting Bob out the door with a gentle pressure to his lower back. His bare feet padded across the tile floor as he approached the elevator, glancing at your from over his shoulder.

Bob picked at his fingers the entire way up, lips apparently permanently held between his teeth as his hair curtained his expression from your vision. You frowned, unsure of the reason for his nervous ticks, but faced the elevator doors as they parted.

Stepping onto the floor of sleep quarters, Bob wandered ahead, his mumbling growing more apparent in the silent hallway.

And though your concern for him swelled in your chest, a string of a sailor's swear words ripped your attention from your squandering unease. Your footsteps slowed as you approached the door containing the comotion, a sour taste filling your mouth when you realized whose room it was.

"Bob?" you eventually called, wincing. You looked ahead in the hallway where he had wandered, strategically stepping over the cracks in the tile. He hummed, looking over his shoulder after a moment, his eyes wide. An expectation settled over his features—something hopeful. "I am going to take a quick detour while you get ready for bed, okay? It'll be quick, I promise."

He blinked, brows furrowing after a moment before his attention settled on the door you had paused in front of.

The shadow of the hallway captured the ripple of his jaw, a waft of heat filling the space and a faint glitter of gold apparent in his irises as he managed a curt nod.

"Yeah," he murmured, "I can do that," he said, mustering a faint smile. "Take your time."

He disappeared inside his room, the echo of his closing door filling the hollow tower.

With your frown digging into your face, you brushed open the parted door, your mouth twisting in concern as you watched John struggle to slip beneath the covers.

"–motherfucker–" he grumbled.

"John?"

"Motherfucker!" he cried, his entire face twisting in agony as his body flinched at the sound of your voice. "Jesus Christ."

"Jumpy, are we?" you murmured, shutting the door with a sheepish smile. "Sorry."

"No, you're not," he grumbled, tossing the sheets back across the bed in frustration and settling his back against the wall.

"You're right," you gently teased. "Can I help?"

His eyes narrowed in suspicion as you approached, and your face fell when he crossed his arms over the front of his t-shirt, almost closing himself off from your help.

"Let me make this clear," he said, lips twisting into something playful, "I am not doubting my ability to get a woman," he said, causing you to cock your brow, "but I didn't think you would actually take up my offer."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes.

"I haven't even considered your offer," you established, grasping his wrists and prying them away from his chest, realizing what he was really trying to hide. "You're gauze is already red," you said, disappointment tilting your eyes as you looked up at him. "What did I say? Why can't you ever just–"

"Don't give me that shit," he huffed, waving your hands off him. "You love it."

Your face contorted, and you reached to insist his arms away from his leaking wounds.

"This isn't a joke, John. You're hurt, and I'm worried–"

Fed up, he grasped your wrists, stopping their nimble movements and pulling you flush against him.

"You need to stop doing that," he said, hot breath flushing your forehead: "worrying."

"How can I when this entire team and you—" you grunted, breaking free from his grip and stabbing the tip of your accusatory finger between his pecs, "especially you—are so goddamn reckless all the damn time?"

You exhaled sharply through your nose, feeling your heartbeat pulse through your hot head as you finally leveled with his gaze. He stared down at you, baby blues shadowed by the furrow of his brows, a deep line forming between them as you watched the words register through his mind.

A waft of cool air filled the gap between the two of you as he pulled back.

"I get it."

A sigh of relief left your parted lips, looking down from his eyes.

"Good," you said, crossing your arms, "then you understand–"

He snorted, shaking his head, that shit-eating grin sprouting across his lips.

"Not that," he said, finding your eyes again. "You."

You scrunched your nose.

"What about me?"

"Why you like Bob," he said, eyes glittering out of pure zeal, "and why he practically devours every word you say."

You blinked, unsure of what you had been expecting him to say, but simply rolled your eyes, brushing him off.

"Fuck you, Walker," you grumbled. "I really thought we were finally getting somewhere, but you always have to go ruining it."

John didn't even bother listen, simply chuckling through the pain of his amusement as his chest vibrated with the frustratingly joyous sound.

"Don't you want to hear my epiphany?"

"That's a rather large word for your vocabulary," you muttered. "Which probably means you’re compensating for the bullshit you're about to spit at me."

"You like him because he is helpless," Walker said, running a hand down his face as another round of chuckles erupted from his mouth. "No one else in this damn tower can stand your pretentious, empathetic tendencies," he said, "but he just eats it up—he needs it," he said, that smug smirk taking up the entirety of his face. "And you love it."

You lips worked to form a retort, face morphing between expressions as you failed to find the words.

John raised a brow, awaiting your response.

"Nothing?" he asked. "Really? I wanted to at least hear you whine about being wrong–"

"I'm just–" you said, face hardening as you stumbled over a weak response. "I'm just trying to get over the fact that you had the nerve to call me pretentious."

Despite your poor attempt to reflect his strike, his face lit up in victory.

"Avoid the subject all you want–" he practically hummed. "I'm happy just knowing I finally cracked you and your pathetic boy toy open–"

"Stop talking, John," you warned, clenching your jaw as you felt anger lace your voice. You insisted him to the side of the bed, metaphorical heat wafting off you as you tried your best to cool your tongue. "Do you want to know something?" you asked, looking up at him. "I really did think you enjoyed my company," you said, parting the sheets of his bed, "but when you keep saying shit like that, I really wonder if you're just trying to piss me off."

"By telling you the truth?" he asked, scoffing. "Jesus, you're more sensitive than I thought."

You balled the edge of the bedding in your palm, a chorus of knuckle pops echoing through the room before you turned away, refusing to give him the luxury of seeing you frustrated.

"Where are you going?" he asked as you marched for the door.

"Out of here," you said, tired of listening to his voice, "and away from you."

The brief silence which followed was gratifying.

"You'll regret it."

Reaching for the handle to his bedroom door, you responded: "I don't care about what you have to say right now, John–"

"It all seems great now—" he said, "taking care of someone—but after a while? You'll get tired of it, everyone does."

You remained silent, grasping the knob and preparing to put the entire night to rest when a hand took you by the shoulder and pressed you against the door.

Despite his momentarily crippled form, he still towered over you, the scars across his chest highlighted by the single lamp illuminating the room. His blue eyes blazed, dangerous as his pointed nostrils flared.

"Let go of me, Walker."

"No," he said. "Not until you listen to me."

"About relationship advice?" you snapped. "That's rich coming from you."

"You can't build a relationship off of single-sided caregiving," he said, returning your gesture with a jab of his finger to your sternum. "That is called a job, and it won't be what you want it to be."

You felt yourself fume out of rage, refusing to relent your gaze from his as you slapped his hand away.

"For the last time," you said, "what goes on with me and him is none of your goddamn business."

"It is when I know you will get hurt."

You cocked your brow.

"How do you know that?" you asked. "Personal experience?"

He blinked, his pupils briefly expanding as his lips twitched, a hot exhale feathering your face.

"People change, and so do their dynamics," he decided on, jaw flexing. "I know a lot of ways they go bad. When all you do is give, he..." he said, but his voice broke, cheek yanking up in a wince. "He will take everything."

The domestic wound was fresh and bleeding, and all you yearned to do was pour salt directly over top of the sprinkled grains you had already dusted. However, you watched his eyes fall to the floor, his overbearing nature shrinking until only a crumpled version of his demanding personality remained.

You pursed your lips, letting the silence stretch to the point that he had to break it.

With his voice mournful and raw, he managed to mumbled, "I... I took everything from her."

Almost instantaneously, the flame of frustration licking at your insides extinguished. You bit your lip, reaching out and gently taking him by the arm.

"Let's... get you to bed."

He blinked, brows furrowed as he looked up at you and searched your face before subtly nodding. You led him back to his bedside, aiding him in slipping his heavy figure beneath the previously disheveled covers.

"Are you going to be able to sleep?"

He avoided your eyes, hair in his face.

"Probably not."

You pulled the cover over his chest, pursuing your lips.

"Do you want me to stay?"

He shook his head.

"I'll figure it out," he said. "I usually do."

You nodded, caressing his exposed shoulder as you studied how tightly he held his facial features.

"Do..." he began, still unable to look at you. "Do you think she'd forgive me?"

Sighing, you reached out and brushed the hair out of his face.

"No," you finally said, watching the way his brows drew together and his chin trembled, "not yet."

His blue eyes were thick, and his nose twitched.

"But I think eventually?" you posed, smoothing the deep lines between his brows with the pad of your thumb. "I think you have a pretty good chance."

His glittering eyes finally spared you a glance, but when an inevitable sniffle tickled his nose, he looked away, his entire body shifting to close himself off.

Before you could stop yourself, you leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the very center of his forehead and brushing away the rogue tear trailing down his cheek.

"Goodnight, John."

You retreated to the door after draping the room in darkness, his lack of response reassuring you he would eventually find sleep.

Heel to toe, you slowly made your way down the hallway, attempting to banish John's warnings from your mind.

Single-sided caregiving.

Reaching his door, you gave a gentle knock as you brushed it open, peering inside to find Bob sitting on the end of his bed, legs swinging wildly as he mumbled quietly to himself.

"Bob?" you asked, the temperature rising a significant amount as you stepped inside, and his gold eyes shot up to yours. "Are you alright?"

He blinked.

"Yeah," he finally murmured, rubbing his eyes until the gold diluted itself. "Sorry, I must... must've gotten distracted, sorry."

You offered a tired smile, approaching him.

"You're putting up quite the fight against those pills," you gently teased, watching his eyes droop ever so slightly. "Any reason?"

He frowned, swiping the hair out of his face.

"Just... I wanted to wait for you."

You couldn't fight off your smile.

"Are you worrying about me, Bob?"

He flushed red.

"No–No, of course not," he said, his eyes quickly dropping to his lap. "I know you can handle yourself, especially with Walker."

The apple of your cheeks ached from amusement.

"Let's get you into bed, yeah?"

He gave a short nod, unsteadily getting off the foot of the bed and joining your side as you rounded the edge of the mattress.

"Did he–" he began, briefly looking up to you as he sat beside his pillow. "Did you–you both do... anything?" he asked, looking down at his lap. "I heard you talking...'wasn't eavesdropping or anything–"

"Nothing happened, Bob," you said. "I promise."

Despite his head bobbing at your reasuraunced, his shoulder remained tight, and he wouldn't let it go.

"I thought I heard yelling?" he asked, wincing as you cocked a brow at his inherent contradiction. "I know it's not my place, but I'm–" he began, looking up at you, those wide eyes hollow with exhaustion. "I'm worried... about you."

You gently smiled, but your expression faltered as his irises flickered with that abnormal light again.

"That's very sweet of you," you murmured with a small smile, "but I don't want you to worry your pretty, little head about me," you said, smoothing the pad of your thumb over the worry lines between his brows. "That's my job, remember? And I'm getting a bit worried about you and that fever; are you going to be okay under all these layers tonight?" you asked, brushing the back of your hand to his forehead and frowning at the ascending temperature. "You are still running hot. Are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah," he said, but his shaky smile was anything but reassuring. "Yeah," he murmured again, looking away, "I'm fine."

A curtain of hair fell over his face, just barely managing to miss hiding the familiar flare of gold in his fallen eyes. You reached out and brushed away the locks guarding his gaze, gently tilting his chin up to study the color as a waft of heat licked along the edge of your jaw.

"Have you been having trouble with... him?"

His brows furrowed deeper, the shine of his eyes reaching yours through the brush of his eyelashes. He opened his mouth to disagree, but the words seemed to die in his throat as the light grew brighter.

"I've been seeing glimpses of him throughout the night," you said when he remained silent.

"He doesn't–" he began to argue, but shook his head, chin falling in defeat. "I just don't like when you go with Walker," he said, tempting a glance in your direction. "And he just... feeds off of those feelings."

His honest answer surprised you. Your furrowed brow was met with a ramble of apologies, and his eyes squeezed close in shame as he buried his face in his hands.

"I'm sorry," he groaned. "I don't know why I feel like this. I know I shouldn't feel jealousy and it's not my place to think like that when you're with him, but I just can't–"

"Walker doesn't care about me, Bob," you interrupted. "He doesn't need me like that."

"He sure seems like he does," he grumbled, fisting his pants. "I saw the way he looked at you," he said, another waft of heat flushing your neck as his eyes began to blaze. They shifted, darkening as his brows narrowed. "The way he held you in the infirmary, and flaunted his chest like... like he knew you would be looking," he said. His eyes blistered yellow, glaring at the floor. "And you were."

You stayed quiet, watching him pass a hand through his hair in frustration.

"I mean, why wouldn't you like a guy like–"

"Bob," you said, softly cutting off his ramble. He blinked, the fire fading. "I love John. He is a good looking man who knows how to flirt, but I don't need him," you said, sliding your hand from his jaw to his cheek. "Not in the way I need you."

He blinked again, searching your face.

"What?"

"I..." you said. "I need you, Bob."

The bottom lip of his frown trembled, and he started at your face as his expression contorted in an attempt to replace his confusion.

"You..." he said, a flash of gold fogging his eyes. "You can't mean that—not to me—not after–"

"Bob," you repeated, a gentle smile crossing your face. "I need you."

He released a long breath.

"You..." he murmured, the threat of a smile ghosting his lips. "You need me?"

The air between you grew warm, and you parted your lips, tipping your head in acknowledgement. His tongue swiped itself across his lips, and his eyes made laps across your face, always shyly passing your lips before bouncing back between your eyes.

"Are you sure?" he breathed, his exhale unsteady. "What if I mess it up?"

"You won't," you said. "You can't."

He inhaled sharply, and the words must have been enough of a reassurance because he surged up from the bed, capturing your mouth with his. His hands ghosted the edges of your waist before cupping the dips, palms hot as they caught the skin beneath your shirt.

His nostrils flared around a heated exhale, feathering your cheeks as his nose passed over your own before he enveloped your lips again, his hands kneading the flesh of your side.

"You need me," he breathed, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth, then to your jaw, your pulse... "You actually need me."

You nodded, the tip of your nose nuzzling his temple as he dipped his lips to the function of your neck, his hands suddenly gripping your waist and lifting you from the ground. A squeak of surprise managed to slip your mouth before your hand slapped over your beaten lips as he draped you out across the mattress. Following quickly behind you, his looming, shadowed posture captured the faint glow to his targeted gaze, aimed directly at your scrub pants.

"Let me make you feel good," he said, chest rising and falling in rapid succession. "Let me make you need me."

You bit your lip, but quickly nodded. He grasped the waist of your scrubs, shimmying them down your legs and yanking you to the foot of the bed. He hinged himself over the edge of the mattress, bright gold eyes flickering up the expanse of your body as he rubbed the hot palms of his hands up and down your naked thighs.

However, as the euphoria briefly cleared, you watched Bob's lips move without words coming from them, a conflict filling his eyes as he looked off to the side.

"Is he there?" you asked, noticing his reluctance.

He gave a slow nod, trying to ground himself by squeezing your thighs.

"He wants everything," he said, voicing shaking as he closed his eyes and attempted to shake the thoughts from his mind. "He wants to take everything."

I took everything from her.

You shifted yourself to an elbow, reaching down and raking a hand through his hair, tipping his head back.

"I trust you," you said, "and I trust him."

His eyes dropped to your parted legs, the pad of his thumb ghosting your clothed clit. Your breath hitched, fingers twitching to grip his hair.

"I... I don't want to take," he murmured. "I want to give," he said. "I want to give you everything."

You wedged your bottom lip between your teeth, nodding.

He pressed his thumb over the front of your panties, biting his lip as you squirmed. Leaning forward, his radiating heat was only enhanced by his sudden proximity, and his tongue darted out, brushing the rough fabric. His thumb smothered your covered slit until the fabric grew damp, surely a patch of moisture forming against the color.

You let out a strained hum, reaching down and insisting his nose against your button as he pressed the flat of his tongue to the darkening fabric.

"Bob," you whined, but slapped a hand over your mouth, suddenly very aware of how close you were to John's room.

"No," he grunted, adjusting his grip on your thighs and tugging your closer. "Don't do that."

You didn't have time to argue before he was nuzzling his nose against your soaked panties, tongue teasing the edge-lining band. A hot exhale feathered your inner thighs as you whimpered into your palm, squeezing your eyes shut in a weak attempt to remain quiet.

As you muffled yet another groan by stuffing your hand between your teeth, a gold shimmer caught your fractured attention. Just over the wrinkles of your shirt, a pair of pure gold irises stared up at you, shadowed menacingly by the sharp structure of his narrowed brows.

Without another word, a burning hand brushed against the inside of your thigh and tugged at the last of the fabric keeping Bob from reaching you fully. The material practically fell apart, the rough pinch of your fraying panties nothing compared to the sudden temperature of his tongue flattening against your slit. You buried your hand in his hair as you teeth desperately clung to your lip, neck strained as you hips lifted from the bed.

"Shit!" you breathed, your throat itching as he buried his tongue into your hole, every touch of his skin burning. "Bob, oh my–" you said through a clenched jaw.

"Say it," he said. "Say his name."

Wearily blinking as your brows drew together out of desperately, you couldn't keep a full volume cry from escaping your mouth as he swallowed around your clit and one of his sweltering fingers prodded your hole in tandem.

"Bob, fuck!"

He nodded, a devilishly out-of-character smirk crossing his wet face.

"Louder," he warned, voice gravelly. "I want Walker to hear you fall apart."

The bed rocked, and your eyes fell from seeing stars on the ceiling, squinting to watch his arched back disappear behind his head of messed curls before appearing again after another tremble crossed the frame of the bed.

He was humping the mattress.

A wet whimper vibrated against your slit as his thrusts sped up against the edge of the bed, those gold eyes fading as desperation flooded his pinched expression. The movement of his tongue grew messy against your core, the tip of his nose digging into just the right place to create the friction you needed as he clung to your thighs and finally reached his peak. Though he was falling, his fingers lazily dipped in and out of you until your backed arched, and you dug deep crescents into your palm with an untamed whine, spilling all over his parted lips from where his head rested on the mattress.

"Shit," you whispered, arm falling limply to the surface of the bed beside your head. He trembled below you, hands gently squeezing your skin as if to test if you were really there.

"Was I–" he said, still out of breath. "Was I okay?"

You looked at him from over your chest.

"You were perfect," you said, slowly sitting up to your elbows to get a better look at his state. He let out a sigh of relief, but didn't move from his place at the foot of the bed.

"Bobby."

He inhaled and exhaled before peering up at you, face red.

"Come here," you said, opening your arms. He raised his head, shifting only to freeze.

"I think... I think I made a mess."

You gently smiled, pulling yourself up into a sitting position before falling to your chest, face just a few inches from his flushed one.

"You're my hero," you said quietly, pressing an affectionate kiss to his forehead, then to the crest of his lips when it felt too familiar.

He blushed.

"Really?"

"Really."

[ssvbse]

Saving Private Walker

John Walker x F!Reader | 2.4k

Summary: John gets drunk one night and believes he needs to take you to safety.

Warnings/Tags: John is a pathetic mess, protective John, implied drinking

Cool air nipped at your figure, the sheets sliding over your skin.

You roused, your lashes fluttering as the movement of air around you sent goosebumps erupting over your exposed skin. An uncomfortable pressure pressed into the blades of your back as well as the plush muscle in your hamstrings.

A hum of confusion broke from your throat, only for a hissed whisper to cut the sound off.

"Be quiet."

Your eyes twitched in their idle state, the familiarity of the voice matching the face beginning to take form from the abstract strokes your exhausted vision created as replacement.

"Walker?" you whispered, clutching his uniform clad torso as you realized you were being supported by nothing but his arms. "What the hell are you–"

"Be quiet," he repeated, his shadowed baby blues finally breaking position to stare down at you. You felt yourself physically shrink further into his arms at the intensity of his gaze lost within the shadows of his black helmet.

"You need to tell me what's going on," you finally managed to muster, looking around the unfamiliar hallway of the tower. "What are you doing?"

He rolled his jaw in annoyance, but his eyes bounced around for a moment as if considering something. Taking a sharp corner, you clung to him tighter to prevent from falling from his grip. A muggy air enveloped you as he tucked the two of you into a much smaller supply closet, reeking of alcohol. He swiftly shut the door behind him before setting you down.

"Now tell me–"

To your shock, your mouth was enveloped by a leather palm, fingerless gloves allowing the skin of Walker's fingertips to dig into your jaw.

"Shut up," he finally snapped. "You're going to get us killed."

Your face contorted into an expression of confusion, and you hit Walker's hand away, pressing a warning finger to the middle of his Kevlar-covered chest.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" you cried.

Even within the darkness, you watched as he rolled his eyes in that demeaning way. The expression of irritation made you feel even smaller as he took a dominating step forward, your finger doing little to intimidate him.

"The tower is compromised," he practically spat in your face. "Swarmed with very bad men with very big weapons looking to hurt you."

"Me?" you cried, your voice becoming more hushed. "What do they want with me?"

"Can't you figure it out?" he snapped, audacious enough to flick your forehead. "You live with five criminals with a lot of enemies. One of us must have gone too far."

There was an uncharacteristic falter in his voice, and you watched his chin trembled in the dim lighting. Tears welled in your eyes, and you shoved him back.

"You're lying," you said. "You're just trying to scare me."

"They want you dead," he snapped. "I am trying to get you out before they find you."

Desperation flooded your features, your brows knitting together over deep lines of distress.

"Did you warn the others?" you asked, ragged breathing echoing through the closet as he drew his chin tight. "What about the others, Walker?"

"My priority is you," he snapped, but his voice was beginning to fall apart. "My priority has always been you; you are the target," he said. A novel amount of emotion began to overwhelm him, his heavy breathing echoing through the closet as his voice broke. "Why can't you ever understand that?" he snarled, trembling hands rising and falling out of frustration. His groan struggled to reverberate from his locked jaw, and he buried his face in his hands, turning away. "God damnit!"

Seeing him so taken apart by the situation had your body shaking.

"You're scaring me, John!" you finally cried, clutching your arms to your chest. "Damnit, you're scaring me, please stop scaring me--"

His fallen shoulders suddenly stiffened in the darkness, tipped chin snapping up. His hand once again threatened to cover your mouth, but you took it upon yourself to cup your lips with your own palm, squeezing your eyes shut.

After a few moments of prolonged silence, his still form shifted.

"We need to move."

"We can't just leave them here–" you cried desperately.

"Goddamnit, I can't compromise you!" he shouted. "Just shut up and do what I say."

Sniffling as he moved, it wasn't until a handgun was shoved up against your chest that you realized he was forcing one into your hands.

"The main door is straight out of this hall," he told you. "I am going to clear a path for you."

"Please John, please–"

The rough calluses of his palm brushed your lips, silencing you yet again as he slowly exhaled, warm breath feathered the junction of your neck.

"You need to run as fast as you can. The doors are already busted wide open," he told you, tone unable to stay level. "There is glass all over the floor; your feet are going to hurt like hell, but you are going to have to shoot the men I miss."

You were crying against his fingers, tears fueled by terror falling down your cheeks.

"I don't know how to use this, John!" you sobbed as he briefly removed his hand, another slow exhale ghosting your face. "Please don't--"

"You know how to ride Bucky's motorcycle, don't you?"

"I can't do this, John. You don't understand–I can't–"

"Don't you?" he yelled again.

Swallowing, you gave a shaky bob of your head.

"You need to get away from here. Do you understand?" he asked, your choking silence unnerving him. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," you managed to whisper. "Yes, but–"

The light of the hallway ripped through the darkness, and John was gone. Oxygen failed to reach your lungs, and your legs refused to move. You stared at the wide open door, mouth agape as you failed to mentally prepare yourself before finally sprinting out the door.

You pressed your back to the hallway wall, lips pursed as your clammy hands shook around the outstretched gun. Your bare feet stung against the cool tile floor, each step echoing through the open but silent space as you emerged from the hallway.

The entryway was clear of any enemy flank, leaving a clear shot to the front doors. Losing any semblance to a professional stance, you sprinted for the doors, reaching to brace yourself against the freedom bar only for the lock to not give way.

Your arms locked on impact, paint erupting across your entire body as your motion was brought to an abrupt halt.

Shock ran rampant across your body, muscles struck still as you fell back to the floor. You blinked, having to force the accent of your gaze to the promised broken-open exit, and then to the rest of the untouched hallway. Scenes of violence, broken glass, and tragic endings did not paint the entrance of the tower.

A silence weighed on the room.

Nothing out of place.

Not a sign of struggle. Not a sign of infiltration.

Everything was completely, utterly normal.

A burning sensation flared in the pit of your chest, cheeks adopting a similar sensation as you shifted yourself to your feet. Fiddling with the borrowed gun, the empty magazine fell from the grip and clattered against the tile floor.

You rolled your tongue, biting your lip as you slowly nodded, eye twitching.

"I can't believe–" you grunted to yourself, pinching your nose. "I can't believe I really fell for that shit."

But even as frustration threatened to wipe any last feeling of empathy from your psyche, an ache in your gut insisted you retrace your steps and locate Walker. Something about his loose expressions of desperation and the vulnerability he had exhibited left you feeling uneasy.

Managing to find the closet in question, you glanced around the innards only to find it staril and empty. Quietly padding around the dimly lit corridors near the room, you caught the faint sound of a quiet mourner.

You approached a room only a few doors down from where you had initially split from Walker.

A heavy stench of booze wafted out the door as you gently insisted the crack open with the butt of your foot. Brushing aside countless shards of glass, the muffled sounds of lament grew more defined.

"Walker?" you asked, peering inside.

Tucked against the corner of a messed bed, Walker clutched his legs to his chest, his hands making desperate imprints into the top of his metal helmet as he appeared to struggle to remove the headgear.

"Walker..." you repeated.

"I'm fine," he snapped, his voice shaking. You took a brief glance around the rest of the room as he composed himself before stepping inside and quietly shutting the door behind you. "I can–" he began, but his voice cracked. "I can do it myself."

You looked on as he scratched at his throat, the leather strap digging deep into the skin of his jaw, and he desperately tugged the leather in the opposite direction. His breathing came in quick, ragged successions as you slowly approached.

"Walker," you murmured, crouching down and cocking your head to find his eyes. They were squeezed shut, his combat boots scraping the wood floor in panic as his neck twitched beneath the uncomfortably tight head gear. "John."

Finally, his eyes opened, glittering despite the dim light.

Despite him reeking of alcohol, you leaned closer and reached for his clawing hands, gently prying them away from the helmet. He swallowed and wheezed, his rubbed-raw throat struggling to convulse beneath the strap. Taking the strap with your fingers, you eased the leather to a looser point. John overlapped your hands as he finally managed to pull the helmet off his head, neck slackening in relief. His face fell between his knees as he drew them back to his chest, his shoulders physically rising and falling with every long breath.

You set the helmet off to the side, finding a spot beside him to cross your legs and spectate him as he came down from his high. Within the silence, your eyes inevitably wandered to the rest of the room; filled with broken bottles, broken remnants of violent breakdowns, and evidence of someone becoming reclusive, you felt the guilt of naivety build in your throat.

"Don't look."

You looked away from the interior of the room, turning to him as he placed his chin on his crossed arms resting on the caps of his knees.

You offered him a shrug.

"We all have our bad days."

He rolled his jaw, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his uniform as he shook his head.

"Everyday is a bad day."

You watched a tear roll down the curve of his cheek. He was quick to wipe it away again, sniffling and looking away.

"They used to be good," he admitted. "With you and... everyone else, I thought I was finally better," he said. "But nothing... helps... anymore," he murmured, chin on his hand as his boot nudged a bottle, sending it rolling across the room. "Sleeping, drinking; none of it."

He pursed his lips, finally daring to meet your eyes as another tear fell down his cheek.

"I think I'm getting worse," he confessed, his attempt at a smile wobbling across his lips before his expression fell.

"John..." you whispered, swiftly shifting to position yourself beside him.

"Every time I close my eyes, I'm right back in the middle of it," he whispered. "Usually I'm not here anymore; I'm with Lamar in that damn place–" he cried, voice breaking. He squeezed his fists, hitting the ground hard enough to splinter the floor. "It just replays over and over again, and it stays separate from here, but this time it just–"

He clenched his jaw, eyes squeezing shut as he buried his face in his arms, shaking his head.

"It always seems so real, but this time I really..." he whispered. "I just... I got so lost in it all."

The silence weighed on the room as he grew reluctant to go on.

Without thinking, you reached out, sliding your fingers over the scratched armor covering his shoulders. You followed the tough fabric up to the function of his neck and gently smoothed back his disheveled sideburns.

"I was just–" he tried, but cut himself off. He pursed his lips, tapping his fists against his side as he stared at the floor. "I just can't stand the thought of you being back there," he whispered, tucking his face out of sight again, "with me."

You brushed the back of your fingers over the exposed portion of his neck, watching goosebumps erupt over his skin, the hairs rising along the nape.

"Were you scared?"

His body stiffened at the mention of the particular emotional response.

He shifted, revealing his bloodshot eyes to you as he rested his cheek on the back of his hands. A small, stiff nod had a cascade of hair curtaining his face.

"It's okay, John."

His sniffle was cut off as you brushed away the hair hiding his expression from you only to reveal the reflection of fresh tear trails streaking his face. You gently caressed the irritated skin, the palm of your hand enveloping the scruff along his jaw. His irritated eyes reluctantly looked through the depths of his lashes to meet your gaze, a shaky sigh warming your inner arm.

"I didn't–" he whispered, but his bottom lip quivered. He closed his eyes, inhaling as he finally sunk into your welcoming palm, a tear falling over the curve of his cheek. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Tilting your head, you watched as his face tightened with tension; his brows drew together, and his jaw clenched beneath your hand as he awaited your response. Offering up your other hand, you fully enveloped the entirety of his jaw as you leaned forward and pressed an affectionate kiss to the very center of his forehead.

"I know," you whispered, lips brushing the skin just above his brow. You wound your arms around his stiff shoulders, pressing another chaste kiss to his temple. "I know, John."

His entire figure trembled as he finally released a pent up breath, his arms embracing your entire body as he buried his face into your shoulder. A sob racked through his torso, ugly and vulnerable.

"You're safe now," you whispered, ghosting a hand across the surface of his hair before finally stroking your fingers through the ratty locks, "and so am I."

[ssvbse]

Neighborly

Bucky Barnes x F!Reader | 1.5k

Summary: Bucky is having trouble adjusting to civilian life after the events of Civil War. He doesn't think he will ever learn to be accepted by society, but meeting the pretty neighbor down the hall is a good start.

Warnings/Tags: NO THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS TRUST, Bucky said and lonely but recovering, post Civil War, minor implications of domestic violence

Bucky noticed their unease; the slight buzz of discomfort was impossible to miss.

The bell chimed above his head as he stepped into the local restaurant. With his eyes trained on the floor, he minded the pair of heels hot on his tail, childish laughter echoing through the entrance.

"Ah! Thank you so much–" the occupied woman said as she grasped the door Bucky offered, meeting his downcast eyes. He watched her gratuitous smile falter as recognition flashed over her face, her posture stiffening as she finished, "–sir."

Mustering a polite nod, he watched the mother clutch the young boy at her hip with a deathly grip and usher him inside. He followed a few strides behind, joining the small queue forming at the hostess podium.

Within the small, family owned kitchen just across the road from Bucky's brand new apartment, familiar faces dined. Families, friends, and couples all filled the homey confines, creating a warm space for the entire street to enjoy.

But as he shuffled from foot to foot, Bucky's eyes began to wander.

He found the penetrating gaze of an older woman sitting nearby. She was quick to look back to her family, fingers dancing anxiously over the surface of the table as she murmured something to her surrounding relatives.

"–on the television," Bucky heard her mutter over the buzz of the crowd.

And an ugly, thick-knuckled finger outstretched itself, pointing directly at him.

The entirety of the family's eyes found him from over shoulders, and this time, Bucky looked away.

They were calling for their check a moment later.

Others in the diner seemed to notice the table's hurried exit, some of those having seen the subtle encounter. Their stares had his neck flushing in shame, and his chin fell back to his chest, their private whispers hot in his ear.

"–a very bad man, 'you understand? Don't go near him–"

"–a murderer–"

"–always the government, sending terrorists to spy in public–"

"Sir?"

Bucky blinked, surprised to find tears in his eyes. He looked up, meeting the eyes of the hostess calling his attention, a line of bodies no longer separating him. As soon as she found his gaze behind rogue strands of hair, a ghostly presence seemed to settle over her. She pursed her lips, unable to hide the quiver shaking her customer service façade.

"Can... Can I get you a table?" she asked. "Or something to go?"

Bucky's frown dug into his face as he watched an unsteady tremble travel across her entire figure.

"I–" he said, his quiet voice echoing through the still restaurant. "No, 'sorry, this was a mistake."

Finding his footing, he pivoted on the worn tile floor and brushed past the people in line behind him. The heavily falling rain practically swept him off his feet, the harsh, accompanying wind catching his jacket as he stumbled out of the diner and onto the busy sidewalk. Shoulders nailed his own, feet bumping and scuffing his own shoes as he stumbled into traffic without a thought, desperate to reach the safe solitude of his apartment.

A beam of light blinded him under the gloomy weather, the following car horn piercing his ears. The shrill followed him into his building where his soaked hair fell flat on his wet face and his tears hid behind droplets of precipitation.

Ripping open the door to his apartment, he promptly slammed it shut behind him.

His head fell back against the door, mouth agape and dry around hoarse breaths, the hyperventilation scathing his throat with every inhale. He cupped his eyes with the fleshly palm of his hand, squeezing them tight until his head felt dizzy and light.

But, despite his best attempts to quiet the inner monologue of sensations, he could still feel their stares; spitefully tearing away his layers to find the assumed cold blooded killer beneath years of futile, docile training. To them he was a timebomb; momentarily under control, but his detonation time set.

To them it wasn't if he would break but when.

The thought of coming to such an ultimatum made him nauseous, the empty contents of his stomach threatening a different ultimatum.

His lungs shook around a deep breath, nose flaring as he exhaled as he heaved himself to his feet. Gloved hand resting over his growling stomach, he positioned himself in the middle of the dim kitchen.

The unappealing, overhead oven light single handedly illuminated the miniature kitchen with a yellow stain. Boxes containing anything but food covered every inch of counter space, and as Bucky propped open the dark refrigerator to a lackluster selection, he felt his stomach cramp.

Shutting the fridge, Bucky raked a shaky hand through his hair, his frown sinking deeper into his face as he continued further into the open-concept flat. Within the mazes of boxes, Bucky managed to find the one he was looking for. With a swift stroke the flaps of cardboard sprung loose, and he buried his hands inside until he managed to fish out his flip phone.

And from the middle of his dark living room, he flicked the screen open, the latest string of messages from his only contact lighting up the small screen.

thatta man!!!

happy you are finally getting out

even if it is just across the street

get in stay out i just want you to be happy buck

you need more friends than just me

Squeezing the phone, he clamped the face closed, smothering the remaining light. Bucky hung his head, arm falling to his side as the sound of whirling machinery and crunching metal echoed through the empty apartment.

A quiet knock at the door of his apartment briefly caught his straying attention.

Bucky knitted his brows as he looked up from the floor to the thin crack of light beneath the door. A shadow split the line, the figure on the opposing side unmoving.

Making a cautious approach, Bucky swung the metal cover to the side of the peep-hole. His worry line twitched at the sight of a blurry, unfamiliar face awaiting entry.

You eyes found his as he slowly opened the door, a tired smile breaking out across your face.

"Hi," you offered, introducing yourself. "I'm really sorry that I'm bothering you so late."

Holding your gaze, Bucky propped the door against the food he kept within the gap, controlling the amount of the interior you could see.

"I live just down the hall," you said, pointing in the direction you were referring to, "and I saw you just moved in, so I thought I'd bring you over something to eat for the night."

Bucky blinked, and his eyes finally fell to the steamed, glass container in your hands. A deeply inviting smell wafted from the packed meal, its warmth radiating between you and him.

Shifting, he mustered a quiet, "Why?"

All you offered him was a shrug.

"It's neighborly," you said. "A little welcoming gift if you will."

His grip on the door faltered.

"I..." he said, rolling his jaw. "I don't have anything to give you," he murmured. "I feel like I should say no."

Your head fell into a subtle cock, eyes briefly wandering from his face to the way he was wringing his hands in the shadow of the door.

"Well," you murmured, looking back up to his narrowed gaze, "I've been looking for a new person to cook for. I think my latest taste tester is getting a bit tired of my antics," you said, raising the glass container a bit higher and wincing a bit at the movement. "So you giving this a shot would mean a lot to me, too."

The twitch of pain reached all the way to your face, and the bags beneath your eyes crinkled just enough for him to notice the uncanny movement of the skin, almost as if the layers beneath were stiff and swollen.

Though still reluctant, Bucky bit his tongue and finally took the glass from you, relieving your rigid expression.

"Thank you," he mustered. "That was... very kind."

You clicked your tongue, waving him off.

"Careful," you warned, the shine of your teeth teasing your bottom lip. "If you keep flattering me like that, you won't be able to get rid of me."

His response practically burst from his chest.

"If you keep feeding me, I don't think I'll mind."

Your muffled giggle echoed through the hall, shaking Bucky to his core.

"Have a good night, neighbor," you said, looking to excuse yourself.

Bucky felt another feverish reply on the tip of his tongue.

"My name is–"

The greeting seared his tongue, and he couldn't get the name out. Any semblance of the smooth speech he had managed to use was swallowed around the swelling lump in his throat. Nausea overwhelmed him, tears of frustration prickling his eyes as they fell back to his feet.

"It's James, right?" you asked. He blinked, eyes glossy as he looked back up to you already a few strides away. "Yori was talking about his day and mentioned you a few times," you said. "All good things, I promise."

Bucky mustered a nod, lips twitching around a slight smile to mask his confusion.

"Yeah," he mumbled, swallowing hard. "James."

"Well, then," you said, warmly smiling, "have a goodnight, James."

A flush covered the entirety of his neck as you used the foreign name, and he could only manage a grunt in reply, retreating inside as his leather grip squeaked around the glass container.

You didn't know.

Bucky felt a weary smile grace his face as he set the glass tupperware on the table, going to search for a fork.

You didn't know.

pt2?

[ssvbse]

Suit & Tie

Logan Howlett (Wolverine) x F!Reader | 1.2k

Summary: Attempting to impress you, Logan gets tangled in a suit.

Warnings/Tags: fluff, Logan's self conscious, reader works in some kind of a prestigious environment

"Logan?" you called, announcing yourself. You brushed your knuckles across the cracked door. "Are you almost ready?"

Audibly bristling in frustration, he halted your probing with a strike to the door. Wood to wood, the door rattled within its frame, a hairline fracture sprouting from the fitted handle.

His voice was muffled by a screwed jaw: "Don't come in."

You frowned, trying the loosened handle only to feel a countering weight keeping the door closed.

"Do you need help with anything?" you asked.

"No!" he snarled, a second thud shuddering the entirety of the door. The metallic handle promptly fell from its compromised cavity, just missing your foot as it dented the cheap wood flooring. "No, I don't need your help."

You pursed your lips. "Do you want me to call Wade? I know he's not great at helping with..." You thought for a moment. "...anything I s'pose, but maybe–"

"No!" he repeated. "No, I don't need help. Just—just give me a damn second–"

The door dipped beneath his weight, and he growled out of frustration, the crack webbing out along the strain.

"Logan," you murmured, sliding your finger along the splitting wood. "Why don't you open up."

He sighed, exasperation tearing a whine from his throat and the dent in the door lifted. You gently insisted it open, his tower shadow consuming you.

"Now, don't tell me you're getting cold feet about this–" you murmured lightly, only to struggle to complete the humorous attempt as your mouth dried.

Burned by a razor, hair slicked back to his skull, and a tie wound around his suit collar like a noose, Logan looked like he had been banished to Hell.

"'Picture would last longer," he grunted, crossing his arms. The poorly tailored fabric strained around the mass of his muscle, the taunt stitches wrinkling the sleeves.

"Logan..." you said, approaching him.

"Don't 'Logan' me," he snapped, turning away as his neck flushed red. "I look like an idiot."

"You don't look like an idiot," you said, struggling to fight off the smile crinkling your eyes as you smoothed your hand down his jacket. The blazer struggled to stretch over the expanse of his chest, hugging tight to the cups of his shoulders and surely digging into the hollows of his arms.

You flicked the tie knotted around his neck, eyes flitting up to his.

"Were you trying to hang yourself?"

The blush crept up to his cheeks, and he grunted.

"Funny," he bit, looking away as you untangled the fabric from his irritated throat. "'Soundin' better and better by the second."

"I must've gotten here just in time then," you said, watching the hair along his neck raise as you freed him of the constriction. He swallowed, defined Apple bobbing around a thick wad of embarrassment.

You smoothed your thumb over the tie, straightening the wrinkles. "'Wade put you up to this?"

You received only a stiff nod in response as you tossed the tie back around his neck.

"I'm assuming the hair is his handy-work, too?"

His heavy eyes bore into yours.

"You're teasing me."

"No," you said, the tips of your lips riding the apples of your cheeks. "Just curious of what he thought when he saw you like this."

He watched your fingers artfully braid the tie.

"'Doesn't matter what he thinks," Logan said, looking away again. "Wasn't tryin' to do it for him."

You straightened the flaps of his blazer and tucked the tie behind them. "All this suffering just for me then, huh?"

"'m not sufferin'," he murmured, though the stutter in his exhale said differently. "'Just wanted to–" He swallowed "–look normal..." his eyes found yours, "for you," and they flickered away, "for once."

Your lips rounded around an expression of surprise and collapsed a moment later.

"Oh," you said. "Did Wade say something?"

"'Course he fucking did," he huffed as he rolled his shoulders back. His imposing posture nearly split the seam along his bulging delts. "'Moron can't keep his damn mouth shut. 'Just lookin' to piss me off."

You followed the fold of his coat, straightening the flaps and adjusting his twisted, undershirt collar.

"Little brothers tend to do that," you said, smoothing your hand over the tense line of his shoulders. His nostrils flared as he warmed your face with a heated exhale. "Especially when they know they'll get a big reaction."

His chin jutted out in stubbornness.

"'Not that big of a reaction."

You caught his arm as he drew them to his chest in an attempt to shield your subtle prying, slipping your hot thumb beneath the cuff of his undershirt and pressing the pad to his pulse point.

"You're in a suit, Logan," you said, a smile blessing your face as you slid your hand along his smooth cheek, caressing the fresh skin. "You shaved. What did that poor man say to you?"

Firm lines marred his reluctant expression, his messily trimmed brows knitting together with a tangle of sheepish wrinkles.

"'s nothin'," he murmured, brushing you off. "'Just mentioned one of your coworker's 's all."

Your brows brushed your hairline.

"'Said you'd—" relaying the words seemed to pain him, "been... showing interest lately." He inhaled sharply, rolling his jaw. "'Said you deserved a proper man," he said, gesturing to the invisible foe, "like one of them."

His frown dug deep into his cheeks as his arm fell back to his side. "Not a hairy, sweaty beast," he said, finally meeting your eyes, "like me."

You studied his face, watching the way his jaw jumped to the rhythm of his bouncing lip.

"So you... borrowed Wade's suit and..." you gently insisted his chin up, studying the damage the razor had done to the line of his jaw, "and shaved?"

"If you want a proper man, I'll give you a proper man."

You pursed your lips, finally taking in the entirety of what this was.

A mask—a facade of peer-induced self loathing.

Gently, you insisted the front of his blazer open, undoing the top buttons of his undershirt. Under the restricting white fabric was the expanse of his freed, sun-kissed skin. A grove of soft, curly black hair rolled over the golden fields of his chest.

You leaned in closer, nose prickly at the comforting, woodsy smell of Logan, his musk no longer suffocated by the artificial smell Wade had surely lent him.

You dragged your nose up, pressing a sweet kiss to the pit of his collarbone, humming at the way his breath hitched.

"It's a good thing I don't want a proper man then," you murmured, raking your hand through his hair and breaking up the greasy mess, "isn't it?"

He blinked, taut expression finally giving some slack. Where once lay doubt, now settled resolve, and a relieved smile tugged at his lips.

"Yeah," he murmured, barely biting back his grin, "'spose that's good."

"Good," you said, ensuring the top buttons of his dress shirt remained undone and making quick work of undoing the tie.

"Shave again, and I'll kill you, Howlett, understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."