vermililion

[vermililion]

on command.

this is the first story from my 707 followers' milestone event 💖

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Medic!Reader (female)

Summary: It started with a question you didn’t realize sounded filthy: “Can you come on command?” Bucky thought you were teasing. But you were just too clinical to know better. And now? He’s going to show you exactly what happens when curiosity goes too far.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, oral sex (f receiving & m receiving), fingering, dirty talk, blowjob, face-fucking themes, size kink (mild), orgasm denial, soft dom!bucky, light power play, praise kink, slight dub-con vibes via misunderstanding, medical/clinical kink themes, slow build to climax, cockwarming (implied), cum on thighs, aftercare

Word Count: 7.1k

The med-bay smelled like antiseptic and fresh laundry—too clean for a room that had known so much blood. It was a Sunday evening, quiet and uneventful, the kind of shift where silence hummed against your ears and your thoughts wandered deeper than you intended. The kind of boredom that stretched into your ribs.

Until you heard the heavy thud of combat boots echo down the hallway.

You looked up from your tablet. He walked in with a presence that made the sterile air feel charged.

James Buchanan Barnes

Unit: Thunderbolts

Registry: Alpha-01

Notes: Vibranium prosthesis (left arm). Serum-enhanced physiology. Prior Hydra experimentation flagged in psychological history.

His combat shirt hung from one shoulder, blood soaked into the seams. His torso was bare—bruised, sweating, smeared with dried streaks of red. Deep brown hair fell in damp strands against his temples, jaw tight, body moving like something made to endure.

“Didn’t know we had new faces,” he said, voice gravel-rough as he eased himself down onto the med-bed. “Nice change.”

You nodded once and pulled on gloves. “Yes. I started this week.”

He dropped the shirt beside him, settling in like the cot was his personal recliner. The tone in his voice had suggested ease, maybe even a joke, but you didn’t react. You weren’t always sure when people were being sarcastic.

Especially not him.

You retrieved gauze, saline, antiseptic. You were focused on the wound low across his abdomen—a shallow blade graze, already clotting along the edge. As you cleaned around it, you recalled a conversation from earlier that week. Your first night shift had been filled with stories, warnings, casual gossip from the senior medics. They spoke about the team like they were walking myths. And Bucky Barnes, in particular, had been the centerpiece of several of those stories.

He can do anything if you tell him to, someone had said. Hydra programming, you know? Sit, kneel, come—just say it.

You hadn’t laughed. You’d written it down. Because you didn’t know it was a joke.

Now, he sat bare-chested in front of you, quiet, unmoving, skin warm beneath your gloved hands as you pressed sterile pads to the wound.

The question formed itself before you realized it was inappropriate.

You spoke plainly, genuinely. “I was wondering—can you get hard and ejaculate on command?”

The silence that followed was total. Not a pause. Not surprise.

It was a shift.

You didn’t notice it right away, too focused on folding gauze precisely, until the weight of his gaze pulled you back to the moment.

When you looked up, his entire body had stilled.

His eyes were on you. Unmoving. Brow low, mouth parted just slightly, as if he were still computing the words. The faint line between his brows deepened.

“Come again?” he asked, but his voice wasn’t casual. It wasn’t flirtatious either. It was something closer to caution.

You met his stare. “I asked if you’re able to achieve erection and reach orgasm on command. Based on what the other officers implied regarding your conditioning.”

He blinked once. Very slowly.

Your tone hadn’t faltered. You weren’t embarrassed. You were just curious—curious the same way you’d asked someone last week if the Hulk’s resting heart rate really was thirty-five BPM.

Bucky leaned back slightly, eyes scanning you like he was waiting for the punchline. When it didn’t come, his jaw worked, muscle flexing once under stubble.

Then he stood.

Not abruptly. But with enough weight behind the motion that you instinctively stepped back. The tray clinked behind you.

He stepped closer, enough that you felt the heat coming off his skin. Still watching you. Still trying to process.

“You’re seriously asking me that?” he said, quieter now. “Like, you’re not messing with me.”

“No,” you answered plainly. “I just wanted to understand the scope of the conditioning. Neurological control of physiological functions isn’t unheard of.”

He dragged a hand down his face. Let out a long breath through his nose. You saw the flicker in his expression—somewhere between disbelief and… something else.

“You really don’t realize how that sounded, do you.”

You tilted your head. “Should I?”

He huffed a soft, disbelieving laugh, almost under his breath.

Then he moved forward again—closer. Close enough that your hip bumped the counter edge.

“Are you asking because you want to know,” he said slowly, gaze dragging down your face, “or because you want to see?”

You stared back at him, unflinching. The intensity in his eyes didn’t register as threatening to you—just confusing. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, still gloved. Still sterile. Still in the mindset of diagnostics and assessments, not flirtation. You weren’t sure what he meant by see, but the phrasing seemed to demand clarity.

So you gave it.

“I want to know,” you said plainly, meeting his eyes. “But if visual confirmation is possible, then yes—seeing would be helpful.”

His face didn’t move at first.

Not a blink. Not a breath.

Then his eyebrows lifted just a fraction—just enough to break the tension—but his mouth stayed parted like he’d lost his words somewhere between inhale and exhale.

You watched him, calm as ever. Not realizing that what you just said, to him, sounded like you were practically asking to watch him jerk off in the middle of med-bay.

His eyes narrowed slightly, still scanning you for a punchline. When there was none, something shifted. Not in you. In him.

Because that’s when it hit him—hard.

You weren’t fucking around.

You weren’t teasing. You weren’t flirting. You weren’t setting him up for some kind of HR trap. You were genuinely trying to understand the technical boundaries of Hydra’s physiological conditioning, like you were running through a checklist for your own notes.

He exhaled once through his nose and ran his palm over his jaw.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, half to himself. His gaze flicked to the side, like he needed to look anywhere but directly at you for a moment.

You could see it happening—the calculation behind his eyes. He was deciding whether or not to walk away. Whether to laugh. Whether to report this. But then something else moved through him, too—curiosity. You recognized the signs: pupils shifting slightly, breath shallower. He wasn’t sure either.

“I mean,” he said at last, voice rough, uncertain. “I’ve never… actually tried that. Not like—deliberately.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Would you be open to attempting it?”

His mouth parted again, like he wanted to respond but couldn’t decide which direction to take it. You sensed hesitation and tried to reassure him in the only way you knew how: by defaulting to protocol.

“If you’d prefer this be off-record,” you added, “we can skip the video documentation. I’ll log it manually.”

That did it.

His jaw dropped just a fraction further as he let out a breathless, incredulous noise. It wasn’t quite a laugh—it was something between disbelief and amusement, and it landed heavy in the air between you.

He looked back at you like you were some rare, alien creature. And maybe you were.

You hadn’t moved. You weren’t flustered. You weren’t seducing him. You were just… waiting. Like this was any other medical procedure.

Bucky dragged a hand through his hair, clearly still processing. Then his eyes returned to yours.

“You really wanna see if I can do that,” he said. It wasn’t a question. More like a final check. Like he needed to hear it in your voice one last time before he crossed the line.

“Yes,” you said simply. “For observation purposes.”

There was a long, still beat.

Then his stance shifted.

Something subtle in the way his feet planted, in the slow curl of his fingers at his side, in the way his shoulders rolled back with quiet intent. He wasn’t leaning anymore—he was centered now. Present. Watching you as something darker flickered behind his expression. Something curious. Something charged.

He nodded once. Low. Controlled.

“All right,” he said roughly, voice dipping just a bit lower than before. “Try me.”

—

You gave a short nod, already reaching back toward the tablet on the metal tray behind you, fingertips hovering to wake the screen. The chance to collect a new data point—something none of the other medics had dared ask for—was unexpectedly thrilling.

But the rustle of fabric behind you pulled your focus.

Bucky had stepped away from you again, his heavy boots padding quietly as he moved back toward the med-bed. Except this time, his fingers were already at his waistband.

You froze halfway between the tray and your chair.

He turned slightly toward you, eyes locked onto yours as his thumb worked open the button of his tactical pants. The zipper followed with a quiet rasp, slow and deliberate. He wasn’t speaking. Just watching.

And only then, only then, did your brain finally process the image forming in front of you.

His pants loosened around his hips, hung low now—unzipped and open just enough for you to see the black band of his briefs and the defined lines of his lower abdomen. The cut you’d just cleaned stretched faintly when he moved, muscles flexing subtly under the skin. His cock was still covered, but the shape of it—resting heavy against the fabric, shifting slightly as he adjusted—was impossible to miss. Still soft. Still untouched. But undeniably there. And Bucky wasn’t breaking eye contact.

Something shifted in your chest—an odd tightness you weren’t familiar with. A spike in heart rate. Not fear. Just sudden, confusing awareness. Your lips parted slightly, and your fingers fell away from the tablet screen.

Bucky let out a quiet breath. Not a laugh, not quite. A huff, amused and something darker beneath it.

“You’re realizing how bad everything looks now, huh?” he said, and his tone was different—still low, still calm, but tinged with heat. A crooked smirk played at the corner of his mouth. “Starting to piece it together?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t—not yet.

Because the tension in the air had shifted again. The weight of it wasn’t theoretical anymore. It was physical. Heavy. Warm. Centered on the space between you and the man now standing with his pants undone, cock barely covered, staring at you like this was still part of your little experiment.

You swallowed. Just once.

“I can stop,” he added, arching a brow. “But if you’re gonna ask me to do this… I need you to say it.”

“Say it?” you echoed.

He nodded, the line of his jaw tight, like something about this had challenged him in a way he wasn’t used to. “Yeah. The command. Give it. Let’s see if it works.”

You blinked, heartbeat tapping quick in your throat. Your gloves felt suddenly too tight.

It was for science.

Wasn’t it?

Except… now you were staring at the shape of a man’s cock through his briefs. At the subtle way it shifted behind fabric. At how he just stood there, open like a test subject, waiting for you to initiate the next step.

And suddenly, your carefully ordered brain started… glitching.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to look. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this—warm skin, eye contact, unspoken tension stretching tight across the space between you like a surgical suture about to snap.

You tried to stay focused. Tried to categorize what was happening as neuromuscular stimulus, externally initiated. That’s all. But the words slipped out of your mouth before you could repackage them more… appropriately.

“What kind of command should I say?”

Bucky’s brow arched. He shrugged one shoulder, still loose, still watching you like you were the show now. “Anything,” he said, voice smooth but quiet. “Try whatever comes naturally.”

Your brain immediately clicked into gear, cataloging possibilities, filtering for language precision. He’d said command. Singular. Direct.

“Get hard,” you said.

Bucky blinked once, slowly. “You might need to be more specific,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching. “There’s a lotta things in here that can get hard. Floors. Plastics. Steel.”

You paused. Blinked again. Fair. Logical.

Your eyes dropped to the bulge at his front, the soft outline of his cock resting slightly to the left beneath dark cotton.

So you recalibrated. Clarified.

Your voice was steady when you said it:

“I command the cock of Bucky Barnes to get hard.”

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It was crackling. Electric.

And then—it worked.

You watched, frozen, as the shape beneath his briefs shifted. Thickened. From a resting weight to something firmer. Fuller. The fabric tightened around him as the shaft pressed upward and outward, no longer soft, no longer passive. He twitched once—just enough to catch your eye—and then kept swelling.

Your lips parted. You didn’t move.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

It couldn’t happen.

But it had.

And Bucky… Bucky exhaled something between a scoff and a groan, and tipped his head slightly back like he couldn’t believe it either. When he looked at you again, his pupils had darkened, narrowed, and the curve of his lips had turned into something far less amused and far more interested.

“You’re kidding me,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You actually meant that.”

You nodded once, slowly, as your eyes locked onto the now very-obvious bulge straining his briefs.

He smirked, but there was a heat beneath it now—a flicker of something dangerous. His voice dropped a notch deeper.

“More.”

“What?”

“Give me another command,” he said. “Anything. Let’s test your theory.”

You hesitated. A beat too long. Then your eyes dropped again, tracking the shape beneath the black fabric. Your breath hitched—quiet, but noticeable to both of you. Your gloved hand curled reflexively at your side.

You bit your lip.

And then, softly, clinically—

“Twitch for me.”

And it did.

Just slightly. A small, visible movement under fabric. But enough.

A pulse. A response. An involuntary contraction of arousal-based musculature.

Your throat went dry.

A chill spidered down your spine, despite the warmth flooding your neck. Your mind scrambled to reframe this—to maintain control—but this no longer felt like controlled scientific inquiry. This was crossing into something else. Something biological. Something reproductive.

This wasn’t a training module anymore.

This was a live demonstration.

And you were the sole witness.

—

Bucky’s fingers curled under the waistband of his briefs.

He held your stare for a moment—something unspoken hanging in the air between you—and then he pulled them down.

Not rushed. Not coy. Just practical. Like it was necessary for the demonstration.

“You wanna learn properly, right?” he said. His voice was smooth, but edged. “Gotta see it bare if you want the full data.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because your breath caught the moment it came into view.

You choked—literally—on your own saliva.

Half-hard, and already thick. Heavy. You could see the potential of it, the way the veins curved beneath flushed skin, the slight upward tilt even in its semi state. It looked obscene without even being fully erect yet, and you couldn’t stop your eyes from tracing it, from measuring it mentally like you were still running diagnostics.

But you weren’t anymore. You knew that now.

Bucky saw your stare, the way your eyes had locked there like you forgot how to blink. His voice dropped, barely audible over the thick hum of your pulse.

“Give me another command.”

Something in your body responded before your brain did. Your feet shifted—one step forward. Then another. And another. Four in total. Just enough to bring you closer. Close enough that you didn’t have to squint to see the twitch of him. The weight of it.

Your gaze finally broke from his cock and lifted—slow, dazed—until you met his eyes again. There was something in them now. Not confusion. Not amusement.

Permission.

“Stroke it for me,” you said, voice quieter than before. Not clinical. Not innocent. Just… real.

And that was the moment the game changed.

Bucky’s breath stuttered once in his throat, just the smallest hitch. Because now, you weren’t analyzing—you were participating.

And he liked that. He liked it a lot.

He wrapped his flesh hand around the base, slow and deliberate, his thumb swiping just under the tip as he started to stroke upward in long, lazy pulls. His cock twitched again in his palm, growing harder with every pass. No sounds left his mouth. His jaw clenched. His brows pulled tight. But he didn’t moan.

He was waiting for you to tell him to.

You shifted in place, thighs pressing together with a sudden, instinctive squeeze. Your breathing went uneven, and the pressure building between your legs was no longer something you could rationalize away. Wetness pooled at the center of your panties. Your skin was hot. Your thoughts a blur of static and want.

Your eyes dropped again. His cock had grown—thicker, longer, flushed deep at the head. Veins thickened along the shaft. The slide of his hand was smooth, practiced. Deliberate.

Your mouth opened again.

“Stroke faster.”

He obeyed instantly.

The rhythm changed, tightened, faster now—fingers gliding up the length, thumb brushing the tip each time in a way that made the muscles in his stomach twitch. His breathing picked up, but still no sound. Still waiting.

You stared.

Hard. Thick. Veined. It should’ve been obscene, but you couldn’t look away. The way his cock reacted to your voice felt like an experiment gone wrong—or maybe perfectly right. And you were the one holding the data, holding the power.

Your pulse beat between your legs.

And then—a glint.

Your eyes caught it before you could process it.

A bead of pre-cum had leaked from the tip, catching the light under the bright med-bay fluorescents. It clung there, glistening.

You groaned.

Not intentionally. Not performatively.

It was raw, low, a breathy little sound dragged straight from your chest before you could clamp it down.

And when you realized what you’d done, your hand flew to your mouth.

Bucky’s fist slowed for just a moment.

Then he smirked—eyes dark, blown wide, a faint sheen of sweat forming across his collarbone.

“That wasn’t very professional,” he murmured.

—

Bucky’s fist moved faster now—stroking with a pace that was no longer lazy or exploratory. It was urgent. Determined. Testing both your commands and his own control.

His eyes flicked up to you again, and this time his voice had a rasp to it. Thicker. Needier.

“Come on,” he said lowly, just above a whisper. “What’s next, huh? Moans? Touch? You’re running the experiment, right? Gotta get all your data points.”

The words coiled low in your abdomen like a tightening wire. He was pushing you now—not resisting, not breaking the role—but tempting you to go further. Daring you.

And fuck, you were already too far gone to backpedal.

You watched the way his cock jerked in his hand, the head flushed and leaking. The pace was obscene—wet, rhythmic, fast.

“Stop,” you said, breathless but firm.

His hand froze instantly, mid-stroke.

You stepped closer, chest rising with shallow breaths.

“Now grip it tight. At the base. Like a cock ring.”

His jaw clenched. But he obeyed.

Fingers slid down, wrapped tight at the base. The moment he squeezed, his hips jolted just slightly—a tiny thrust he didn’t mean to give. The muscles in his stomach twitched. His lips parted.

A whimper escaped him. Soft. Strained. Like it had been forced through grit teeth. Not a moan. But close.

Your own breath caught.

Something about that sound—his frustration, his restraint, the way he held himself back on your order—sent a hot wave crashing through your core.

Your nipples peaked, the fabric of your bra suddenly too tight, too abrasive, like even the fibers couldn’t stand not touching you directly. Heat spread low in your belly, soaking between your thighs. You didn’t dare look down at yourself. You didn’t need to.

You already felt how soaked you were.

Your eyes didn’t leave his cock.

It twitched slightly in his grip.

Alive.

Waiting.

You swallowed, and then—

“Moan for me.”

He did.

Not a pornographic moan. Not some overdone, fake gasp. It was real.

It started low in his chest, almost like a growl — rough, full of restraint snapping open. It vibrated in his throat before it left his mouth, his jaw slackening as he let out a slow, masculine moan that sounded like it had been pent up for hours.

“F-fuck—” he gasped, voice catching. “That what you wanted?”

It was full of yearning. Of weight. Like he’d been aching to be heard, and now your voice was the only one he’d obey.

Your thighs squeezed again, tighter this time. You shifted on instinct, trying to ease the pressure building deep inside you. But it was no use.

He saw it.

Saw you squirm, saw your chest rise like you couldn’t catch your breath, saw the tremble in your fingers now clenched around the edge of the tray behind you.

And he smiled.

But this one… wasn’t mocking.

It was sharp. Almost feral.

His hand still gripped the base of his cock, skin tight and flushed. But he didn’t move. He just looked at you, pupils blown wide.

Then—his voice dropped to something darker. More commanding.

“Your turn.”

You blinked.

“What?”

His smirk widened just slightly, voice gravel-smooth, no longer soft or playful.

“Take the gloves off,” he said. “Then touch me. And let’s stop pretending this is still about Hydra.”

—

For a moment, you hesitated.

Just a breath.

Then you peeled off your gloves—one hand, then the other—fingers flexing slightly in the cool med-bay air. The sterile barrier was gone now. There was no pretending this was still clinical. This wasn’t about notes. This wasn’t about data.

This was about him. And you.

Your footsteps were slow, measured, as you stepped the last bit of distance between you and Bucky. He stood in front of the med-bed, body bare from the waist down, cock flushed and leaking, his chest rising just a little faster now.

You reached out.

Your fingers wrapped around him—replacing his own grip at the base. He let go immediately, lifting his hand away to let you take over, the breath in his throat catching as your skin made contact.

He was hot. Heavy. Alive in your palm, twitching slightly as your hand encircled the base. The skin was soft where it needed to be, velvet over steel, and the tip was slick and pulsing.

You looked up at him.

Your gaze met his, and his eyes were dark, narrowed—hungry.

His lips parted just slightly, voice rough and short.

“Stroke me. Then blow me.”

The order made your thighs clench.

You obeyed without speaking.

Your hand began to move, slow at first, adjusting to the shape and heat of him, your grip gentle, exploratory. You watched the way his stomach flexed with each pass, the subtle twitch of muscle when you passed your thumb over the tip, smearing the pre-cum slowly down the shaft.

You leaned in.

Just slightly at first, tilting your head forward, your breath skating warm over the flushed head. Bucky’s eyes dropped to your mouth.

Then your tongue slipped out—just a taste.

One slow lick, right over the tip.

He groaned. Low. Guttural. His head tipped back for a split second, throat flexing.

You licked again, bolder this time, then wrapped your lips around the head of his cock and drew him in—slowly. You hollowed your cheeks slightly, using just enough pressure to feel him respond, the weight of him dragging your mouth open more as you took him deeper.

Your hand didn’t stop moving.

You stroked while you sucked—your fist gliding up and down the base in sync with your lips pulling wetly around the top. The angle made it easy, almost natural, to slide into a steady rhythm. Before long, your knees found the cold tile beneath you, and you dropped fully down.

On your knees for him.

Bucky’s hand reached for you.

His fingers threaded through your hair—not yanking, not controlling, but guiding. His palm cradled the back of your head, gentle but firm, keeping you steady, helping you move with him.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Jesus—you feel…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

You felt it—every twitch, every surge. You could taste him. Hear the sound of your mouth working over him—slick, lewd, hot. His cock throbbed under your tongue, and your hand was slick with saliva and pre-cum now, sliding faster, keeping pace.

Your thighs were soaked. You didn’t dare check.

This was no longer about commands.

This was about the way he moaned when your lips sank lower.

About how his hips gave a slow, helpless jerk when your tongue curled underneath.

About how your name—or maybe a prayer—slipped from his lips like he was giving in.

—

Bucky’s moans were getting ragged—too close. You could feel it in the way his hand tightened at the back of your head, the subtle twitch in his hips, the tremble riding down the backs of his thighs. He was losing control.

But then—he stopped.

His cock slid from your mouth with a wet pop, strings of saliva still clinging as he stepped back, and his hand released your hair with a gentleness that contrasted the tension still buzzing in the air.

You blinked up at him, breathless. Lips swollen, jaw slack.

Confused.

He leaned down suddenly, close, the blunt edge of his nose brushing your cheek, his mouth ghosting against your ear.

“I gotta stop,” he said, voice thick and wrecked. “If I keep going, I’m gonna come—and that’s not how I want this to end.”

Before you could speak, he inhaled sharply, slow and deliberate—right near your neck, your shoulder.

“I can smell you,” he whispered, so close you could feel his breath. “So sweet… fuck, you smell good. Like heat. Like need. It’s all I can fucking think about.”

Your throat tightened. Your thighs instinctively pressed together, but it was no use. Your panties were soaked through. You could feel it now—sticky against your skin, the telltale ache of need building deep and low.

He pulled back, eyes locking with yours.

“Get on the bed.”

You didn’t think. You just moved.

You climbed onto the med-bed, hands shaking as you laid flat, the sterile paper beneath your back crinkling under you. Your chest rose and fell too fast. Your heart was hammering.

Bucky stepped up beside you, fingers moving straight to the controls along the side panel. You watched him adjust the platform—angling it upward, shifting it higher, higher—until your hips were raised perfectly at the edge, aligned with the height of the rolling med-chair he pulled in behind him.

Then his hands went to your waist.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your uniform pants—flicking the button open, tugging down the zipper slowly.

His eyes stayed on yours the whole time.

The fabric slid down your hips, over your thighs, exposing your underwear—already ruined.

His gaze finally dropped, and the sound he made was primal. A low, breathless groan punched straight from his chest.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at that.”

Your panties were dark with arousal, wet from center to seam, clinging to your folds. His thumb grazed the soaked cotton, dragging it along the sticky heat there.

“You’re this wet for me?” he murmured. “Just from watching me stroke my cock?”

You swallowed but didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your hips tilted slightly into his touch, searching for more.

He hooked his fingers under the waistband and peeled your panties down, slow. As he pulled them off your legs, he paused—his eyes lingering for a heartbeat too long on the soaked gusset—and groaned again under his breath.

If he brought them to his nose, you didn’t see it. You were too busy trying not to tremble as he settled between your thighs.

He grabbed the chair, dragged it forward with one hand, and sat—his eyes level with your cunt now, bare and glistening, exposed completely on the edge of the bed.

“You ever had someone eat you out?” he asked, voice deep and low.

You shook your head. Small. Honest.

A flicker of something passed over his face—dark and pleased. His pupils blew wide, tongue wetting his bottom lip.

“Good,” he said, breath ghosting hot against your inner thighs. “I want to be the first.”

Then he leaned in—and licked you.

The first pass of his tongue was slow, wide, and devastating. A drag from your entrance up to your clit in one long, shivering stroke.

You gasped, back arching. “Oh—!”

He moaned into your cunt, low and deep.

Again.

He licked you slower now, more deliberately, the slurp audible. He nosed into you, spread you with two fingers of his flesh hand and devoured you like it was the only thing he was built to do. His tongue circled, then flattened. Then flicked—messy, wet, perfect.

Your hips twitched. Your hand flew to the bed rail, fingers clenching tight.

“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice trembling.

He grunted into you—sound vibrating straight through your clit.

Then you felt it.

Cold.

His vibranium fingers slid between your folds.

One pressed at your entrance—gentle, firm. A slow stretch as he slipped it in, knuckle by knuckle, filling you in one smooth thrust.

You cried out. Your thighs jerked.

The coldness of metal inside your hot, fluttering walls was overwhelming. You clenched around it instinctively, hips rocking into the sensation.

“Shit—yeah,” Bucky rasped, pulling back enough to speak. “Clenching already? Fuck, you feel good.”

His mouth returned to your clit, tongue circling, then sucking, lips closing around it just right.

At the same time, that finger started to move. A slow, deliberate rhythm. In and out, curling just slightly.

You whimpered. Your eyes squeezed shut. The heat building between your legs was unbearable.

“More—” you gasped. “I want—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t have to.

Because your body had already betrayed you—back arching, hips bucking, slick dripping down to his palm.

His mouth sucked harder, tongue flicking faster, finger fucking you deeper—and you felt yourself start to unravel.

His breath hit your cunt when he spoke again.

“You want more?” His voice was rough, dark. “Say it. Tell me what you need.”

—

Your back arched as the first vibranium finger curled inside you, drawing another soft whimper from your lips. You needed more. The pressure was good—but not enough. Not yet.

Your hips rocked forward instinctively, searching, rolling toward his mouth, his hand, anything he’d give.

“Please,” you breathed, voice trembling. “Another…”

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

Another cool, sleek finger joined the first, easing in slowly with a delicious stretch that made your thighs jerk open wider. He groaned against your cunt as he watched your body react.

“That’s it,” he murmured, lips brushing against your inner thigh. “Take it. Just like that.”

Your hips rolled, desperate for more friction. The pressure was growing deeper, stronger—but it still wasn’t enough. Your moans grew softer, more frequent, broken by panting breaths. You couldn’t form words. Couldn’t ask.

But he knew.

Without needing permission, he slid a third vibranium finger inside you, and that made you cry out.

“F-fuck—” you gasped, legs shaking.

The stretch was intense—your walls clenching tight around the cool metal, fluttering with every slow curl of his fingers. You didn’t know you could feel this full from just fingers. But the pressure was perfect. Overwhelming. Too much and not enough at the same time.

Bucky groaned, his own voice ragged now.

“Fuck, look at you,” he said, voice thick and reverent. “Clenching around me like you’re starving for it.”

He set a faster rhythm, fingers pumping into you with slick, wet sounds that filled the space between your own needy moans. His thumb slid up, circling your clit while his tongue flicked beneath it, and it was too much—your thighs shaking, your breath coming in shallow, desperate bursts.

Your hands gripped the rail above your head. Your body was so close, teetering, right there—

And then he stopped.

Just like that.

You whimpered, a broken sob of air as your hips bucked forward, trying to chase the friction he just took away.

“No—” you gasped.

He didn’t answer. He just sat back slightly, eyes hooded with heat, breath heavy, fingers soaked in your arousal.

He raised his hand to his mouth.

Licked the wet off one finger.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You taste so sweet. Addictive.”

Then, to your surprise, he brought those same fingers to your lips.

You parted them without thinking.

The taste of yourself hit your tongue—salty, musky, warm. It made you moan softly, eyes fluttering closed.

Bucky’s hand dropped, and he leaned over you, one arm curling around your waist as he pulled you upright from the bed in one swift, effortless move. Your legs wrapped around him loosely, chest pressed to his, your soaked cunt still throbbing.

He kissed you.

And it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was claiming.

Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that spoke everything his mouth couldn’t say. Tongue sliding against yours, hands anchoring you close, his cock thick and hard between your bodies.

You broke the kiss first, breath catching in your throat. A soft moan escaped you as you leaned into the crook of his neck, lips brushing his jaw, your breath hot against his ear.

“I need your cock,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Inside. Now.”

He jolted. Just slightly—but you felt it. The way his fingers dug into your hips, the way his cock twitched hard against your stomach.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice rough. “We don’t have to go that far. I can just—keep going. Oral only. Or I can stop.”

But you weren’t having that.

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

Your voice steady now. Low. Commanding.

“It’s a command. Fuck me. Use your cock.”

Something in him broke.

His expression shifted instantly—lips parting, pupils dilating, breath punching out of him like you’d knocked the air from his lungs. And then his hands were on your hips, dragging you down the bed, adjusting your angle.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed.

—

Bucky stepped in close, hands firm on your thighs as he aligned his cock at your entrance. You were still clinging to him from the kiss—legs locked around his waist, hips tilted forward—and the tip of him slid through your slick folds, gliding right up to your clit.

You gasped. Your arms tightened around his shoulders.

He let his forehead rest against yours, breath hot between your lips.

“Gonna split you open real slow, doll,” he whispered, voice dark and low. “Wanna make sure you feel me for days. Wanna make you think of my cock when you’re sittin’ at that medic desk, squirming in that chair…”

You whimpered, breath catching hard in your throat.

He shifted his hips slightly, the fat head of his cock nudging right at your entrance. There. Warm. Heavy.

“Still okay?” he asked, eyes scanning your face.

You nodded quickly—too fast.

But Bucky didn’t move yet.

He was patient. His flesh hand slid to your lower back, supporting you. His vibranium arm cradled under your thighs. You were secure. Held. Open.

He pushed in slowly.

The stretch was immediate.

Your breath hitched. Your brows pinched tight.

It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t discomfort.

It was just—a lot.

So thick. So full. Your walls struggled to accommodate the girth of him, every inch pressing into you with that impossible, deliberate pressure.

Your fingers clawed slightly at his back, seeking grounding. Your lips parted around a breathy, trembling moan.

He stilled halfway.

“Talk to me,” he whispered. “Need me to stop?”

You shook your head. “Just—need a second. You’re…”

“I know,” he muttered, placing a soft kiss against your temple. “You’re taking it so well.”

His cock twitched inside you, and the sensation made your core flutter around him again.

You adjusted your hips subtly, trying to find that sweet angle, and he caught your eyes—dark, hungry, but still gentle.

You gave him a tiny nod.

“Okay.”

He eased forward again, the rest of him slowly sheathing inside—inch by thick inch—until his hips met yours and you were completely full.

You both paused.

You gasped softly, still trying to breathe through the stretch. He stayed still, letting you feel everything: his length, his weight, the way he filled every space inside you like he was made for it.

Then—he began to move.

His hips rolled forward, slow and deep. A drag of thick cock against tight, soaked walls. You moaned quietly into his neck, your arms around his shoulders as he rocked into you with careful, steady rhythm.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he groaned. “Tightest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever felt. Gripping me like you don’t wanna let go.”

You didn’t. Couldn’t. Your body wrapped around him like instinct, taking everything he gave, hips jerking slightly with each push forward.

The pace stayed tender, but every thrust got a little deeper.

He lifted you slightly with each one, your thighs trembling around his waist.

But after a while, he slowed again—kissed your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

Then his voice dropped.

“Turn around for me.”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “What?”

“Wanna see you bend over that bed,” he said, voice rough. “Wanna fuck you from behind. Real slow. Let you feel every inch while you arch that back for me.”

You moaned.

He slowly pulled out—slick and thick and aching—then gently set you down on the mattress.

The bed hissed slightly as he adjusted the height down, just enough to allow your knees to hit the floor if needed. You leaned forward, hands braced on the mattress, spine arching as he guided you into place.

Your cunt throbbed—open and wet, dripping for him.

“That’s it,” he muttered behind you. “Just like that.”

Then he slid back in.

Your mouth dropped open with a gasp as his cock filled you again from behind—this time deeper, the angle hitting something different, something devastating.

He kept his hands firm on your hips, pulling you back gently as he rocked forward. The rhythm wasn’t hard—but deliberate. Controlled. Every stroke sank to the hilt, then withdrew just enough to let you feel the drag before he shoved back in.

You whimpered, braced against the bed, flushed from the neck down.

And he just kept going.

“Still good, baby?” he murmured, thumb brushing over the curve of your lower back.

You nodded, nearly trembling. “S-so good…”

But the words were starting to fall apart.

So was your mind.

And neither of you had even come yet.

—

Bucky’s thrusts deepened, hips rolling into yours at a steady, dragging pace. Each stroke hit just right, and you were keening for him—barely holding yourself upright, knuckles white as you clutched the edge of the med-bed beneath you.

But then his rhythm slowed.

You gasped when he slipped out, your empty cunt fluttering at the sudden loss. Before you could speak, his hands were already guiding your hips—flipping you over with a gentleness that made your heart twist.

You landed on your back.

He hovered over you for just a beat, gaze sweeping your face.

Then he leaned down and kissed you—slow and tender. Like a thank you. Like a promise.

“Lie back,” he murmured against your lips. “Wanna see your face when you come.”

Your cheeks burned. But you obeyed.

You slid further onto the mattress until you were lying flat, arms at your sides, heart pounding in your ears. He followed—climbed onto the narrow bed, the space barely enough for him, but he made it work.

He settled between your thighs again, and without a word, lined himself up.

Then—he pushed back in.

Your body stretched around him once more, the delicious fullness making you gasp. He groaned softly above you, head dropping to your shoulder.

And then he started to move.

Still gentle—but faster now.

Deeper. The strokes came in a rhythm designed to wreck you, his hips driving into yours, the mattress squeaking faintly beneath the both of you. His mouth hovered over yours, your foreheads touching, breath shared.

You looked up at him—really looked—and something in your chest cracked open.

He was flushed. Focused. Eyes trained on every expression you made. Every gasp. Every tremble.

“You’re so close, huh?” he whispered, voice rough. “Can feel you squeezing me.”

You nodded, breath caught in your throat. Your hands gripped his shoulders now, fingers digging into his back.

“Bucky—” you choked. “I’m— I’m coming—”

His mouth found yours as you shattered beneath him.

Your entire body clenched around his cock, heat surging through you like a wave breaking. Your walls pulsed tight around him, spasming with every beat of your climax. Your legs shook. Your fingers trembled. Your voice caught somewhere between a moan and a sob.

And he kept going—just enough to help you ride it out, hips rocking in slow, shallow thrusts as your body twitched and trembled beneath him.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Just like that. You did so fucking good…”

When your spasms started to ease—when your cunt stopped fluttering and your hips finally slumped against the mattress—he pulled out, slick and twitching.

His hand wrapped around his cock, stroking hard and fast.

You could barely watch, breathless and dazed, but the sight of him, flushed and towering above you, fucking his fist with your arousal still shining on him—it was filthy in the best way.

A few strokes later, he came.

Hot ropes spilled across your lower belly, streaking your thighs in thick, warm pulses. He grunted low, teeth clenched, brows furrowed as his release overtook him.

You lay there, wrecked. Chest heaving. Skin slick with sweat.

Bucky? He panted for a moment—but that Super Soldier thing had him steadying fast. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your stomach, just above the mess he’d made.

Then he reached for the tissue box by the tray.

You flinched when the cool wipe hit your thigh, but he was gentle—careful as he cleaned the sticky remnants off your skin. His touch wasn’t sexual anymore. It was care. Quiet. Wordless.

He helped you sit up, tugging your pants back into place like it was second nature. Buttoned them for you. His fingers lingered at the waistband.

Neither of you spoke right away.

You didn’t need to.

There was no awkwardness. No guilt. Just… this unspoken truth between you.

This would happen again.

You both knew it.

Bucky looked around the room once everything was cleaned—bed straightened, gloves tossed, no trace left.

Then he turned to you, mouth tugging at one corner in a crooked grin.

“Maybe next time,” he said, voice low, “we try sex on command, too?”

You laughed softly, breath still shaky.

You nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “For documentation purposes.”

💌: @iamthatonefangirl @sonja-blayde

[vermililion]

"problematic tower romance"

pairing: John Walker x fem!reader

words: 6.5k

summary: John liked to remind you that he was fifteen years older than you. You liked to remind him that you honestly didn't care.

warnings: age gap (John is in his late 30s, reader is in her early 20s), mutual pining, fighting & arguing, getting together, explicit sex scenes, (wet humping, vaginal sex)

a/n: the title of this fic is inspired by the book "problematic summer romance" by Ali Hazelwood! (big recommendation, I marked so many quotes of it on my kindle) thank you for everyone who showed interest in a fic idea like this, I was so motivated to keep writing because all of you!🤍 Enjoy!

ao3 version

────୨ৎ────

Everything you knew about John Walker was contradictory.

All your life, you had been trained to spot patterns, to look at a stranger and know their weakness within seconds. And yet, months had passed after you had become one of the New Avengers and still you couldn’t figure out the riddle that was John Walker.

He was made of the strongest steel, hardened from his life and never letting down his guard – never not hiding behind the shield of his own smugness and cockiness. He was harsh and commanding and older, and if he wanted to, he could be a real pain in the ass.

But somewhere along the way, between missions and the everyday life at the tower, something between you had shifted.

On the first glance, you had nothing in common.

He had a history, tragedies that had struck his life and evidently changed it for the worse and you were a blank slate, only growing into the abilities that made you strong and valuable to the group. Where he liked to stay for himself, playing grumpy old hard-to-get, you liked to surround yourself with your new companions, quickly carving yourself a place in everyone’s hearts.

Yet, there was an invisible force pushing you together.

And there came the day where almost inevitably, John subconsciously started to look out for your smile, his ears adjusting to find your sunny laugh echoing through the space that slowly became home.

Him and you drifted towards each other, circling each other’s orbit without meaning to. Closer, closer.

Neither of you had a habit of sleeping in and so, the kitchen was often shared between the two of you in the early mornings. Silently at first and then over hushed, small conversations that grew longer and longer over time. You discovered John was a pretty good cook until you weren’t even able to imagine what it was like to start your day without his greasy cheese and bacon toasts anymore. He often almost burned the eggs when he listened to you sing quietly along to the radio, in awe and mesmerized.

When the others eventually joined you for breakfast, the coffee between you had long gone cold with conversation. One last glance shared, almost like a secret before you’d go on with your day.

You joined his training – brutal at first, but so damn efficient – and he showed you how to defend yourself better, even letting you carry his shield for practice in case you’d need it one day. John didn’t know yet what the funny tug at his heartstrings meant when he saw you with it. And when you complained over sore muscles the day after, he sneaked you a salve from his private stash. He thought no one saw it, but Yelena and Ava shot you a knowing grin as you turned away with heated cheeks.

It was surprisingly easy to mess with John. It seemed like his shoulders only lost their tension when you made a joke, your sweet laugh a comforting music to his ears.

One time, Bob and you had tried to get one of the old kitchen devices to run since you wanted to bake a cake together.

“There’s no way anyone walking this planet still knows how to use this ancient technology.” Bob quirked his mouth at you and when you saw John come to stand above the two of you, a smile was ready, tugging at the corners of your lips.

“Hmm…let’s ask John, he was born among the dinosaurs.”

He cocked a brow at you, wanting to stay unimpressed which was hard when a literal sunshine was grinning up at him. “Really? An age joke? Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, studying or something?”

You stuck your tongue out at him, his laughter warming your chest like nothing else.

On missions, there always was a shift in him and gone was your grumpy yet soft John, replaced by a sharp and focused weapon of a man who yet always found a way to look out for you. You didn’t miss the way he started to stick to your side, even if it meant breaking protocol. The ghost of his gloved hands drifting over your spine, to move you out of the way or give you an extra push to launch into an attack he had taught you.

You were becoming a team, on the job and outside of it and of course, as a woman in her twenties, you possessed good eyesight: John Walker was, almost annoyingly so, pretty fucking hot.

He wasn’t perfect, but battered yet sharp at the edges, and when he leaned over you for the first time to grab something on the table, freshly showered, white shirt and damp hair, his cologne had filled your senses and you couldn’t look away from him.

The thought of him, the idea of being with a man who wasn’t only older than you but a steady, comforting presence in your life, kept following you way into the nights until all you could think about was him and your hand inevitably drifted underneath your bed covers, fantasizing about what could be.

It was the smallest contacts that haunted you the most. 

His calloused thumb brushing over your braid. The way his eyes turned a shade darker when you looked at each other a moment too long. The warmth of his body when he brushed past you, getting to work and making you eggs the way you liked them. That one time during movie night his thigh feather lightly touched yours, your fingers drifting over a scar on his hand in the dark, barely breathing…

With the years John had on you – a decade and a half you liked to brush off as nothing when you thought of him, he was more experienced in every aspect and liked to show it. Whether it was his cut, commanding orders during missions or correcting your technique in the gym again and again, he liked to remind you that you were younger. Inexperienced to the world and its ways. Just a little doe that now played with the adults.

It drove you wild.

It turned you on more than it should’ve.

You had never wanted anyone more.

And secretly, while John beat himself up for getting a boner at the thoughts of you circling through his mind, you fully gave into them and thought: why the hell not?

During a mission in Rome, the tension between him and you had finally boiled over.

The others had stayed in New York while the two of you went to Europe, playing happy couple on a little trip while also spying on a cartel that had brought Val some trouble recently. Which meant that most of the time spent there, John was supposed to take you out on some fancy rooftop dates, with you dressed in pretty sundresses and heels as you tried to concentrate on the mission with his hand constantly on your lower back or your arm.

It also had been a shock to discover that you were actually the impulsive one in this unusual pretend-pairing, especially when this certain attribute surfaced during a chase through the narrow alleys until you had nearly caught a knife to your chest.

But John’s shield had been faster, catapulting the thing that could’ve ended your life against a wall and killing your opponent with it. For a moment, you both had stood still, breathing heavily as the reality of what could’ve happened sunk in and your eyes met. Yours confused and a little dazed, his wide and terrified. 

In the next second, you were pressed up against the wall, your thigh hooked over his waist as he kissed you desperately, senseless.

Maybe it was the aftermath of the scare, the adrenaline still pumping through both of your veins.

Or maybe what had been blossoming quietly between the two of you.

In that moment, it didn't matter.

When he had muttered a weak “We can’t…” against your lips, you only kissed him back harder, your arms secure and wanting wrapped around your neck, making him bend down to meet you.

“I don’t care.” You had whispered back, sealing your fate.

Back then, you hadn’t known yet how complicated John liked to make his own life.

The rest of the time in Rome had been spent in a dream, the mission complete, the flight scheduled soon but out of reach. The two of you had let yourselves be swallowed by the vibrant city, getting lost in the streets and old monuments, forgetting of the titles you both wore and who you were supposed to be.

An invisible question mark floated between you at all times.

Will we? when his thumb brushed over the corner of your lip to wipe away some vanilla ice cream.

Will we? when you casually entwined your fingers with his as he carried your shopping bags.

Will we? when you watched the sunset and you leaned your head against his arm, one of his hands splayed over your thigh.

During your last night, after a delicious dinner where pinkies kept brushing and electricity sparking, you finally found yourself in his hotel room, drowning in his sheets and him.

You were tangled together, all breathy moans and heated flesh, his suit and your flowy flower dress dropped and forgotten on the floor. Your silky hair splayed down on his pillow, his broad shoulders reddened from your nails scratching him passionately.

John tried to keep most of his weight off you, but you kept dragging him down.

You didn’t want to be babied. You wanted to be covered in him, swallowed up by all of him and never to be seen again. Your back arched as he hit just the right spot and you gasped into his mouth, your hand pulling him down by his sweaty nape, ready to be devoured by his kiss.

“There’s fifteen years between us.” He gasped against your neck, hips rutting into you slow and deep, his teeth gritted and hot breath lighting you on fire.

You nudged your nose with his, forcing him to look at you as you bit down on his bottom lip, hard. “Congrats on knowing how to count, John.”

Everything in you seized up when he suddenly bit down on your neck, softly licking over the mark before doing it again just because you let him. Your pussy clenched around him, ankles locking behind his back and pushing him further into madness.

There was a crazed urgency in the way his hips snapped into yours. Like he needed to get deeper, no sight of being sated yet as he fucked you into the mattress. John was everywhere, filling up your senses as he kept you full with his cock, legs spread wide around him as you held on to him for dear life.

He couldn’t look away from you if he wanted to, fascinated with your rosy cheeks and soft, parted lips.

You were soft. 

Not fragile, far from it, but precious to him and the others.

And even as if he was buried deep into your sweet warmth, all John could think about was that it was only a matter of time until he’d mess this up and break you just like everything else that used to be good in his life.

But he had never claimed to be perfect.

And so, he kept fucking you into an earth-shattering high, until your body twitched and shook in his embrace and you slowly fell asleep on his chest, his arms keeping you safe and close to him all night.

After Rome, he withdrew.

Putting a reasonable and safe distance between himself and you.

John had no bigger enemy in this world than his own mind sometimes and so, he carefully loosened his hold on your sleeping form the next morning, trying his best to shake off what had been growing so gently inside of him.

You had not realized the last time he planned to allow himself to be in a room with you was the debrief with the team after you got home. And even then, John had barely looked at you.

The next day, after sitting over cold breakfast for an hour, you understood that he wasn’t coming. And when he walked past you with Bucky later, jaw tense and face scarily neutral, something inside of you reeled back in shock. 

The first few days, you were a little lost, the happiness you had felt when you had drifted off in John’s arms fading into a numb confusion. The passionate night shared between you kept replaying itself in your mind and you wondered where things had taken a wrong turn. You hadn’t been in a relationship before and you couldn’t help but think you had done something wrong.

And John didn’t give you a chance to ask.

While life at the tower went on, John avoided you, never crossing paths at the gym and even excusing himself from conversations when he saw you approach.

At first, it was frustrating.

Then, it became infuriating.

Your hurt heart built itself a cage of anger, a constant burn in your chest following you around until one day – after a good, healing talk with the girls and Bob – you understood what the fucking problem was.

There was a deep, heavy self-hate inside of John Walker.

A guilt he couldn’t brush off, dark and ugly and making him believe after everything, he didn’t deserve happiness like the one he felt with you. After his downfall in society, the split with Olivia…what good had he done to deserve you? What gave him the right to rely on someone like you, still so young and unsullied from the world’s tragedies?

Even after the mission and time you had spent together, you haunted him in his dreams, your smile and beauty brightening up his nights until he’d wake and hate himself a little more for not being able to let go of you. The idea of you. Someone young he’d have a second chance with. John knew if you were his, he’d spend every second of his day cherishing you, spoil you rotten and keep you as happy as he could.

But you deserved better.

So, he continued to give you space. When he refused to go on another duo mission with you during the next conference, suggesting Bucky could get the job done instead, you finally had enough.

You watched him leave for the gym like a coward, determined to not give up on one of the few things that truly made you feel alive and wanted. If John wasn’t going to talk to you or acknowledge what happened, you’d have to pry yourself a way back into his life.

Manchild.

You went after him, making a quick detour to your room to change into the shortest gym shorts you could find. When you arrived, John was already blowing off steam at one of the boxing sacks, his shirt drenched with sweat.

Leaning against the wall, you watched with an aching heart, the way his muscles shook, strength and anger searing through every vein of his. John was not going to stop until he’d either thrown the sack off its hook or you found the bravery to put an end to this.

“You should take it out on me.” You spoke up after a while, bitterly.

John stilled, breath heavy as he turned around to look at you. One look, that’s all it took. “Fuck no.”

“I want you to.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Oh? Since when do you care about what you want?” You pushed yourself off the wall, glaring at him angrily. “You’ve done an excellent job to convince yourself that you don’t want me. If you want to push me away so badly, I need you to fight back.”

There was so much unspoken between the two of you.

But you were a fighter.

If the point came where words weren’t enough anymore, you still had your fists.

You launched yourself at him, a surprised grunt leaving his lips as you attacked, unhinged and frayed at your very edges. You were tired, occupied at night to think of the one in front of you and you were angry that he possessed the audacity to toss you aside like you were nothing to him.

And your body held on to this ugly knot inside of you and doubled it, making sure to throw every storm of feeling abandoned and rejected into the fight. Annoyingly easily, John slipped into defense, keeping you away as you tried to crowd him, getting all up into his space with a growl.

Sweat stuck to your exposed skin as he kept pushing you away, never attacking back.

When your closed fist hit his chest, John didn’t even flinch and it poured gasoline all over the fire inside of you. You were getting messy, not smart or strategic anymore, just trying to hit him wherever you could while he kept his defense up with a stubbornness that made you see red.

Only your heavy breathing and grunts echoed across the gym, reminding you of when he had been on top of you, his cock dragging over that mushy spot that made you see stars, your mouths melting together in a wild kiss.

A sudden sob tore its way from your throat when the skin of your knuckles broke against his solid form and you hissed, head fuzzy and swaying on your feet. John instantly lost his posture, trying to grab your wrist and check the damage.

You struggled against him, hating the way tears suddenly pricked at your eyes. “Let go of me!”

“Hey, you have to stop- Stop, honey, stop!”

With one last raging strength, you pushed him away. Staring at him wide-eyed, you panted and felt every inch of your bruised heart beat wildly in your chest. “Really, John?! Honey? You ignore me for days, leaving every room like I’m the walking plague after you railed me into your mattress and now I’m suddenly honey?! Looking back on how you treated me, I am nothing to you, am I wrong?”

John stared back at you, hating the way your blood dripped down on the floor because of him. And the look in your beautiful eyes…he hated himself just a little more.

He rubbed his face in frustration, knowing that if he didn’t put his hands to use, he’d pull you into his arms with them. “You’re not no…fuck. I just shouldn’t have… I lost control. I was taking advantage and I’m not going to be-“

You scoffed, offended, and cut him off. “I can’t believe you. Are you seriously blaming yourself for me ending up in bed with you? God, I wish- I wish you would realize that I’m in fact an adult and have critical thinking skills. If I wanted to stay away from you, I would’ve. If I didn’t want to be close to you, Rome would’ve never happened the way it did. Do you really think I would’ve let you fuck me when I didn’t fucking want you so badly I can’t even breathe? Are you thinking this low of me, John?”

You hated the way your voice had started shaking, the insecurity of the past days rising again in your chest. For the first time, you really acknowledged the years between him and you. Your heart was young. If he was going to break it, you’d have all the time in the world to heal – but without him.

John shook his head, a tortured expression on his face. “It’s not- Christ, I could never think low of you. But this can’t happen. It’s not about you, it’s…”

Just as he wanted to turn away from you, you grabbed his shoulder and spun him back around. “Then tell me what this is about. Talk to me!”

You were standing close now, him looking down on you with dark, clouded eyes. Fighting against himself on the inside. Lowly, he said: “I’m fifteen years older than you. This is a new situation for all of us and if anything, I’m supposed to be someone who protects you, a- a friend.”

The word tasted bitter in your mouth. “Friends don’t sleep with each other like it means something.”

And just like that, the fire was back in him. “Fine, then someone who’s not taking advantage when there’s clearly a power imbalance! This is problematic.”

“You’re not taking advantage.” You urged, clinging to the little hope you had of talking some sense into him, although you felt just as mad as he did. “I want you. You want me.”

“How could I not want you?!” John exploded, muscular chest falling and rising rapidly, out of control when his heart was only screaming for you. “You’re smart and beautiful and the best thing that happened to me in months and I stood no chance, none. I’m trying to be reasonable and good for once in this new fuckery that’s my life and I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you and you keep making it so fucking hard to stay away from you.”

You were breathing each other’s air, the anger you had held on to not lose your mind slowly saying goodbye and vanishing in the depths of his blue eyes. John looked defeated and regretful and wide open and you felt yourself taking another step. Right into his space, his heart. (But that had been yours from the beginning on.)

“Then don’t.” You said simply and took his hand, his large warm palm resting in your uninjured smaller one. “I don’t want you to stay away from me. We can fight or argue or whatever it is you prefer over fucking me senseless the way I want you to. Even if there was a power balance, I wouldn’t give a fuck if it means I’d have you. I…want to be close to you and I want to fall asleep in your arms without worrying that you will disappear in the morning. But I also want to joke with you and talk and- go back to how it used to be between us. Just…don’t go back to ignoring me because I can’t take that and- I’ll murder you if you do.” You ended weakly, a sad smile on your face.

John swallowed hard, his long exhale unsteady as his thumb brushed softly over your hand. “You’re too good. I didn’t want to treat you like this, it’s just…I think I’m going to screw this over like I do with everything else in my life. If I’m ever hurting you again, I’ll gladly let you end me, honey.”

There it was again, the nickname.

Familiar and soothing.

Slowly, as if you were about to startle him, you leaned up on your tiptoes and let your lips press the smallest kiss to his stubbled jaw. Lovingly, you murmured against his skin: “Idiot.”

“I know, I know…” He pressed his lips together, his eyes so full of longing, you almost forgot to breathe. “I’m going to make this up to you. You deserve the fucking world and I’m…I’m gonna try to be better.”

You softened. “You’re already good enough for me.”

He didn’t agree, but he also didn’t argue.

Instead, John pulled you into his arms and held you against his chest. You let out a sigh, marveling at the way your head fitted perfectly under his chin, how you felt at home in the blink of an eye, cradled and loved the way you were meant to me.

“I don’t just want sex.” John murmured into your hairline, his hand rubbing circles onto your small shoulders. “I want it all, with you. If you’ll have me.”

You smiled, dazed and hopeful and wide open. “I already got you, John.”

“Good.” He nodded, his lips kissing the top of your head, then your temple, your nose. You could’ve stayed like this forever, tired out by the fight but finally at peace before his deep voice broke the silence in the gym once more. “Will you please let me look at your hand now?”

And despite the low throbbing pain in your knuckles, you laughed breathlessly into his chest.

For a while, things between John and you were fragile, careful.

What had started out as a fire out of control had simmered down to a slow exploration of each other, cautious of any more bumps his self-punishing streak could cause.

You were still doing breakfast together, but now those lazy mornings would start with neck kisses and tasting blueberries and pancakes on his lips. You still had some age jokes in the chamber and so had the rest of your team now that you didn’t hide anymore.

You were as unapologetic about your attachment as ever and you couldn’t help but beam every time John lost some of his self-hate. When your hand found his or your head needed to rest on his shoulder for a while, he’d let it happen.

At some point – you couldn’t really pinpoint how it started – John developed a habit where he couldn’t sleep without you. It started slow, with him quietly trailing after you once movie night ended, a big shadow following you to your room. He’d move in sync with you and help you out of your clothes only to put one of his shirts on you. 

In the beginning, your heart had nearly exploded when John had crawled into bed with you, his touch searching but not demanding as he moved you like a dolly until you’d fit perfectly against him and he was satisfied with the amount of his skin making contact with yours. He was kind of like an oversized teddy bear like this and when you whispered exactly that into his ear, he softly slapped your ass and cuddled you even closer.

Those were the peaceful and quiet nights at the tower.

You came to know others, too.

There were times when John still blocked you off.

There was so much guilt inside of him, suffocating him at times where he would’ve shut off completely in the past. But when he drew up his walls now, they went up with you in them. In the dark silence of his room, where everything felt too heavy and out of control, you laid yourself on top of him, a warm and very much alive safety blanket that grounded him better than any self-destructive gym session ever could.

And when you brushed some of his hair away from his forehead, taking care of his bruised soul with the softest touches and words, John knew he was going to be okay.

Magically, your things wandered over into his room over time until you couldn’t imagine anymore what it was like before, pining after one another wall to wall. Your nights always consisted of murmured conversations now, nose to nose and keeping each other warm and comfy and you resisted the urge to pinch yourself if this was really your life now. (John pinched himself on a daily basis.)

He learned every way to make love to you, sometimes sensual and slow, other times hard and fast when you both needed it to be that. You were more than smug when you discovered that John was kinda getting off on knowing you were younger now, allowing himself to love you unashamed, for all you were.

Your hunger for each other was insatiable. Ever-growing.

Like a fire you could only put out when he was balls deep inside of you and even then, John and you burned.

This morning, miraculously, he and you had stayed in bed.

You had gotten home from a quick mission a few days ago, but the time difference was still messing with your head. Since John revealed himself to be an oversized cuddly bear, you had a hard time getting out of bed early in the morning anymore. Which meant: you literally couldn’t move because his arms wouldn’t let go of you.

You stifled a little yawn, content to watch the city outside of the panorama windows for now, John’s body a steady presence against your back. You remembered having fallen asleep on top of him, but now he was spooning you, your head bedded on his bicep and his other arm slung around your waist, massive hand close to cup your chest.

It was so natural, familiar.

If your mornings started out anything different than this, without him, you didn’t want them.

You sighed happily and shifted back against his tall form, luring a sleepy groan from deep within his chest when your barely clothed bum brushed against his dick. John’s arms tightened around you and he exhaled deeply, burying his face in your neck and making you squirm as his hot breath hit the sensitive skin behind your ear.

“’morning…” He murmured, his hoarse sleepy voice sending pleasant shivers down your spine. Last night, you had ridden him like a goddess, taking him deep inside of you as he worshipped your body dutifully and let you lead. He had stayed inside afterwards, out of breath for once and a fucking goner for the girl in his lap. But now, with him so closely plastered to your back, his thumb brushing lazy circles around your rosy buds, you knew he was far from done with you.

You looked over your shoulder and touched his beard. “Hi…time to take your morning meds yet?”

His nose scrunched up, two of his fingers plucking on your nipple and making you moan between your giggling. “Fuck off.”

“Actually, no.” You grinned at him, rubbing your ass shamelessly against the growing bulge in his boxers. “Fuck me.”

John shook his head in playful disbelief, brushing your hair away from your shoulder so he could kiss your neck, all open-mouthed and wet and exactly how you craved it right now. You could already feel yourself getting wet from being so thoroughly caged in by him, no chance of escaping his sweet assault. “Such a dirty girl…you already soaked, honey?”

You grabbed his chin and led him up, kissing him filthily as he moaned into your mouth and your ass rubbed over his hard dick just right. “Come and find out, old man.”

That was every invitation he needed.

In a whirlwind, John threw the covers off the bed, leaving you unprotected and barely clothed in front of him. You bent one of your legs, showing him how wet the silky fabric of your lace panties already were, your chest blooming with hickeys and bite marks he had left on you when you had bounced on it last night.

John’s eyes darkened, fixed on the dark patch over your center. He loved the color of your hair against his navy-blue sheets. Loved how you smelled like him, how familiar you were in his space. And he loved nothing more than fucking his girl into oblivion and he licked his lips, planning to do just that.

You writhed against his sheets, beaming under his undivided attention, breath hitching when he leaned over you and parted your legs with his hips. John hummed deep in his throat, nosing at your neck as he took both your wrists and placed them up over your head. Quickly, he pulled his shorts down and threw your panties over his shoulder.

“Fuck, John…” You stared up at him, trusting and excited and he thought, if he wouldn’t get into trouble about it, he’d keep you in this room forever. Away from everyone else that wasn’t him, his to cherish and love and fuck.

“’gonna take care of my baby girl.” He mumbled, kissing down your chest before he pushed his hips forward. You both exhaled sharply when his long, curved cock slid over your wet pussy just right.

The friction was delicious and you seized up, back bowing off the bed as he started to rub himself against your core, coating his length in your arousal like it fucking belonged to him. Your fingers closed around nothing, trying to center yourself and he noticed instantly and surged down, connecting your lips in a hot lazy kiss.

“Shit, that feels s-so good…” You whimpered between kisses. Your efforts to somehow match his rhythm couldn’t compare to his authority. It was John leading, knowing what you needed. You slumped back and gasped when the tip caught at your clit, soaking it in his precum too.

“Jesus, you’re unbelievable.” John peppered kisses over your boobs, sucking them into his mouth and listening to your little moans like it was a symphony. You were ruining the bed and he fucking loved it, feeling your legs around his waist, heels digging into his butt as he kept grinding against you.

“I need you to- fuck, get inside me.” For emphasis, you bit down on his bottom lip. “Now.”

John sat back, letting go of your wrists and being immediately pulled down by you. “Greedy little thing.”

“You were the one who woke up with a boner.”

“You rubbed yourself against me.”

You winked at him. “I heard old people often just need enrichment.”

John chuckled darkly. “Oh, honey. I’m gonna fuck the sass right out of you.”

Yes please.

He sank down on you, stroking himself one more time before he slowly pushed into you. You sometimes still needed a moment – the serum had enhanced everything – and he watched carefully, the little frown on your face softening as you adjusted, your hands a bit shaky on his shoulders.

His calloused thumb circled your clit for a while and slowly, you eased up around him with a sigh.

“’s good…” You nodded and tested the waters by flexing around him, eliciting a bunch of curses from his mouth at the sudden pressure. You giggled in delight, a little unbelieving, a lot in love. He was yours and he was not going to leave again. “You can move. Don’t hold back.”

John kissed you, pulling out almost all the way before he pushed back into you, making your toes curl as he started a steady passionate rhythm. You moaned against his lips, fingers digging into his shoulders and holding onto him tight.

“Fuck yesss…” You hissed as he cupped your bum with one hand and lifted you just a little bit, the new angle allowing John to hit your g-spot just right.

“God, you’re so wet for me, honey.” John groaned, resting his head against your shoulder and moving you back and forth on his cock as if you weighed nothing at all. “’m gonna make you see stars.”

The snarky remark on your tongue died as he swiftly turned you around on your stomach before immediately pressing himself flat against your back.

“You’re mine.” He growled, hand pushing your sticky thighs apart as he buried himself in you once more, your whimper damped only briefly by the pillows before his hand came to rest easy on your throat and lifted your head. A moment later, he bit you and you convulsed around him.

He fucked into you as if he hadn’t already claimed you for himself. Full of purpose and aching need, hot-headed and adoring. John bullied his hand between you and the mattress, cupping your whole pussy with it as he grinded into you like a man possessed.

“You look so fucking beautiful, honey, so cute with your little whimpers.” He whispered into your ear, knowing he had you completely now. “’gonna come in you so deep, you’ll feel it for days. My good girl. Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight.”

You sobbed in pleasure, not caring for your drool on his pillow, trying to grab behind yourself and push him deeper.

He growled into the soft space between your shoulder blades. “Still need more of me, hm? We can fix that.”

In one swift, strong motion, he sat back on his haunches and took you with him, your whole body boneless and slumping against him, just as you had woken up. Your back against his chest, your dripping pussy now spread wide around his dick.

You shrieked, feeling him up in your belly and grabbed his hair, letting yourself be lifted and pushed down on his cock like he wanted to. The filthy sound of skin slapping against skin, combined with your shared moans, filled the room. It was fucking heaven.

With one of his hands still resting lightly on your throat, the other sneaked down and rubbed your throbbing clit and you moaned his name, head dropping onto his shoulder as he bucked wildly into you.

“J-John, I’m gonna come-“ You whimpered, reduced to only feeling him, your combined scent enveloping you and mind slipping further away as white-hot pleasure completely overwhelmed you.

“That’s it.” John gritted his teeth, spurning you on towards the edge. “Come on my cock, honey. Let me feel you. Fuck yeah-“

You screamed, falling over the edge in his arms and letting go of yourself entirely. John held you through it, his hips bucking a few more times until he came with you, both of your bodies almost melting into one as he slowly let you down on the bed and gathered your twitching body right back into his arms.

He was still inside of you and you smiled blissfully at him through your lashes, brushing a few blond strands away from his sweaty forehead. John looked absolutely wrecked for you and you couldn’t help but hide your wide smile in his chest. You were so full of him, blissed out and sleepy and he was still there, right where he belonged. With you.

“You are incredible.” John said quietly and kissed your temple, both of you slowly climbing down from your high as your breath mingled. “So, so good for me…”

“If you continue sweet talking to me like that, we’re not going to leave the bed.” You whispered while drawing little hearts on his naked chest.

John huffed out a laugh. “Not a problem for me.”

“For me neither.” You playfully bit down on his pec and he groaned underneath his breath. “Just worrying about you, y’know?”

“Ah, come on.” His hand glid over your spine, softly stroking your back and keeping you warm. You felt him softening inside of you, but it’d be only a matter of time if you kept this up. “Don’t make me proof myself like this.”

“We’ll see.” You kissed his nose contently. “I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.” John smiled, hiking your leg a little higher on his hip for comfort. It wasn’t the first time you had said it, the words lived in by now yet making his heart flutter every single time he got to say or hear them. He was home.

After a while, in the quietness of his bedroom, John blinked back at you and muttered: “I think I pulled something in my back.”

Your giggle echoed in his ears, his heart.

Recently, John was grateful for a lot of things, but above all, he was grateful that you had not given up on him and made him stay.

And now? He was never going to let go of you again.

────୨ৎ────

taglist: @sagexsenorita @ivedonemywaiting13 @soantiyou @fandom-trash-kenzie @iamthatonefangirl @gummy-little-bear @princesschyanne @starktonyx @slutfordaddyjohnwalker @olivia21blunt @somemadart @smooth-raikkonen @voidslxt

[vermililion]

what i’m about to do is not approved by the vatican

Pairings: John Walker x Reader

Summary:

His eyes flick briefly to your lips as you bite them in thought. They look soft. Tempting. He can’t help but imagine what they’d look like wrapped around the barrel of his gun. It’s a filthy thought, he knows. But then again, he’s seen your search history. You’re not nearly as innocent as you pretend to be. John smiles to himself, gaze dropping as he inspects the weapon in his hands. “I’m not sure,” he says, voice low, teasing. “Still looks dirty. What do you think?” The question snaps you out of your daydreams, your breath catching before you can stop it. “I suppose so.” He places the gun under your chin, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. “Want a closer look?” “Maybe…” you murmur, breath catching in your throat. Or John sees you staring while he's cleaning his guns and decides to use your mouth instead.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, gun play, mouth fucking but with a gun so oral sex(?), unresolved sexual tension, John teasing you

WC: 1.1k

A/N: Thank you to @fire-joestar, for the request; the title gave me a lot to work with. Enjoy!

***

John Walker is sex on wheels as far as you’re concerned. Everything about him was perfectly crafted to drive you crazy. So it’s no surprise you’ve had a freaky thought or two about him; you just haven’t had the opportunity to put any of it to the test.

You walk into the armoury, the faint scent of oil and gunmetal hanging in the air. He’s sitting on a bench, sleeves rolled up, head bent over a pistol. His hands are hard at work, movements practised and methodical.

“Hey, John…” you say casually, leaning against the doorframe.

He turns slightly, not looking surprised to see you. “Stalking me?”

“You wish,” you scoff, stepping in and walking over to where he’s working. You glance over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning my guns,” he says, as if it should’ve been obvious. His voice is low, calm, with the edge of dry humour that always makes your chest twist a little.

You nod, watching him work. “Therapy?”

He snorts. “Something like that. Helps me think.”

You study the set of his jaw, the way his brow furrows in focus. “What’re you thinking about?”

He hesitates. “Long story.”

You don’t push. You doubt you’d get through even if you tried.

“Want company or want space?”

He glances up at you for the first time, eyes sharp but soft. “Didn’t think I needed to ask anymore.”

When he catches you staring, your eyes trailing from his hands, up the line of his forearm, across his broad shoulders and down again, you don’t even try to hide it. It’s not the first time he’s caught you looking. You weren’t exactly subtle.

His eyes flick briefly to your lips as you bite them in thought. They look soft. Tempting. He can’t help but imagine what they’d look like wrapped around the barrel of his gun.

John smiles to himself, gaze dropping as he inspects the weapon in his hands.

It’s a filthy thought, he knows. But then again, he’s seen your search history.

You’re not nearly as innocent as you pretend to be.

“I’m not sure,” he says, teasingly. “Still looks dirty. What do you think?”

The question snaps you out of your daydreams, your breath catching before you can stop it. “I suppose so.”

“Maybe…” you murmur, breath catching in your throat.

He places the gun under your chin, tilting your head up to meet his eyes.

“Want a closer look?”

He walks you backwards until your back hits the wall with a soft thud. There’s heat, his body crowding yours, close enough that you can feel the tension rolling off him.

“Not quite.”

He presses the gun lightly against your lips, watching the way your eyes darken.

“Is this close enough?” he asks as he tests the waters.

Slowly, he pulls your lips apart with the gun, and you take it in almost enthusiastically. The way your looking at him going straight to his dick.

The cold metal feels heavy resting against your tongue as you try and keep your composure. It’s distracting, intrusive. The taste of leftover gun oil lingering on your tongue. You suppose it really did need to be cleaned.

Your eyes flutter closed as you try and focus on anything else, but it’s impossible. You can smell his cologne. It’s clean, sharp, and so good you could dive into it.

“Look at me,” He rasps, and you could not deny that orders sounded all too good coming from him. The moment your eyes land on him, he smirks. It’s a slow, lazy, downright cocky smirk. The kind that says he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, how every time he shoves his gun deeper into your mouth, you lose a brain cell. Who gave him the right to be so hot?

He tilts your head back, your mouth being forced wider, and you struggle to take the width of the gun. 

“That’s it, keep those eyes on me.”

You whimper at his words, feeling ashamed. What if someone walked in and saw you like this? So willing to bend to the will of John Walker, that you’d let him fuck your face with a gun. You’d never live this down. 

“Look at that pretty face. And that mouth…”

He trails off as he moves it in and out of your mouth, revelling in seeing your eyes water as you feel the tip of his gun hit the back of your throat or when you fight back a gag but you’re not able to.

“Did you have something to say?” He says, pulling the gun out a little.

The gun still resting against your cheek only allows you to mumble out an answer. “Jo…hn…” being the only thing audible as drool escapes the side of your mouth. The sounds of your moans echo in the room as you take everything he can give you. You bet you look an absolute mess; eyes rolling back, legs buckling. But you couldn’t care less.

Suddenly, he pulls away a line of saliva still connected to the gun as he puts it aside with a clang.

“What are you—?” 

You’re interrupted by John cupping your face and pulling you in for a kiss. It’s needy and desperate, the kind of kiss you won’t soon forget. 

His lips connect with yours perfectly, both hands now firmly gripping your hips like he never wants to let you go. It’s dizzying, the way he’s touching you, tongue slipping in and out of your mouth, hands slipping up your shirt, not giving you a chance to catch your breath.

Pulling back, the only thing you can say is, “God, please…” 

“It’s not God, it’s John, remember?” John quips back, making you smack his arm. 

But it’s not long before the gun is sliding back into your mouth again with ease. 

You had gotten a little more used to the feeling of it and felt compelled to take it deeper, especially with the way John is looking at you. He’s entranced by you, praising you with a few soft kisses to your forehead as he uses you.

It makes you weak. 

You hold onto his forearm, not just to keep yourself from falling but also to encourage him to go faster. However, instead, he pulls it out. As if he’d give you exactly what you wanted. He wanted you to wait, to beg.

“John…” You whine, to which he just chuckles in his usual ‘John Walker’ way.  He pulls away from your body, that’s weak with need and starts going about his business. “You’re leaving me like this?”

“Yeah,” He gives you a glance over his shoulder, “I think my gun is clean now.”

Masterlist

[vermililion]

Dead-End Heat

Pairing: John Walker x fem!Reader

Summary: After his divorce, John Walker hides out at the end of a dead-end road — quiet, wrecked, and alone. Until his new neighbor starts dancing naked by the window. And he stops pretending he’s not watching.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, masturbation (f + m), voyeurism, dry humping, fingering, oral sex (m giving), breast play, age gap (both adults), ovulation kink, creampie mention (pull-out), size kink, emotional damage (m), light dom/sub undertones, aftercare, strong language

Word Count: 4.7k

Author's Note: My first John Walker's fic because I've been spiraling down for him lately. Never really hated his character, and there's just something in him that held a grip on my heart. This might be the only time I wrote for him as my focus would still be mainly on Bucky. Hope you'll enjoy this!

The house was smaller than anything he’d ever lived in.

It sat at the end of a forgotten road—a gravel path that wound past empty fields and thinning trees, eventually dead-ending at a pair of sagging homes no one seemed to care about. His was the worse of the two. Crooked porch steps. Peeling siding. A roof that slanted wrong and windows clouded with time. The place looked like it had been stitched together by someone who ran out of energy halfway through the job—and then abandoned it altogether.

It was perfect.

John dropped his single duffel by the door and kicked it shut behind him. The air inside hit him like a memory—musty, humid, heavy with the scent of rot in the walls and the ghosts of strangers before him. The couch leaned sideways. The bed was just a bare mattress on the floor, no frame. The fan above him wheezed like it had asthma. A fridge buzzed like it was trying to die.

No pictures. No clutter. No reminders of what he lost.

No Lamar.

No Olivia.

No son’s drawings pinned to the fridge.

Just silence.

Which was the whole damn point.

The divorce papers had come through three days ago—a final blow that felt both slow and sharp. Olivia hadn’t cried. She just signed the line, eyes tired, like something inside her had already been buried. And he didn’t blame her. Not after all he’d brought home with him. The nights he came back colder. Angrier. Quieter. After Lamar died, something in John stopped working right. He didn’t know how to talk to her. Didn’t know how to father a kid with grief sitting in his lungs like concrete.

He took the deal. Let her have the house. The car. Most of the furniture. All he asked was to be left alone.

So when he found the listing—cheap rent, secluded property, no neighbors but one—he said yes before seeing a photo.

The landlord had handed him the keys with a crooked smile and a half-assed warning.

“Only neighbor’s a college girl,” she said. “Lives right next door. Early twenties, I think. You probably won’t even notice her.”

He hadn’t cared. He didn’t want noise. Didn’t want company. He wanted a place that wouldn’t expect anything from him.

And for the first few nights, that’s what he got.

Just darkness. Sweat-soaked sleep. Bottled beer. The occasional nightmare that still left his fists clenched in the sheets.

Until the window started glowing.

—

It started with light.

Her bedroom—your bedroom—glowed gold in the dark like it had a soul of its own. Just across the strip of grass separating the houses, the second floor window lit up every night, soft and warm and too alive. His own bedroom faced yours directly—a cruel kind of proximity. Close enough to see the shape of you if he didn’t shut the blinds. And for a while, he did. Shut them. Or turned his back. Or went downstairs before it got bad.

But it kept happening.

And one night, curiosity won.

He looked.

And froze.

You were perched right there on your windowsill—legs tucked up, body backlit like something out of a dream. A tank top clung to your skin, rucked up just enough to bare the curve beneath your breast. Your thighs were spread. One hand braced the window frame behind you. The other slipped between your legs—bold and unhurried, fingers glinting in the light as you touched yourself like no one was watching.

Like you didn’t care if someone was.

You moved slow. Like this was ritual. Like this was how you soothed yourself to sleep.

John’s mouth went dry. His body stiffened.

He should’ve looked away.

He didn’t.

Because the longer he watched, the more the guilt tangled with something hotter. Needier. His hand drifted down before he could stop it—shame curling in his chest like smoke as he unzipped his jeans and wrapped his hand around himself.

He stroked slow. Matched your rhythm. Imagined how you’d sound if the window wasn’t in the way.

Then your head turned.

Your gaze lifted.

Eyes met his through glass.

He froze.

You didn’t.

If anything—you moved slower. Smiled faintly. Tilted your hips so he could really see what your fingers were doing.

His breath hitched. His fist tightened. His heart slammed so loud he was sure you could hear it through the pane.

And when he came—knuckles white, lip bloodied from biting it too hard—it was with a strangled moan, your image burned behind his eyes.

After that, it wasn’t just light in the window anymore.

It was you.

Naked sometimes. Singing. Dancing. Laughing like no one could hear you. And almost every night, you touched yourself right there at the sill—head tilted back, eyes closed, mouth parted like a prayer.

You never pulled the curtain.

And he never shut the blinds.

Because part of you wanted to be seen.

And part of him needed to see it.

—

It started happening more often.

At first, it was once every few days—a shadow lingering behind the blinds, a pause in the dark that matched the rhythm of your movements. Then it became nightly.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what he was doing.

The sliver of his window was always the same. Light off. Curtains drawn halfway. Just enough space for you to catch the subtle shape of him—a figure standing near the glass, barely moving. Until he did.

A slight twitch of the shoulder. The familiar arc of a flexing forearm.

Jerking off.

At first, you’d pretended not to notice. But you felt it—the heat that crawled up your spine, the rush that flushed your skin. Your pulse didn’t lie.

And over time… neither did your body.

You started performing.

Lingerie that didn’t hide anything. Positions that bent you right over, back arched, ass pointed toward the open window like a silent dare. You knew the thin fabric of your panties barely did a damn thing—knew he could see the outline of your pussy when you stood in the light.

Once, you heard him.

A low grunt, barely audible over the hum of the fan. But it made you freeze. Made your thighs press together.

He was watching.

He wanted.

And that alone made you drip.

But tonight? Something inside you snapped.

Your body ached. Breasts tender and swollen, nipples too sensitive against your shirt. Your thighs stayed slick no matter how many times you changed. You couldn’t stop shifting. Couldn’t stop thinking about the way his hand would feel instead of your own.

You were ovulating, and every inch of you wanted to be touched. Ruined. Filled.

So the devil on your shoulder whispered something wild—and for once, you listened.

You changed clothes. On purpose.

Pale yellow cropped tank—almost sheer in the right light. No bra. The peaks of your nipples pressed bold against the fabric. Then: a pair of loose, thin white shorts that barely covered your ass. No panties. Because you weren’t planning on keeping them on.

You were stupidly horny, and stupidly bold.

So you walked across the narrow patch of grass, let your bare feet touch the cool porch, and reached for his doorbell.

It didn’t ring.

Figures. Of course he hadn’t fixed it.

You knocked instead—quick, but firm enough to be heard.

There was a long pause.

Then the door opened.

John Walker stood there—tall, disheveled, shirt wrinkled like it’d been on the floor before he put it on. A dark olive tee, sleeves pushed tight over the swell of his arms. Just boxers on his lower half—black, hugging his hips low enough that you caught the trail of hair beneath his navel.

His hair was messy. Beard uneven. And a half-crushed beer can dangled from his fingers.

“Uh…” You cleared your throat, letting your eyes drift up to his. “Power’s out at my place.”

You forced a half-smile, something soft. Sweet.

“Too dark to study alone.”

He didn’t say anything for a beat. Just stared at you—eyes flicking down, lingering too long on your chest before he caught himself and looked away.

You waited.

He hesitated. You could see the inner war behind his eyes. But he wasn’t just a man anymore—he was a father, even if his own family was gone. And he knew what your dad would’ve done. Knew what his younger self would’ve wanted for his daughter.

So he stepped back.

Wordless.

And let you in.

The place was dim—just one sad lamp casting a pool of yellow light near the couch. The air smelled like old beer and sweat. You took it in with a breath, then made your way to the sagging two-seater sofa. The cushion dipped under your weight.

John dragged a chair from the kitchen—a stiff wooden dining chair—and planted it in the corner of the room, diagonally across from you. He sat, forearms braced on his thighs, one hand still holding the beer. His eyes flicked up, then away.

You crossed your legs on the couch—slowly, deliberately.

You didn’t miss how his gaze dropped for half a second before snapping back to the floor.

He could see everything. You knew it. Your loose shorts had ridden up just enough that the slick heat between your thighs was on full display. Bare pussy, just… there. No effort to hide it.

But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t even shift in his seat.

So you broke the silence with something light.

“You never told me your name.”

Still, he didn’t look up. But his voice was low. Rough.

“John.”

You smiled, even though he didn’t see it.

“John,” you repeated softly. “Strong name.”

You leaned back, resting one arm against the back of the couch, your legs still crossed—the movement subtly tugging your shorts even higher.

“And you curious about mine?”

He didn’t answer. But his jaw flexed.

“My name?” You let the moment hang, then offered it up smooth, short. “There. Now we’re not strangers.”

He nodded once. Grunted.

You tilted your head.

“What do you do, John?”

“Used to be military.”

“And now?”

“Contract work.”

You hummed. “Private sector?”

“Something like that.”

You smiled again, watching how he kept avoiding your gaze—like he didn’t want to fall into the trap you were laying.

But he already had.

He was here.

Watching.

Gripping his beer too tightly.

And you were already wet again.

You uncrossed your legs slowly, let your knees fall open—wide enough to make his breath hitch even if he didn’t mean it to. He still didn’t look, but you saw the way his knuckles turned white on the can.

And for the first time since you sat down, he shifted in his seat.

Yeah.

You had him.

And you weren’t done yet.

—

You finally dropped the bomb.

“I know you’ve been watching me.”

His shoulders stiffened. But he didn’t move from the chair. Didn’t speak.

You caught the flicker in his jaw—the way his beard shifted just slightly as his teeth ground together.

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t need to.

You saw the shame before he even opened his mouth.

“I wasn’t—” he started, then stopped himself. His fingers curled around the armrest. “I didn’t mean to.”

You tilted your head. Waited.

“I saw you once. Thought I’d look away. Didn’t.”

He dragged a hand down his face, sighing through clenched teeth.

“It was wrong. I know that. I know better. You’re just a kid. I shouldn’t even be—fuck.” He glanced to the side, away from the soft light between you. “I’m not in the right headspace. I haven’t been in a long time.”

You shifted your position.

Still, he didn’t budge.

“I’m not asking for pity,” he muttered. “Divorce just got finalized. I got no wife. No son. My best friend’s six feet under. I’m sitting here drinking cheap beer in a damn chair from a Craigslist ad. I’m not the man you think I am.”

“I don’t care,” you said gently.

“I just want to be touched.”

His gaze snapped to yours. Sharp. Almost dangerous.

“My chest hurts,” you whispered. “They’re sore. They need hands that aren’t mine. They need you.”

You stood up from the couch, bare feet soft against the hardwood, the hem of your loose shorts fluttering as you moved. Each step was slow. Measured. A test he kept failing to stop.

You stopped right in front of him.

John’s knees were spread, bracing his wide frame, elbows on thighs like he couldn’t decide whether to stand or vanish. You noticed the way his jaw ticked—tension flaring under his beard.

You reached for his right hand with your left, slow and deliberate.

He didn’t resist.

Your fingers slid over his, lifting it, guiding it up.

You paused when his fingertips brushed your thin tank—the contact featherlight, grazing the peak of your erect nipple through the fabric.

You let out a soft sound—half breath, half moan.

“I’ve only wanted you,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Only imagined your hands when I touched myself.”

His jaw clenched again. His whole body still as stone.

You moved between his thighs, closing the distance entirely.

Your right hand dragged the hem of your tank upward, just until the lower swell of your breast was visible—flushed, taut, begging for contact.

Then you brought his hand there again.

Not just hovering.

Pressed it firmly into place, just beneath the curve.

“You’re gonna regret this,” he muttered. His voice was hoarse. Defeated. “You’ll wake up tomorrow and wish it wasn’t me.”

“I won’t.”

He looked up then. Finally. Eyes bloodshot. Unreadable.

He shook his head once—slow—but didn’t pull away.

Didn’t move.

Just… sighed.

And then his hand shifted.

Slipped higher.

And cupped your breast fully.

A moan slipped from your lips as his calloused palm settled over the soft heat of you—a gentle squeeze that made your knees tremble.

Your tank lifted fully now, exposing your chest to the room, to him.

He groaned—low, deep, from somewhere buried.

You ducked slightly, bending to let him in, and he leaned forward instinctively—face pressing between your breasts like a man who’d been starving and finally found water.

He breathed deep, nose brushing your skin, and you felt the quiet hitch in his breath.

“You smell like fucking heaven,” he rasped.

He didn’t kiss.

Didn’t bite.

Just buried himself in your skin like he could live there forever.

And when he finally looked up—eyes burning, breath shaky—his voice was barely more than gravel.

“You want this?”

His hands were still on your chest. Thumbs circling, gentle now. Reverent.

“Because if I keep going, I ain’t stopping. Not this time.”

Your response came without hesitation.

“I want you, John. All of you.”

—

His hand didn’t leave your breast. It only squeezed once more—firmer this time—before sliding up to cup the other, thumbs brushing across your nipples with that roughness that had your breath catching. You leaned forward more.

John’s fingers gripped your jaw gently—tugging you downward until your mouth met his.

The kiss was urgent, not rushed—all breath and heat and hunger. Like he’d been waiting years to taste you. His lips parted yours with soft, wet pressure, tongue licking slow, deliberate passes like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth from the inside out.

You moaned into him, hips shifting. Your knees dragged up against his thighs as you straddled him fully, sinking onto his lap again. The chair creaked beneath the weight of both your bodies.

His cock throbbed beneath you—hard and hot, separated from your soaked folds by just the thin fabric of his boxers and your loose shorts. You could feel everything—every vein, every twitch, every pulse—as you rocked lightly on him.

Both of his hands returned to your chest, greedy now. Palms warm and broad, squeezing your breasts with a kind of reverence that made your head spin.

When you finally broke the kiss, panting, his left hand trailed lower. Skimmed your ribs, your side, then slid behind you—gripping your ass before slipping inside the waistband of your shorts.

His fingers met bare skin.

His groan rumbled right against your collarbone. “Fucking knew it,” he muttered hoarsely. “Knew you weren’t wearing anything.” His mouth brushed your neck. “Could see it, y’know.”

You tilted your head, breath shaky. “See what?”

“Your slick. Back at the door. It was running down your thighs.”

A soft, desperate sound escaped your throat. You pressed your face into the side of his neck, nuzzling into the scruff just beneath his jaw. Then your teeth caught the curve of his nape—not hard enough to leave marks, just enough to make him jolt beneath you.

You started to grind. Slow, aching circles of your hips that dragged your folds along the length of his cock through both of your clothes.

“You ever think about this?” you murmured against his ear. “Me. On you. Moving like this.”

He groaned. “More than I should’ve.”

You kissed just under his ear—then blew out a warm breath, letting it fan over the shell of it. His grip on your ass tightened like he couldn’t help it.

“Ever since I saw you jerking off while watching me,” you whispered, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Could only come when I imagined I was riding you.”

His breath hitched. His right hand slipped from your chest and came around to the front—sliding into your shorts, fingers dragging through your slick folds. You were soaked. Pulsing. His fingertips grazed your clit and you cried out softly, hips jerking in his lap.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “You’re soaked. So goddamn sensitive.”

You shifted your hips—just slightly—to give him more access. His middle finger pushed in slow, your walls clenching down hard like your body had been waiting for this. You moaned, eyes fluttering.

He pulled halfway out, then pushed in again—watching your face twist in pleasure, watching your mouth fall open. The wet sounds of your cunt wrapped around his finger made him swear again.

“Fuuuck.”

You blew out a soft stream of air across his ear again—lips brushing it this time. “Want more,” you whispered. “Please, John.”

He stilled. Even with your cunt dripping around his hand, he still paused. Still tried to pull back.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice low and guttural. “You want this? ‘Cause I ain’t got the goddamn conscience to stop once I start.”

Your head dropped, lips grazing his jaw. “I’m sure.”

His mouth parted—a breath shuddering through his teeth—and he slid a second finger in.

The stretch was tighter. Deeper. Your body sucked him in with a squelch that made his hips jerk reflexively beneath you.

“Fuck me,” he groaned again, head tilting back, eyes dark and wild.

Your cunt clenched around his fingers like it never wanted to let him go.

And his lips found your collarbone again, dragging open-mouthed kisses along your skin like he was about to lose his mind.

—

John couldn’t take it anymore.

Your walls clenched greedily around his fingers, your hips bucking helplessly with every pump. It wasn’t enough—not for him. Not with the way your body begged, not with the way your moans cracked open something he hadn’t felt in years.

He stood up suddenly, lifting you with both hands, fingers digging into your thighs. You gasped, arms looping tightly around his shoulders as your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist. His cock was still sheathed inside you, thick and twitching, as he carried you out of the living room.

The hallway was dim—the only light came from the cracked door of the bedroom. When he pushed it open with his shoulder, you finally got a glimpse inside.

It was barely lived-in.

A king-sized mattress sat low on the floor, sheets rumpled and mismatched. A fan spun overhead, clinking slightly with every rotation. A dresser stood against the wall, untouched. No photos. No signs of life. Just another space he refused to make a home.

John dropped you onto the mattress like you were something precious and cursed all at once. His eyes devoured you as he stepped back, hands yanking his shirt off with a single pull. His boxer briefs hit the floor next, his cock flushed, hard, still slick with your arousal.

You followed suit—first peeling your tank top up and over your head, letting it drop carelessly beside the bed. Then you slid your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and pushed them down, inch by inch, baring your hips, your thighs, your soaked center—nothing underneath. They hit the floor in a soft rustle. Then you climbed onto the mattress and lay back, legs parted, hair splayed across the pillows like you were meant to be there. Like you’d always belonged in this room. In this bed. In him.

He climbed back on top of you, heavy and hot, mouth finding yours again—slower now, deep and possessive. But you were impatient. Aching.

You reached between your bodies, guiding his cock to your entrance, and pushed him in.

John groaned—low, guttural—as your heat swallowed him whole again.

“So tight,” he gritted, hands bracing on either side of your head as he began to move. “Like fucking heaven.”

You whimpered, eyes fluttering shut.

“Do I taste better in real life?” you whispered, voice breathless. “Or did you like the version you imagined better?”

He stilled—just for a second—then surged deeper.

“You now,” he growled. “Nothing compares. Nothing ever fucking will.”

He moved hard now, hips snapping into yours with desperation, with hunger, chasing something he knew he shouldn’t want this badly. You moaned, one leg hitching higher around his waist, urging him deeper.

But then—he pulled out.

You gasped at the sudden emptiness. Your cunt fluttered in protest.

He stood, breath ragged, chest rising and falling with each tremor of restraint.

“I want you,” you said again, sitting up slowly. “I want you to come inside.”

John shook his head, jaw tight.

“Been a husband long enough to know the pill ain’t perfect,” he muttered. “Not taking that risk.”

Before you could argue, he crawled back onto the bed and grabbed your hips—guiding you flat against the sheets again.

“I want you to come first.”

He buried his face between your thighs before you could even speak—tongue flattening against your slick folds, groaning at the taste. He licked like a man dying of thirst. Deep strokes. Slow sucks. His beard scratched your skin raw, but you didn’t care. You were shaking again, already too close.

When his lips wrapped around your clit and sucked—hard—you came with a cry that echoed through the empty house. Your back arched. Your hands flew to his hair. You trembled under him, again.

He didn’t stop until your thighs stopped twitching.

Then—finally—he pulled himself up, kissed the inside of your knee, and reached for the towel slung over a nearby chair. He cleaned you up gently, not saying a word, just watching the way your chest rose and fell.

Then he handed you a shirt. His.

“Wear this,” he said roughly. “S’night’s cold. And those shorts ain’t worth shit.”

You pulled it on without protest. It smelled like him.

But you weren’t done.

“Another round?” you asked, soft, hopeful.

His hand stopped mid-wipe on your belly.

“No,” he said, voice firmer now. “We’re not doing this again tonight.”

You blinked. Hurt flared—but he wasn’t angry.

“I can’t—can’t use you to fill something that’s already gone,” he said, voice thick. “And I need to know you’re not just doing this ‘cause you’re burning up and I was close. I need to know you want me. Not just the idea of me.”

You didn’t argue. Just nodded slowly and slipped out of bed. The shirt hung to your thighs.

John didn’t walk you to the door. He just watched you leave from the bed, unreadable.

That night, you couldn’t sleep. Your skin still tingled, your body still ached. Your cunt throbbed with the ghost of him. But you didn’t hear from him again.

And the next morning, when the sunlight spilled into your bedroom, you glanced toward his window.

The blinds were gone.

Blackout curtains now hung in their place—drawn tight.

Sealed.

Silent.

Like he was never there at all.

—

✦ [JOHN WALKER POV]

He sat at the edge of the bed.

Back curved. Elbows on his knees. Head low.

Hands calloused, rough—still damp from washing off your slick.

The water had gone cold. He didn’t care. He’d scrubbed his hands raw, but the ghost of you clung to him like heat. The scent of you lived in the air now—sweet, heady, sinful. It clung to his sheets. His chest. His fucking soul.

He could still see the way your thighs had trembled. Still feel the weight of you clenching around him. Still hear your voice—John, please, like it meant something. Like he meant something.

He raked both hands down his face, breath shallow.

“You don’t rebuild your life like this, man.”

The words came out hoarse.

Lamar might’ve said it once.

Or maybe it was Olivia’s voice, tucked into some fractured corner of his brain—one of the last pieces that hadn’t rotted out.

There was a photo of her, buried under old insurance papers in the nightstand. He hadn’t looked at it in weeks. Couldn’t. Not since the divorce was finalized. Not since the house grew too quiet for even ghosts to haunt.

His son’s crayon sketch was folded inside his wallet. He still checked for it sometimes. Just to see if it was real. If any of that life had ever been real.

They were gone.

But you?

You were right next door.

A few steps away. A breath. A heartbeat.

Real.

Too real.

And fuck—he didn’t know if that made you a mistake or a second chance.

He’d wanted you for weeks. Wanted you before he even admitted it. When you danced in the window. When your laughter spilled through his walls. When you touched yourself like you didn’t care who saw—and like maybe you wanted him to.

But tonight hadn’t been some fantasy.

You were warm in his arms. Wet on his fingers. Tight around his cock.

And for a second—a fucking second—it felt like a religion.

Like worship.

Like finding something sacred in the way your body opened for him. The way you gasped his name. The way you tasted—sweet and desperate, like you’d been made just for his mouth.

He wanted to believe it meant something. That you meant something. Not just a fix for the hollow ache in his chest.

So he didn’t drink. Didn’t run. Didn’t chase the next high.

He just sat there. In the dark. Breathing. Remembering.

He’d give himself a few days.

Time to think.

Time to feel every fucking consequence.

But he already knew the truth—

You were in his blood now.

And nothing was ever gonna wash you out.

[END OF POV] ✦

—

It’d been five days.

Five torturous, hollow days.

Since that night.

Since John touched you like he needed you to breathe. Since he kissed you like it was the first time he’d tasted salvation. Since he buried himself deep and said your name like it meant something.

You hadn’t seen him since.

The blackout curtains in his bedroom stayed drawn. Always closed. Even on the nights when your windows were lit, your skin bare, your body aching for attention—for his attention. Not once did he pull them aside. Not even a flicker of movement behind the fabric.

And maybe that was your answer.

Maybe it had been a one-time thing.

A mistake, no matter how good it felt.

No matter how much your body still throbbed remembering the way his cock filled you, twitched inside you as he spilled across your belly.

You tried to keep busy. You tried.

But everything felt muted. Boring. Lifeless.

The only thing that ever made your pulse race anymore was the memory of his hands. His voice. That broken, desperate moan when you clenched around him.

By the fifth night, you stopped looking at his window.

Stopped expecting.

Started to convince yourself it was better this way.

But then—

A knock.

Quick.

Sharp.

Three beats.

Your breath caught.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

Not tonight. Not ever.

You moved to the door on shaky legs, barely able to hide the way your fingers trembled on the knob.

And there he was.

John Walker.

Still looking disheveled. Still rough around the edges. Still looking at you like you were the thing he shouldn’t want—but couldn’t walk away from.

He offered the faintest smile. A little crooked.

A little dangerous.

“Ready for the next round?” he asked, voice low.

You blinked—then smiled wide, too quickly, too joyfully to play it cool.

You nodded, heart hammering.

And you stepped aside to let him in.

honorary mention; @iamthatonefangirl 💜

[vermililion]

this is a goddamn work of art omg. Your writing is absolutely gorgeous <3

when the sun hits (it matters where you are)

pairing: bucky barnes x emergency room nurse!reader summary: it’s your name, written in the soft fog of his breath. and his name, traced endlessly across your skin. you've always been meant to cross paths this way. (soulmate au!) word count: 11.4k words content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem reader, praising, piv, overstimulation, shower sex, creampie, face riding, dirty talk, ungodly levels of yearning, mentions of violence and clinical situations, death, explores heavy themes

You’ve gotten very good at waking up without hope over the years.

Your alarm goes off at 4:48 a.m. because you refuse to wake up on the hour like everyone else. It’s a small rebellion—pointless, probably, but in a life built from shifts and protocol, those twelve minutes feel like something you own. 

The soulmark itches before you even lift the blankets. You don’t touch it. Haven’t in years. It rests on your left side, just under the ribs, where your arm folds when you cradle a patient or scrub blood from your skin. The name’s still there. James Buchanan Barnes. Etched like a brand. 

You learned to stop reading it a long time ago.

You were thirteen the first time you felt it — not the weight of it, not really, but the press of inevitability. The skin just under your ribs itched for three days straight, and no matter how you scratched, how you pressed cold washcloths to it or distracted yourself with school or swimming or the terrifying newness of puberty, it pulsed with the promise of something you couldn’t name.

"Maybe you're allergic to something," your mom said, more distracted than concerned, passing you a bottle of calamine lotion while balancing a phone call.

Then, the name came in the middle of the night.

You’d woken up disoriented, not from a nightmare exactly, but from the sense that something had shifted. That your body was no longer just your own. 

You pulled up your pajama shirt with trembling hands, stomach flipped inside out with something like fear. Or awe. And there it was, written in a careful, antique script like it had always been there — James Buchanan Barnes.

You said it out loud. Just once. Just to see if it sounded real. 

The next morning, you pretended to look up World War II details for an eighth-grade project. Typed his name into Google with fingers that wouldn't stop shaking.

This—this definitely wasn't what you were expecting. You were expecting someone… someone at least closer in age, someone who was maybe going through the same strenuous expectations of middle school, someone… someone who was alive.

It was underwhelming at first. Just a name. A war vet. Deceased. You didn't think you'd find him so easily. You spiraled past Wikipedia into forums your school firewall probably would’ve blocked if they knew what they were doing.  You dug deeper. Wikipedia spiraled into conspiracy forums. Articles turned into footnotes, turned into theories, turned into pictures. Redacted documents. Old photographs.

That was when your chest started to ache.

He wasn’t a boy.

He wasn’t even a man in the way people are alive. 

He was history, frozen in sepia. James Buchanan Barnes, colloquially know as Bucky, a soldier, missing in action. You found an old black-and-white photo with him half smiling in uniform, arm slung casually around the Captain America's shoulders, and your throat closed like you’d been punched from the inside. Because he looked real. Not just an idea, not just a ghost.

And you loved him. You didn’t mean to. But there it was.

That summer, you begged your parents to take you to D.C. "For the exhibits," you said. "The history. Please."

You cried in the car. Your mom reached back and handed you a bottle of water. “Carsick?” she asked.

"Yeah," you lied, watching trees blur past as the pit in your stomach grew deeper.

At the Smithsonian, your eyes scanned every exhibit like you were searching for a face in a crowd. You found him in a war display—just a photo, again. Yellowed and framed. A plaque. Sergeant Barnes. You stood there too long. An older woman beside you glanced over, then away, probably confused as to why this pre-teen was staring at the display with such fervent intensity.

You didn’t touch your mark. 

Not there. Not in public. But you felt it, a phantom pulse echoing under your ribs. Like it knew. Like it missed him too.

That was the first time you understood what it meant to lose something before you ever had it. To mourn a future that could never come.

That summer, you grieved a stranger.

The rest of those months passed in a fog. Friends talked about boy bands and sleepaway camps and the boy from seventh grade who cried during dodgeball. You started reading old war journals and relics and Stark experiments just to feel closer to a time you’d missed. By the start of the school year, you'd already gone through your U.S. History syllabus and back.

At night, you lay awake imagining what it would’ve been like to meet him before the fall. What you’d say. If he’d be kind. If he’d recognize you.

If he’d regret it.

By sixteen, you had your mind made up. Not because you wanted to save people—though you did—but because it felt like the only thing that made sense. Something tethered. Something present. You’d learned how to triage your own feelings, how to hold grief without crumbling under it. ER nursing made too much sense. You wanted the immediacy. The clarity of purpose. The adrenaline to chase out the what-ifs.

You told your guidance counselor it was about the job stability.

You didn’t say that you needed a life that moved fast enough to keep you from looking back.

You got good at it. Fast. Precise. Reliable. The type of person they called first when a kid came in coding, when someone’s chest had to be cracked open at bedside. You learned how to operate under pressure. How to compartmentalize. You learned to move toward chaos, not away from it.

And eventually, you stopped looking at the name. Not because it faded—it never did—but because it became too familiar. Like a scar. Like an old story you didn’t tell anymore, because no one would believe it.

Because you hardly believed it yourself.

.

You peel yourself out of bed, step into the shower. The water doesn’t stay hot for long, but you don’t need it to. You just need enough heat to convince your muscles to move, your brain to stop stalling. The morning ritual is muscle memory now: shampoo, rinse, conditioner (leave-in), scrub your face, try not to look at yourself too closely. By the time you’re dressed and out the door, you’ve spoken zero words and swallowed two ibuprofen with the stale dregs of yesterday’s coffee.

The drive to the hospital is quiet, but not peaceful. 

The city’s in that strange twilight lull between night and morning, where the drunks have staggered home and the nine-to-fivers haven’t yet left their beds. It feels like a ghost town with too many ghosts. Some days, you swear the silence carries weight. Residual grief, maybe. 

You park in the far corner of the lot because the closer spaces are already claimed by the truly unwell—nurses who never go home, residents who sleep in call rooms, attendings who live to round. You used to be like them. You’ve grown out of the martyrdom. Or maybe you’ve just run out of energy to perform it.

The hospital doesn’t smell like death, not exactly. It smells like ammonia and latex and that synthetic lemon cleaner that’s supposed to mask the rest. You wave to the front desk nurse, badge in, and clock your shift the way you have every day for the last six years. 

Your soulmark is never mentioned. Not because people don’t see it, though you keep it hidden well, but because no one talks about soulmarks anymore. It’s passé. Soulmate matching used to be romantic. Now it’s considered a statistical liability. There are support groups for people like you, sure, but they mostly spiral into grief therapy and long-winded self-help monologues. You tried one once. A woman wept about her soulmate dying in Sokovia. Another talked about her mark changing. Yours never did.

Soulmate politics are complicated now. Too many anomalies. Too many cases like yours.

There’s a thread on Reddit dedicated to soulmarks tied to dangerous people. Super soldiers. Villains. Politically gray mercenaries. Your name—his name—comes up sometimes. You don’t engage. You lurk. Scroll through the comments. Watch strangers try to figure out what they’d do if it were them.

The consensus always boils down to one thing: If your soulmate is a killer, you have a moral obligation to reject the bond.

You don’t know if you agree. You don’t know if you disagree either.

Most days, you just ignore it.

Your shift starts like any other. A stabbing. A toddler with a fever. An elderly man who doesn’t remember how he got here. The trauma bay gets two back-to-back ambulance drop-offs, both from the same freeway accident. The paramedics hand off a broken woman in pieces. You get her on oxygen. You get her to CT. You get her prepped for surgery. You don’t think about her name, or her face, or what might’ve been the last thing she said.

You think about the steps. You think about the chart.

This is what makes you good at your job.

You care. You just don’t let it show anymore.

Lunchtime—if you can dignify that title with a limp vending machine sandwich and fifteen minutes of couch—is spent in the staff lounge, watching reruns of The Great British Bake Off with the volume off. The man on screen is assembling an architectural sponge cake. You feel emotionally invested. Mostly because you think it might collapse.

One of your colleagues—Zoya, you think, though you’ve never quite decided if you like her or not—slides onto the couch beside you with the weary grace of someone who’s been on her feet for nine hours. She’s got a protein bar in one hand and her phone in the other.

“I read the polls,” she says, chewing like the bar personally insulted her. “People are actually fired up this time around.”

You hum in response. Noncommittal. You don’t take the bait.

“They say Barnes is running for Congress,” she adds casually, eyes flicking sideways toward you. “That surprises me. Who woulda thought?”

You don’t blink. Don’t flinch. Just peel a piece of lettuce off your sandwich like it’s offended you. “Guess being an Avenger's not the high-paying career it used to be.”

Zoya snorts. “Seriously. You think he’s for real?”

You lift one shoulder. “I think I’ve seen stranger things on C-SPAN.”

She lets out a low whistle. “Still wild, though. Imagine finding out your soulmate is, like… that guy.”

You glance at her. Smile. Tight. Unreadable. “Yeah,” you say. “Imagine.”

She doesn’t press. You both go back to watching a woman on screen cry over underbaked choux pastry.

It’s easy now. Easier than it used to be. Pretending he doesn’t matter. Pretending you don’t know his voice by heart. Don’t remember the way your mark burned that day in the laundromat. Don’t still check the news for his name the way other people check the weather. It’s a skill.

And like all your best skills, it was learned the hard way.

.

When you get home that night, your legs ache, and your stomach hurts from too much caffeine and not enough food. You drop your bag on the couch, toe off your shoes, and stand in the middle of your kitchen for ten full seconds trying to remember what it means to rest.

Your phone buzzes on the counter. A missed call. Your ex. You don’t call back.

Instead, you go to the sink, wash your hands out of habit, and glance down at the faint outline of the mark under your scrub top.

You trace it, just once. Not enough to mean anything.

Just enough to remember that it’s still there.

.

You were twenty-four when you first saw his face in motion. In reality.

It was a Tuesday. You remember because it was your one day off that month, and you’d spent most of it in a laundromat trying to get the smell of bile and bleach out of your scrubs. You were curled up on the plastic bench by the window, still damp from rain, watching a battered flatscreen overhead.

BREAKING NEWS: GLOBAL MANHUNT UNDERWAY FOR FORMER SOVIET ASSASSIN.

You didn’t flinch when the words came up. At first, they didn’t mean anything. But then the photo appeared, grainy and indistinct—a security cam freeze-frame. Dark jacket, metal arm, face caught mid-motion.

There he was. James Buchanan Barnes.

You felt it like a punch. Air gone. Sound sucked from the room. Your hands tightened around a bottle of Tide.

They said he bombed the Vienna International Centre. Killed a king. Injured dozens. Your brain refused the narrative, but not because you knew better. You didn’t. It was just … incongruent. Cognitive dissonance. You couldn’t square the name on your skin with the cold, feral man on the screen. But that didn’t stop you from watching.

You didn’t leave the laundromat. You sat there long after your clothes finished drying. Hours, maybe. Absorbing every second of the footage. Reading every chyron.

You watched the raw surveillance clips when they hit the web—him running, being chased, fighting like something born in a lab. Like something not quite real.

And then, all at once, the world tilted.

He was real.

Not a myth. Not a name in a book or a mark burned into your side to haunt you. Real. He was breathing the same air, walking the same crumbling sidewalks, looking over his shoulder beneath the same indifferent sky. There was this thrumming under your skin—louder than your heartbeat, sharper than breath—that said he's alive. Not long-dead. Not lost to time. But here. On this earth. Behind your eyes. And somehow, you had to keep living like that wasn’t the most destabilizing fact you’d ever known.

You memorized the cadence of how people said his name.

At some point, you realized you were shaking.

That week, your mother called, like she always did. You didn’t tell her. She asked how work was. You said fine. She asked if you’d seen the news. You said you hadn’t.

You started keeping your left side covered, even in the shower.

In the weeks that followed, he became a name everyone knew. The Winter Soldier. The media dug up every blurry photo from seventy years of history, every CIA leak, every whisper in a dossier. You catalogued them without meaning to. It wasn’t obsession. Not exactly. It was survival.

Then came the reveal: it wasn’t him. Not exactly. Not only him.

Mind control, they said. Brainwashed. Hydra.

You read the words like they were gospel. Like they explained something they didn’t. Like they offered you absolution by proxy. You hated that you wanted to believe it so badly. You hated how much of yourself you saw in the hollow of his eyes when he was caught on camera again—restrained, confused, a man unraveling.

You hated that you understood it.

.

Then came the Blip.

The morning the sky broke, you were in trauma bay three with a man who’d been impaled on a metal pipe. You blinked, and he was gone. Just … gone. The pipe, slick with his blood, clanged against the floor, still warm. Your brain froze. Your hands kept moving.

Your friend Ashley vanished mid-joke during lunch break. Half your ER staff was gone by the end of the day. You worked thirteen more hours without blinking. You only remembered bits—someone screaming in the stairwell. Someone trying to break into the pharmacy. A girl with burns and no parents left to consent to treatment. You remember the air smelling like copper and panic. The vending machines ran out by day two.

When you finally got home, your building was quiet. Too quiet. The streets were deserted, eerie and raw like the aftermath of a dream you couldn't fully wake up from. Someone had looted the gas station across the street. You stepped over broken glass to get inside.

You turned on the TV. Sat down on the floor. Let the flickering images wash over you in silence. Aerial shots of cars abandoned mid-commute. Apartment buildings full of empty beds. Hospitals choked with the chaos of subtraction.

Then his name came up. Just for a moment. In a reel of the missing.

James Buchanan Barnes. Missing. Presumed dust. It seems like the world would never get tired of those three words recurring in your life like a sick joke, like a sucker punch.

You knew it before they even confirmed it. Knew it in your bones. The soulmark burned for days after. A phantom itch. A psychic scream. You whispered to the room, “No. No, no, no—”

You didn’t go to work the day they called it. That he was gone. That it wasn’t speculation anymore.

You called out sick, which you never did. Stayed under the covers with your curtains drawn and your phone turned facedown. You didn’t cry. Not in the way that would’ve felt cathartic. There was no release. Just weight. A steady pressure under your sternum, like your lungs were packed too tight with silence.

Grief like that doesn’t come all at once. It drips. Slow. Insidious. A lifetime’s worth of maybes collecting in your throat.

You tried to tell yourself he wasn’t yours.

That you didn’t know him.

That the mark didn’t mean anything.

That you didn’t feel the loss like your own skin folding in on itself.

But you stopped wearing crop tops after that. Stopped sleeping on your left side. Stopped reading the news altogether, because every time they mentioned his name—even in passing—it felt like someone reaching inside your chest to twist the knife, just to see if you’d bleed.

Your friends thought you were just burned out. Work was hard. Everyone was struggling.

“Have you tried meditating?” someone asked once.

“Have you tried shutting the fuck up?” you almost said. Instead you smiled. Said you were fine. You let them believe it.

You threw yourself into the ER. Picked up extra shifts. Took on the worst cases. Became the one they called for the ugly ones—the resuscitations that didn’t work, the organ donors, the impossible parents waiting for bad news. It gave your hands something to do. Gave your grief a mask.

You were so good at pretending you didn’t care that even you started to believe it.

But sometimes, on the drive home—when the city was too quiet and the sky too empty—you caught yourself glancing at the passenger seat like someone should be there. Like you’d forgotten to pick him up.

You imagined what he’d be like. Not the soldier. Not the assassin. Not the man they called the Winter Soldier like he was myth, not bone.

Just… a person.

Would he have been quiet in the mornings? Would he have let you take the last piece of toast? Would he have liked dogs? Would he have hated how sterile hospitals feel? Would he have looked at you like your name was written on him, too? 

The mark never faded. You used to check. Stupidly. Desperately. You read somewhere once that when a soulmate dies, the mark vanishes. But yours didn’t. Not even a little. It stayed sharp. Clear. Unforgiving.

You don’t know if that made it better or worse.

All you knew was this: it didn’t matter if the world called him a ghost. He was real to you.

And he was gone.

And you had to go to work tomorrow, like none of it ever mattered.

.

Time passed. You got used to the silence.

Then, five years later, he came back.

Just like that.

No fanfare. No press release. Just a name in a sea of billions. Alive again. Somewhere in the world.

You didn’t sleep for three days after that either.

.

He resurfaced differently this time. Tactically invisible. Not a headline anymore. Then, out of nowhere—a year or two later—he announced his candidacy for Congress.

You nearly laughed. Not because it was funny. But because it felt so surreal, so absurdly mundane, that your brain short-circuited. It had been three back-to-back 12-hour night shifts. Your scrubs still smelled faintly of antiseptic and vending machine coffee. Your eyes burned. Your feet hurt. And there he was—your mark, your ghost—printed five feet tall next to a mattress ad. 

You stared. Read the copy three times. Just to be sure it wasn’t a hallucination.

You told yourself not to look him up. Then you got home and did it anyway.

His campaign site was minimal. No donation pop-ups, no splashy endorsements. Just a simple landing page, a schedule of town halls, and a single embedded video labeled Why I’m Running.

You clicked play.

It started with silence. Then the low rasp of his voice, steadier now, filled your apartment.

“I’m not here to pretend I’ve always done the right thing,” he said. “I’m not here to sell redemption. Just accountability. I’ve seen what happens when systems break, when good people fall through the cracks. And I believe we can build better.”

There were no slogans. No party jargon. Just him, seated on a worn bench near a city garden, hair shorter than you remembered, jaw shadowed with a few days’ growth. Still armored, but softer. Realer. He didn’t mention soulmarks. Or the war. Or the weight of being a name that history couldn’t agree on.

But he didn’t need to.

You watched the video twice. Then again the next night.

And you didn’t vote for him.

You didn’t vote against him either.

You just… waited. Watched. Tracked the polls like you were taking a patient’s vitals. Checked for signs of movement. Hoped it wouldn’t all combust before the finish line.

When he won by 6.4%, you sat in your dark apartment, phone lit in your palm, and felt something in your chest go still. Not relief. Not pride. Just… a strange, anchored kind of knowing.

He was out there. Alive. Choosing something. Choosing this.

And somehow, that meant something to you, too.

.

You still don’t talk about it. But every so often, you read the transcripts from his interviews. You pretend it’s because he talks about legislation affecting healthcare infrastructure. It isn’t.

You’ve never reached out. Never driven past one of his town halls. Never liked a single post.

But you know which office he holds. You know the hours of his community clinic situated right by the VA. You know what color his suit was the day he was sworn in.

The name on your ribs has not changed. It probably never will.

And maybe he’s never thought of you at all.

It starts with a nosebleed.

You’re just off shift. Third one this week. Your badge is clipped to your hip, your hands smell like latex and soap, and your brain is somewhere between REM and resignation. You’re half-waiting for the crosswalk light to change when you see a man slump against the side of the public library and slide down like his bones have given up.

At first, you think: drunk. Happens more than you’d like to admit, and it's Brooklyn you're talking about. But then you see the way his hand curls against his thigh—controlled, but shaky—and the tight set of his jaw. His suit is immaculate. Not a homeless guy. Not a junkie. And that look on his face? That’s not intoxication.

That’s pain.

You cross the street. Instinct before thought.

“Hey,” you call, crouching near him. “You okay?”

He looks up. There’s a beat—half-second, maybe less—where neither of you speaks. His eyes are blue. Really blue. And he’s not just handsome, he’s specific. Recognizable in a way that drops into your stomach like a lead weight.

You know who he is. You've spent half your life committing him to memory, watching him coming and going like a revolving door.

Selfishly, instinctively, you can't help but glance down at his left hand—covered by a glove. He notices, shifting slightly, uncomfortably.

Finally, he blinks. “I’m—yeah. Fine.”

“That’s a lie,” you say, because you’re too tired to be polite. “You’re about to pass out. I’m guessing low blood sugar. Maybe dehydration.”

He breathes through his nose like it’s an old habit, like he’s used to being clocked and is choosing not to bristle. “I was just at a council meeting. Forgot to eat.”

“Drink anything?”

“Two coffees and a Red Bull.”

You stare at him. “Jesus Christ.”

His mouth twitches. Just barely. “I didn’t say it was a good idea.”

You glance around. It’s midday. Plenty of foot traffic, but no one’s stopped to help him. Of course not. Most people pretend not to see, even if he's a U.S. representative who's helped save the world a handful of times. New Yorkers have learned to mind their own business these past couple of years.

“Alright, Mr. Barnes,” you say, because you don’t want to say James or Bucky, not the name etched on your skin. “Can you stand up?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You know who I am?”

You consider lying. “Yeah.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in him goes still. A readjustment. Like he’s running probabilities behind the curtain of his eyes.

“And you still came over,” he says.

“Don’t take it personally. It's my civic duty; I’d help a mediocre politician too if they were about to eat pavement.”

A snort. Then, with the faintest tilt of his head: “Lucky me.”

You help him to his feet. He leans on the wall. Doesn’t quite use you for balance, though you think he might want to. You guide him into the nearest air-conditioned bodega and deposit him on a bench near the pharmacy counter. Buy two bottles of Gatorade and a protein bar. You don’t ask for reimbursement.

He drinks like it hurts to swallow. Like he’s out of practice with kindness.

“Thanks,” he says. Eventually.

You nod, sitting on the far end of the bench. “You should probably have a handler.”

“I do,” he says dryly. “She left five minutes before I remembered I hadn’t eaten.”

You glance at him sidelong. “So what, she’s in the wind?”

“Texted her,” he replies. “Told her I was fine.”

“You always lie to the people trying to keep you alive?”

Something flickers at that—too fast to name. “Sometimes.”

A silence settles. Not uncomfortable, exactly. But charged.

You glance down at your hands, then back at him. “Do you get nosebleeds a lot?”

“Not usually.”

“Good. If it starts again, you’re going to the hospital.”

His smile this time is faint, but real. He takes a glance at your scrubs, gears turning in his head. “You work there?”

“Yeah.”

“Doctor?”

“Nurse.”

He gives a little hum. “Makes sense.”

You frown. “Why?”

“Because you didn’t flinch.”

The statement lands oddly. “New Yorkers don’t usually flinch at guys hunched against the wall mid-day.”

“Not that,” he says. “Me.”

You meet his gaze. Don’t look away. “Well. Maybe they should.”

He stares at you for a long moment. You get the sense he’s parsing something. Not calculating. Listening. Not just to what you said, but how you said it.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” he says.

You open your mouth. Then close it.

And for the first time in your life, you think: If I tell him, he’ll know.

You’re not sure what scares you more. Him knowing. Or him not.

He notices the hesitation. His eyes drop—unintentionally, you think—toward your ribs. Just a flicker.

You say, quietly, “Don’t do that.”

He nods once. Doesn’t ask again.

Another moment passes. You hand him the rest of the protein bar.

He doesn’t say thank you again. He just eats it.

Eventually, he stands. A little steadier now. You watch him check his phone. You think he might offer to walk you somewhere, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he looks at you like he’s memorizing something. Then:

“You know,” he says, “there was a time I thought she’d be dead.”

Your heart skips.

You try to sound normal. “Who?”

He doesn’t smile. Not this time. Just studies your face.

“My soulmate.”

You freeze.

“Figured she’d died during the Blip,” he continues. “Or worse. Thought I felt it. But I came back and the mark was still there. So. Who knows.”

You inhale slowly. “What would you have done if it was gone?”

“Moved on,” he says.

You nod. Try to play it off. “That easy, huh?”

“No.” His voice drops a register. “But I would’ve had to.”

Silence again. He exhales. Checks the time. Nods once.

“Well,” he says. “Thanks for saving me from an embarrassing death outside a library.”

You stand too. “Wasn’t gonna let a congressman die on my watch, Mr. Barnes."

He gives a lopsided smile, and suddenly, you see a flicker of that man you saw in the Smithsonian all those years ago. “Call me Bucky. I'm just a guy, today.”

Then, softer: “See you around.”

You don’t say anything. Just watch him go.

When you finally look down at your ribs, you expect the name to be glowing or bleeding or something dramatic.

It isn’t.

It’s just there. Quiet. Permanent.

.

You don’t see Bucky again for months. He's gone from James Buchanan Barnes to Bucky, and it feels like foreign territory.

Not in person.

You follow his trajectory the way you follow the weather—warily, with one eye on the exit. A year into being entrenched in politics, and he gets pulled into a team, a superhero one, nonetheless. The new Avengers become a household name, or something close to it. You don’t pay for the streams, but you hear the headlines. They’re sent in to handle things that the rest of the government won’t touch. Places too messy. People too expendable.

Their first mission didn't have a name. Just a black void on every screen.

For New York, it was basically another Tuesday.

It starts mid-shift.

You’re in the middle of helping intubate someone when the power flickers—just once, like the building’s held its breath. Everyone stops. Monitors beep a half-second late. The trauma bay lights blink. Then come back. Then cut out again.

You keep your hands steady. Overhead, a resident says, “Is it just us?”

Someone else says, “No, it’s the whole block.”

And then your phone buzzes.

Not a call. A national alert.

EMERGENCY ALERT: ANOMALOUS EVENT IN PROGRESS. SEEK SHELTER.

You finish the procedure anyway. You don’t panic. You don’t run. You switch to battery-powered floodlights and keep your mask on. That’s the thing about being on the inside when the world starts to fall apart. You don’t get to pause.

Outside, the sky changes. It turns the color of old bruises. A gash opens above the skyline—wide, black, impossibly still. Something like a mouth. Something worse.

They call it the Void later. You never see it in person. Not really. You just feel the air change, the pressure drop. You feel the way every patient suddenly stops bleeding. The way everyone holds their breath.

And then, hours later, the lights flicker back on.

The void collapses into itself like it was never there.

And just like that, you keep working.

Afterward, the news trickles in. Bucky was there. Of course he was. He and the others were part of whatever last-ditch plan got the void to close. Whatever sacrifices were made, they’re classified. What isn’t: the look on his face when they put him on the podium afterward.

You watch it from the break room, over a vending machine lunch.

The new Avengers are announced. Not the old guard. A stitched-together lineup of whoever’s left, whoever didn’t run, whoever’s willing to keep showing up.

Bucky stands at the edge of the stage.

He looks like a man being honored at his own funeral.

You watch the broadcast until it ends.

You don’t say a word.

.

Two weeks later, you run into him again. And it’s so dumb, so ordinary, you don’t even realize what’s happening until you’ve already said yes.

You’re coming out of the pharmacy with three days’ worth of migraine pills and a jug of Pedialyte, and he’s just… there. Baseball cap, dark coat, looking like he hasn’t shaved in a week. The glove's off, his metal hand shining under the sterile lights. He spots you before you spot him.

“Hey,” he says, not quite surprised. “Funny seeing you here.”

You squint. “You okay?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

You glance down at the bag in your hand. “Pharmacy run.”

He nods. “I’m heading to get coffee. Want one?”

You open your mouth. Pause. And then, God help you, you say, “Yeah. Sure.”

You don’t talk about the void.

You talk about everything but.

The café is half-empty. He orders a black coffee and a lemon poppy seed muffin like someone trying to prove they’re still human. You ask for a chai. He insists on paying.

You sit across from each other, not touching. Not leaning. But there’s something in the air between you—charged, familiar. Like a room you’ve walked into before in a dream.

“Still at the hospital?” he asks.

“Yeah. We don’t really get to retire. Or take vacations.”

“That’s a shame.”

You shrug. “It’s a calling. Or a curse. Not sure.”

“I know the feeling.”

You sip your chai. He breaks the muffin in half and doesn’t eat it.

There’s a pause. Then—

“You never told me your name,” he says again. Not quite a question.

You watch him. Something in your chest thuds like recognition.

You set your cup down.

“I didn’t think you wanted it.”

He blinks. “Why wouldn’t I?”

You glance at the window, at the people outside walking past like none of this matters. Like the world didn’t almost end. Like the two of you aren’t teetering on some invisible edge.

“I don’t know,” you say finally. “Because you didn’t press.”

He doesn’t speak for a second. Just watches you, something gentle and old in his eyes.

Then he smiles. Soft. A little tired.

“Because I wanted you to give it when you were ready.”

The silence between you shifts. Not heavier. Just realer.

You say your name.

It fills the air between you like a quiet truth.

He breathes it in like it means something.

“Can I see you again?” he asks.

Your throat tightens. But your voice stays steady.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think you can.”

You don’t say anything as you leave the café. Just nod goodbye and let the door close between you. But later, when you replay the afternoon in your mind, it lingers. The quiet between words. The fact that he didn’t ask to see the mark. That he didn’t flinch.

The fact that when you said your name, it felt like exhaling. You don’t expect to see him again so soon. Not really.

But you do.

Twice that week, by accident.

First, it's after an especially gruelling night shift. The sun's barely even peeking through the trees yet, and you're covered in miscellaneous bodily fluids and there's bags under your eyes that weigh you down. Outside the bodega near your building, where you planned on getting bread and bananas and off-brand electrolyte packets. He’s coming out with a six-pack of seltzer and one of those microwave dinners that scream I-don’t-trust-a-stove as you're coming in. You nod at each other, and, looking down at your scrubs and your state, he asks if you just got done. 

You nod. "Every Tuesday at 7 AM."

He asks how your shift went. You lie and say easy. He doesn’t call you on it.

The second time, you’re on a park bench halfway through a sandwich you don’t want, getting some much-needed air during your lunch break when a shadow falls across your lap. 

It’s him, in jeans and a threadbare henley, hair mussed like he slept wrong. It's oddly domestic. You resist the urge to tuck a stray strand behind his ear. “Didn’t take you for a turkey club kind of girl,” he says, like this is the kind of thing you’ve always talked about. You offer him half without thinking. He takes it.

It’s not every day. Not even often. But you start to spot him in places you never used to. On the corner outside the pharmacy. At the edge of the farmer’s market. Once in the hallway of the clinic where you pick up your medical license renewal. He doesn’t make it obvious. He doesn’t insert himself. But he’s there.

And slowly, without meaning to, you start looking for him.

There’s a night when the ER is chaos and the weather is worse and your body is vibrating with exhaustion. Your car's given out on you. You miss your bus. You consider calling an Uber, then don’t. You’re standing under the overhang by the staff entrance, shivering in your scrubs, scrolling your phone for nothing in particular, when headlights sweep across your shoes and stop.

A car idles. Familiar. Black. Out of place like a shadow with wheels.

You squint into the window, and of course, it’s him. “Stalking me?”

He straightens, just a little. “You said your shift ended at seven.”

“I did,” you say slowly, walking toward him. “Didn’t mean it was an invitation.”

His mouth twitches. “Consider it a standing offer.”

You glance at the car, then back at him. “You gonna tell me how you got a vehicle this inconspicuous, or is that classified?”

He opens the passenger door. “Perks of being an Avenger.”

You eye him. “Is this kidnapping?”

“If it is, it’s the most considerate kidnapping ever. I brought snacks.”

You get in.

It becomes a habit after that.

That’s the first ride.

It becomes a habit. Not a routine, exactly. That would suggest he comes at the same time, says the same thing, follows a pattern. He doesn’t. He’s unpredictable in the way thunderstorms are—sudden, insistent, quietly necessary. He’s just… there. Enough times that your coworkers start raising eyebrows. Enough times that you stop pretending it’s odd.

You don’t talk about the soulmark. Not directly.

But you talk about other things.

The price of gas. The merits of different hospital coffee. He tells you, offhandedly, that he used to hate mornings until he had to start facing them at 5 a.m. with a loaded weapon. You tell him you’ve delivered twins in a supply closet. Neither of you laughs, but the air warms between you.

One evening, he brings you tea instead of coffee. He says it’s because you looked like you hadn’t slept. You want to ask how he knew. You don’t.

You get used to the way his presence takes up space. Quietly. Without pushing. You start saving podcasts to share. You start to notice the way his metal hand rests against the gearshift like he’s forgotten it’s not flesh.

He learns your tells. Which sigh means you’re burned out and which means you’re hungry. He doesn’t always talk, but he listens better than most people speak.

And slowly—terrifyingly—you start to want him to be there.

.

Bucky never texts.

Not once.

He calls.

Always.

Even for the smallest things. A grocery question. A movie suggestion. A let-me-know-when-you’re-done. Sometimes you don’t pick up, and he doesn’t leave a voicemail. Just calls again an hour later like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

One day, you ask him why.

He’s driving, one hand on the wheel, the other—metal—resting on the gearshift like it belongs there.

“I don’t like waiting for a response,” he says, after a beat. “Feels like talking to a wall.”

You nod. “Makes sense.”

He glances at you, then adds, “Also, I can't type for shit. And autocorrect thinks I’m a lunatic. My PR manager thinks I'm a walking liability waiting to happen." You don't know what makes you snort first; the thought of him keyboard smashing his phone or the fact that he has a goddamn PR manager.

Then, the first time you see the arm up close, he’s asleep on your couch.

You’re supposed to be watching a movie. You don't even know who initiated, who invited who over. But something old and black-and-white is flickering on the screen, one of his picks. But somewhere around the twenty-minute mark, he dozed off. His hoodie’s bunched up at the elbow, metal catching the lamplight.

You don’t stare. Not really. But you don’t look away either.

It’s not the glossy, hyper-chrome finish you remember from the surveillance footage. Not the Soviet brutality of jagged red stars and burnished steel. This one’s different. Sleeker. Sleek but brutal. Matte black and dark silver, subtle gold veins etched faintly between the segmented plates—Wakandan tech, you realize. Lightweight. Adaptive. The sort of engineering that moves with a person, not against them.

It looks like something alive. Something that remembers things.

You wonder if he remembers it’s there. If it registers temperature. Pressure. Pain. If the nerves ghost in that space the same way yours do when your fingers go numb from fatigue. If it ever aches when it rains.

You don’t ask.

Not yet.

He stirs, eventually. Looks at you through half-lidded eyes. 

“Did I miss the plot twist?”

“You missed a wedding, a car crash, and three dramatic monologues.”

“Damn,” he mutters, stretching.  His hoodie pulls a little higher. You glimpse the sharp, seamless lines of the elbow joint. Compact. Clean. Not like a machine—like an exoskeleton. Like armor. You look away. “We can rewind.”

You shrug, smirking into your mug. “I don’t know. I’m kind of emotionally invested now. I might want you to suffer through the confusion with me.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, still half-asleep, eyes flicking toward the screen.

You don’t rewind.

You just sit there, the credits rolling, and listen to him breathe as he falls back to sleep. You start to wonder what it would be like to fall asleep with his hand on your side. With the mark between you, not unspoken, but accepted. Real. You start to feel it again—that pull. The one you used to ignore. The one you used to press down like a bruise that wouldn’t fade.

This is what soulmates are about, you think. What they’re meant to be.

Not the fireworks. Not the rush. Not the storybook symmetry or the neat little bow at the end. Not the lightning strike of recognition. It’s quieter than that. Slower. Messier. Built of hours and questions and the space someone leaves you to be tired, to be flawed, to be real.

You think maybe it’s this — the way he handed you your coffee earlier exactly the way you take it without ever having asked. The way he watches the road when you don’t want to talk and turns the music up just a little, like a soft wall between you and the world. The way he never reaches for your hand, but always lets his linger close enough that you could.

It’s the consistency. The patience. The terrifying kindness of being seen when you’re not trying to be. When your armor’s off, not because you dropped it, but because he never asked you to put it on in the first place.

There’s something in your chest that loosens when he’s near. Some old tension that stops buzzing like an alarm.

And maybe that’s what the mark is. Not fate, not prophecy, but permission. A tether, yes—but one you can pull at your own pace. One you can choose.

And every day you don’t walk away, you’re choosing him.

Even if neither of you has said it yet. Even if neither of you knows how.

“You ever get tired of people looking at you sideways?” you ask him once, on a late-night walk back from a diner you guys have started to frequent together. You’ve both got milkshakes in hand because Bucky insists they’re a cornerstone of civilization, and you’re learning not to argue when he gets weirdly nostalgic.

He takes a sip. Shrugs. “Used to.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t care.” A pause. “It helps that you don’t.”

You look over. He’s not smiling, but he’s softer. Always is, around you. Less edge. Less shield.

“I used to,” you admit. “When I was younger. I thought it’d fade. The mark.”

He nods, like he’s heard that before. Like he understands more than you meant to say.

“It didn’t,” you add.

He glances at you, then at your side. Not lingering. Just a flicker.

“Good,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it.

You stop walking. “Why?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just finishes his drink. Crumples the cup in one hand.

“Because I’m still here,” he says, like it should be obvious.

And it is.

Somehow, it is.

He cooks, occasionally. Not well. But with effort. One night, he burns a grilled cheese so thoroughly the fire alarm goes off. You have to wave a towel at the smoke detector while he swears under his breath and throws the pan in the sink.

You’re still laughing when he sets two very sad sandwiches on the table and mutters, “Fine. Next time, we order.”

“There’s gonna be a next time?”

He gives you a look. “Unless I’m banned from your kitchen.”

You pick up half a sandwich. “You’re on probation.”

He watches you take a bite. Raises an eyebrow.

You chew. Swallow. “Tastes like regret and cheese.”

That gets a huff of laughter. He doesn’t laugh easily—not fully—but you’re learning the sounds he makes when he’s amused. The little exhales. The under-his-breath muttering. The half-smile he hides behind his hand.

You’re learning all of it.

And you’re starting to think he’s learning you too.

One night, he’s quiet.

Not in the usual way — not in the half-aware, hands-in-pockets, I’ve-seen-too-much kind of way you've learned he wears like a well-worn, favorite coat. This silence is heavier. Not a thing he’s hiding from you, but a thing he’s holding. Something sharp and delicate and dangerous, like broken glass wrapped in cloth. You don’t know what it is yet, but you feel it.

You’re curled up at opposite ends of the couch, legs almost touching, the ghost of his knee brushing yours whenever either of you shifts. The movie’s still playing, long-forgotten. It’s just noise now. A screen flickering in the background while your heart waits.

He inhales like it hurts. And then—

“Can I tell you something?”

His voice is quiet. Too quiet. And he’s not looking at you Blue eyes staring straight ahead at the TV, the little space between his brows wrinkled into something indecipherable.

You blink, slowly. “Yeah,” you say, just as softly. “Of course.”

That gets a breath out of him. Not a laugh. Not quite a sigh. Just something let loose. You watch him stare ahead, fixed on a point in the middle distance like it’s safer than you. Like your face is too much to hold right now.

“I used to hate it,” he says. “The mark.”

You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

“I thought—” He rubs the heel of his hand over his sternum, just once, like something aches there. “I thought it was some kind of punishment. Like the universe picked me just to prove it could.”

Your heart twists.

He still won’t meet your eyes. But he’s speaking now, and it feels like something old and knotted finally starting to unravel.

“I didn’t know what it meant, not really. Not at first. Just this pain. A weight. And then the name came, and it didn’t mean anything. Just letters. A future that didn’t make sense.”

His hand tightens, flexes, then drops into his lap again. You watch the way his fingers curl, restless and bare.

“And then it did mean something. And it got worse.”

He swallows. Hard.

“Because I looked you up.” His voice dips, almost like he’s ashamed of it. “When I got the chance. I knew. Who you were. Where you were. For years. I didn’t—I didn’t do anything about it. But I knew.”

Something tightens in your chest. A coil. A knot. He looked for you. All those years, he searched and he reached and he wanted all the same. You want to reach for him, but you wait. You feel like if you breathe wrong, he might vanish.

“I kept thinking—if I left it alone, if I stayed away, maybe the universe would rethink it. Give you someone better. Someone cleaner. Someone safe.”

Finally, his gaze flickers to you. Brief. Bracing. The kind of look you imagine he’s given a thousand times in battle — checking to see if the person beside him is still alive.

“And I thought I could carry that,” he says. “I thought if I ignored it long enough, maybe it’d fade. That maybe you’d forget, or never know. And I could just—live around it.”

His laugh is bitter. Not sharp, exactly, but cracked around the edges.

“But it didn’t fade. You didn’t fade.”

You feel like you’ve stopped breathing entirely.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers knotted together. The mark under your ribs aches in quiet sympathy.

“You know what’s worse than feeling like you don’t deserve someone?” he asks, eyes fixed somewhere near your ankles. “Feeling like you do, for just one second. Like you could, if only you were different. If only everything hadn’t already happened.”

He sits back again. Slower this time. Exhausted.

Your chest is tight, full of static. Your eyes sting.

“I used to see your name and think, how cruel. That someone like you had to carry the weight of someone like me.” Bucky finally looks at you again, and there’s nothing distant about it. It’s searing. Devastating. “But then you showed up. That day at the library. And I—”

His voice falters.

He swallows again, blinking hard. “I’ve spent so long being looked at like I’m a weapon. Like I’m a ghost. But you looked at me like—” He stops, breath caught in his throat. “Like I was real. Like you’d known me. Like I wasn’t a mistake.”

You blink fast, because the alternative is crying.

“And I didn’t know what to do with that. I still don’t know what to do with that,” He exhales, a quiet tremor in his chest. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be the person who deserves this. Or you. Or the mark. But I want to be.”

He turns toward you fully now, and for the first time, he doesn’t look away.

“I want to try,” he says, softly. “If you’ll let me.”

You reach for his hand. Slowly. Carefully. Like it’s something sacred, and your fingers meet his.

You don’t say anything right away. There’s no need. His hand tightens around yours like an answer. Like a prayer. And under your ribs, where the mark lives, you feel it — not a tug, not a weight, but a warmth. Like the sun, breaking through after years of winter.

He doesn’t let go of your hand.

His fingers are rough in some places, calloused in others, warm where it counts. He holds you like he’s learning how. Like maybe the trick is not to grip too tight, but not to let go either. That sweet, aching middle ground. Like maybe you’re something breakable—but not fragile.

You’re not sure how long you sit like that. Just the two of you, suspended in this strange, soft liminal space between the past and whatever comes next.

The TV hums in the background. The couch dips where your knees almost touch. You swear you can hear his pulse—yours too—skipping every third beat, then rushing to make up for it.

He’s still watching you like he’s waiting for you to vanish.

You speak first. Barely a whisper. “I think I started loving you before I even knew what it meant.”

His eyes close, slow. As if the words are a balm. Or a blade. You’re not sure which.

“I used to feel you before I understood how,” you continue, voice steady now, stronger with each word. “Not in the mark. Not in the skin. But in the air. In the quiet. I’d be washing blood off my hands at three in the morning and think—I’m not alone. Not really.”

His throat moves with the effort of swallowing. He doesn’t speak. Not yet. You’re not done.

“I hated you for it too, for a while,” you admit. “For making me hope. For giving me something to lose before I ever had it.”

You shift, close the last few inches between you. He doesn’t flinch. Just watches, gaze dark and wide and impossibly open.

“I didn’t want this to be real. Because if it was, it meant I could break. That I had something to break for.”

He breathes out your name. Just once.

You touch his face. Thumb trailing the edge of his cheekbone, slow and deliberate. He leans into it like he’s forgotten what it means to be held. “I see you,” you whisper. “I see you. Not the headlines. Not the soldier. Not the mark. Just… you.”

And something inside him unravels. Not all at once. Not like a dam breaking. But like a thread pulled gently, deliberately, until what’s been bound up for too long begins to loosen.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s not polished. Not pretty. It’s real. Broken around the edges. Bare and breathless. “I love you, and it’s terrifying.”

You nod. Because you know.

He exhales. Then moves.

He kisses you like he means it. Like it’s the first and last time he’ll ever be allowed. His lips press to yours, slow at first, exploratory. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of it. The feel. You breathe him in. Let your hand slip to the back of his neck, anchor him there.

He doesn’t rush.

His hands, warm and steady, skim your waist like he’s relearning what it means to touch without taking. To be given something instead of stealing it. He pulls you closer—not to possess, but to be sure you’re still there.

When he parts from you, it’s just for breath.

You lean your forehead against his. “We’ve already survived so much,” you whisper. “What’s one more impossible thing?”

His laugh is soft, unguarded. It shakes a little at the end.

You tilt your face, kiss him again—deeper this time. His response is immediate. Hands tightening, lips parting. You taste the urgency in him, the tremble beneath restraint. Your mouth moves against his like a promise. Like maybe this—you—was what the mark was always meant to lead to.

Not fate. Choice.

His metal hand brushes your hip, steady and impossibly gentle. He maps the curve of your ribs like he’s memorizing the lines of his own name. You press your palm to his chest, feel the echo of your name there too. Not carved in flesh, but in feeling. In ache. In the quiet places only the two of you have ever touched.

“Come here,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low.

You’re already there.

Bucky kisses your neck. Your shoulder. The space just under your jaw. He doesn’t rush the way his hands roam—careful, reverent, like he’s turning pages of something sacred. You think your heart's going to burst or stop at any given moment, because there's no way he's real. 

When he pushes your shirt and your bra up over your head, your hands quickly move up to knot through his hair, anchoring them there until he's groaning and mumbling against your skin. He leans down, open mouthed kisses along the way until he finds what he's looking for, taking a pert nipple into his mouth and playing with the other with his metal hand. "Bucky, I—"

He doubles down, holding you closer against his core so he can feel you bucking against him, grinding uselessly against the rough fabric of his jeans so he can feel you pulse, head flooding your core. "Fuck, don't stop. Please don't stop, Bucky, I'm—" You sigh breathlessly when you look down and he's got your nipple between his teeth, gently tugging as he looks up at you with too innocent blue eyes. Like he's not pulling you apart.

"I won't stop, sweet girl," Bucky shakes his head, laughing softly like he can't believe it. "Don't even think I could, if I tried."

The rest of your clothes end up as a pile on the floor, and then it was just Bucky slowly undressing in front of you between your knees. It's enough to make you lose your breath, but his next words sends another sharp heat to pool between your legs.  "I'm gonna make you feel so good. You're so good to me, you—fuck, I'm gonna take my time with you. You gonna keep being good for me?"

"Yes, yes," You whispered, arms coming to wrap around him as he carries you to your bed, nails scratching lightly on the toned muscles of his back. "I'll be so good, I wanna feel good—just be with me."

He comes back to you, bare and ready and when you glance down, you can't help the gasp that escapes you. He's big. Bigger than you've ever had, thick and heavy and weeping at the tip. Gorgeous. Fuck, he's gorgeous. At the quiet sound, he pulls back a little bit, just enough to ask, with concern that's mixed with a little bit of amusement. "You okay, baby?"

Baby. Baby. The word rings in your ears, pushing another quiet, needy sound through your lips that Bucky's all too eager to swallow. But then suddenly, he stops and you have to resist the urge to whine. He presses a kiss against your skin, eyes searching yours. "Baby," Fuck, there's that word again. "I'm—I didn't bring anything with me. I don't wanna—"

You part your thighs without being told and the want in your voice is so clear, so evident. "Bucky, I'm clean. I'm on the pill, and I want you so bad, I need it. I need you inside me, want you to mark me, fill me until I'm overflowing with you."

He curses, looking at the way you're spread out underneath him. His hand reaches out to cup you where you're glistening and swollen and impossibly soft. "I can't say no to that, can I?"

"No," Your legs hook around him as he situates himself between your legs, your heart rate rising as he's so, so goddamn close, you can feel his body heat. "No, you can't."

When he finally sinks himself inside of you, you feel like you're being consumed. It's like your birthday and Christmas and the fucking Fourth of July, all in one, making you moan and swoon in a way that you know will have your neighbors sending a strongly worded complaint in the morning.

He's hard and fast and brutal, rocking against you while he sings praises into your hair, and you're wondering how you've ever been able to live without this. How you can't possibly live without this ever again, but then his hand, warm and on a mission, snakes its way beneath your stomach and pulls and pinches at your clit, and it sends you on another high.

Bucky groans. "Just what you needed, huh, baby?"

You nod, moaning out his name in reply.

One particularly hard thrust, after pulling almost all the way out and then rearranging you in a way that should be impossible, and you're falling apart on him as he fucks you through it. He loves you, he loves you, and he means every single word.

When he cums, it hits you like a train, still reeling from the aftershocks of your last orgasm when he groans and roars, putting his face to your throat and babbles—baby, sweet thing, the love of my life.

Afterwards, you just wanna lay in the mess with him, tangle yourself up with his legs and arms and get stuck there, but you're–the mess between your legs is sticky and quickly drying and the though of Bucky, soaking wet and dripping with water under the spray of your—

"Shower," you murmur. And Bucky nods against you, leaning down so he can wrap his arms around you and carry you down the hall to the bathroom.

It doesn't end there.

You ride his face under the shower. He's so good, on his knees like this was penance. For not being there for years, for not coming home to you sooner. His name rattles around your mouth and his tongue makes delicate, soft little shapes on your clit and nibbles against your thighs when you squeeze him just the right amount to make him a bit dizzy. A cool hand on your back, heat rushing in between your legs. His beard sending pinpricks up your spine as you curl your hips closer to his mouth.

Then—all at once, you on his tongue with a stuttered gasp, head spinning as he laves you with all sorts of praise. His other hand snakes up, circling and rubbing your clit like a man on a mission. "Oh god, oh god."

"Let me have all of it, sweetheart, baby, god. Let me taste you."

You do, of course, fucking of course, you let him. "My baby, taking everything ya want from me. I'll always give it to you. Christ."

When Bucky moves over your body, standing up to his full height, you're all too eager to taste him on your tongue. He's smiling lazily against your lips, like he's won a fight. It's sweet, it's a little sticky, it's—god, it's so fucking attractive, the way his lips and his stubble shine under the bathroom lights with your juices. "Say my name, Bucky, say it—"

He says your name, over and over and over and it's perfect. The water continues to spray above you, soaking both of you, but especially him as it dribbles down to the base of his cock. When he sinks into you, thick and heavy and ready until your shoulder blades knock against the cool tile, you both hold your breath until he's all the way inside, flush against your skin. 

There's his hands on your hips, a momentary pause, before his hips start snapping against yours. His dark hair, sopping wet and falling into his face, barely concealing the way he grits through his teeth. "Fuck."

You love him so much. You don't think you've ever felt a love so all-encompassing, a love that sets you on fire. You'd give him absolutely anything, everything he wants. Your words fail you, but it's the only thing you can think of as he continues to pound into you, up against that sweet, sweet spot that sends your vision spinning. In the haze of your mind, you can hear yourself moaning, begging—

Then you're falling apart again, cumming with a silent scream.

"There you go," Bucky groans and suddenly, you can feel it too, the way he fills you up, throbbing and pulsing inside of you. Until he was empty and you were full. "There you go. So good, baby. Been so good."

All at once, it all comes back to you.

The bathroom is fogged with steam, the mirror a blurred memory of your shapes, blurred edges, the safe hush of water hitting tile. He doesn’t speak when you finally wrench yourself apart from him, just to move behind him, doesn’t tense when your hands press against his shoulder blades to guide him just slightly aside—enough to step in beside him, under the spray. He shifts automatically, lets you in. Like it’s instinct now.

The water is hot, almost too hot, but he doesn’t flinch. He crowds you a little, warm chest to your back, arms curving around your middle like you’re something to protect. Or anchor to. Or both.

You feel the kiss of cold tile against your front, his breath low against your shoulder. It should be overwhelming. Should make you squirm. But instead, it feels inevitable. Like exhaling. Like gravity doing what it always does.

You lean back into him, and he lets you turn. No push. No pressure. Just a subtle retreat that gives you space. When your eyes find his in the low light, he’s already watching you, his gaze open in the way it only is now, after. After everything. After the storm and the silence and the choosing.

“Pass me the soap,” you murmur.

He obliges. Hands you something dark and nondescript, expensive-smelling and deliberately plain, like everything else he owns now. The scent hits as you squeeze a dollop into your palm—cedar, maybe. Bergamot. Clean, and quietly masculine. Like him.

He runs a hand through his hair, rinses under the stream, half turning away from you, blinking water from his lashes.

“Uh-uh,” you chide gently. “Get back here.”

His brow lifts, bemused, but he obeys. Always does, when it’s you. You rub your hands together to lather the soap, then step forward—closer than necessary. Not because you want to tease. Because you want to see.

You start at his sides, palms gliding slowly over his ribs, where old scars have long since faded into muscle. He sucks in a breath, low and sharp. Not from heat. From the contact.

Your fingers move across his stomach, up over the dip in his chest, across the swell of his shoulders. He stands perfectly still—except for the breath hitching in his throat, the twitch of his jaw. You press your body to his, full skin-to-skin, and feel his chest rise beneath your breasts, slow and tight.

He watches you like he’s never been touched like this before. Like the softness is the part that breaks him. Not the hunger. Not the fire. But the care.

You rise up on your toes, sliding your hands over the back of his neck, around the nape. One hand slips down between his fingers, rubbing suds over the back of his hand. His metal arm stays still at his side, but his flesh hand… it flexes beneath yours. Tightens around your fingers like something unbearable is unraveling in his chest.

That’s when you look up. That’s when you see it.

He looks wrecked. Not from what happened in bed. Not from anything physical. But from this—this ridiculous, tender act of washing him like he matters. Like you’re not asking anything in return. No demands. No debt.

Just love.

And he knows. You can see it—see the realization in his face as clear as sunlight on glass. He knows now, as fully as you do, what this is. What you’ve been. What you are.

You want to look away. Want to laugh it off, run, bite something smart and quick and false between your teeth just to fill the silence. You don’t.

He takes your wrist gently in his flesh one—fingers cradling the inside like it’s something delicate. Then, with his other, his metal thumb presses to your skin, slow and deliberate.

He traces a letter. Then another.

It’s not rushed. Not uncertain. The motion is familiar. Repeated. You've traced over his name countless of times, and the rough pad of his pointer finger goes through a path you've known for half your life.

Your throat tightens.

“You,” he says quietly, voice rough from emotion and steam and everything in between.

He takes your hand gently and takes it to his ribs, where your name's resided for the better part of his life. “And me.”

You stare down at the mark he’s making, not because it’s visible, but because it’s real. You can feel it there, etched into the space between heartbeats.

“You and me,” he murmurs again. “Always was gonna be.”

Then, still holding your wrist, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles. Softly. As if you were made of prayer.

There’s nothing else to say. No big revelation. No sudden orchestral swell.

Just this. Just the sound of the water, the warmth of his chest against yours, the slow unraveling of every wall you ever built around the part of yourself that's wanted to believe in love since you were thirteen, staring at your skin in awe.

Later, there will be groceries. Buses. Shifts at the hospital. He'll have to go back to being an Avenger. Other lives moving in parallel lanes around yours.

But right now, it’s this.

It’s weightlessness.

It’s your name, written in the soft fog of his breath. And his name, traced endlessly across your skin.

[vermililion]

A Touch Of You

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!thunderbolts!reader

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

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

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

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

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

NOT PROOFREAD

Enjoy :)

The Thunderbolts Tower was rarely quiet.

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

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

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

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

Bucky watched. He always watched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

''Goodnight, Bucky.''

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

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

More specifically - how people touched you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he watched some more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

''Bucky.''

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

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

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

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

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

Your lips twitched. ''Barely.''

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

''Sit,'' you said.

He blinked at you. ''What?''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

''I know.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded. Still quiet.

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

''Thank you.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

''Your turn, Barnes.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He decided to try after the next mission.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

''...Come in!''

He stepped in like he was walking into a temple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was so close tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was not helpful.

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

Bucky shot him a look.

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

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

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

''I hate you.''

''You love me.''

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

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

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

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

''Shut up.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinked. ''Me?''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

''No.''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded dumbly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ava only smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He swallowed he cracked the beer open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

''You tripped over a chair yesterday.''

''That chair moved, Barnes.''

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

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

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

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

''You lost,'' you whispered.

''I let you win.''

''Liar.''

He didn't argue.

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

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

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

You didn't sleep that night.

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

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

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

''Don't apologize.''

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

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

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

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

''I know.''

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

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

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

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

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

You smiled. ''Did I not?''

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

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

[vermililion]

match made [one-shot]

congressman!bucky x matchmaker!reader

summary: as a politician, bucky can no longer be caught swiping around on dating apps. sam decides to sign up his romantically stunted friend for a more sophisticated service instead.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), you get backshots B), soft dom (?) bucky, slight sub reader, language, no use of y/n, alcohol consumption, bucky doesn't understand how dating works in the 21st century, you get jealoussss and end up pissing bucky off momentarily

word count: 12.7k

a/n: so this is obviously inspired by the movie materialists LOL but there aren't any spoilers for the movie in here... i just have been thinking about the movie nonstop since i saw it and i will actually be rewatching it with my mother soon

masterlist

You’re used to meeting in more inconspicuous locations for your clients. Those with higher profiles often don’t want to be seen in public at coffee shops or cafes, and you don’t mind it. You weren't surprised when your newest client requested for you to meet at a restaurant. You checked in with the hostess under the reservation of James B. and surprise was still nowhere to be found when you were led into a private room away from prying eyes.

It didn't matter where the first meeting with your client took place anyway. This was a consultation, and your company normally picks up the first bill. It’s to make your client feel less pressured about the fact they’re paying you to find them a life partner.

You check yourself over in the small compact mirror in your hand. There’s no lipstick in your teeth. The mascara you’re wearing hasn’t smudged and your eyeliner hasn’t shifted out of place. Your hair is tamed and will continue to be as long as you had a say in it. You know your posture is impeccable, and you’re dressed professionally, but still chic enough to turn heads.

You had your purse hanging on your seat, phone face down on the table and already set to record so you could take notes later on for your conversation to pick up anything else that you may have missed, and you waited. You were early, but it was your job to be early. 

The door to the private room opened sooner than you thought. You stood, turning to meet your client– pausing when you saw two men walk into the room. Two men that you recognized from news channels, articles you skimmed over, and from your own clients describing their ideal physical types.

You kept the shock off of your face as you held out a hand to introduce yourself.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you smiled. “I’m your matchmaker from Ador. I’ll be taking good care of you from this point forth.”

“Bucky,” he introduced himself, his voice stiff as he shook your hand. You take a quick glance at him, eyes scanning his figure as your mind runs numbers over his entire physique. He doesn’t even need to tell you, but you already know.

Six feet or taller. He had pretty, white teeth that you briefly saw when he spoke. His eyes were piercing, but they carried the weight of something that you couldn’t imagine holding yourself. His dark brown hair was carefully done, not a single hair out of place. He wore a suit that only seemed to accentuate the broadness of his shoulders and chest, and didn’t hide the muscular build of his body. Your eyes caught the dark metal hand that rested by his side.

You turned to the other man, who shook your hand with a lot more enthusiasm. He returned your smile, giving you a toothy grin.

“I’m Sam. Don’t mind him– He’s always like that. Just a grumpy old guy,” he said, patting Bucky’s back to push him further into the room and towards the table. “His age shouldn’t be an issue, right?”

“He’s a very attractive man, I’m sure there are a lot of women in New York that wouldn’t mind,” you replied smoothly, watching Sam let out a breath of relief. 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him, but I’m glad the words came from the professionals’ mouth!” Sam exclaimed, clapping a hand over Bucky’s shoulder.

The three of you sat down together, a waiter coming over to bring over a bottle of wine, pouring glasses for the three of you as you all looked over the menu.

“Thank you for making time out of your schedule to come meet with this guy,” Sam continued, clearing his throat. “I actually signed him up for your service. Spoke to your boss and asked for the best of the best at your company, and she said that you were booked and busy, but– I really appreciate you being able to fit him into your clientele.”

You give Sam a well trained smile– one that you have perfected over the years of staring at yourself in the mirror. “Of course. I’m always happy to help someone meet their destined partner.”

Bucky lets out a scoff beside Sam, who elbows his side roughly. The man doesn’t even flinch at the contact. Your smile doesn’t falter at his obvious disapproval of your honeyed words.

“Between you and me,” Sam said, looking back at you, “The reason I got him on this program is because I’m really trying to get this guy on a date. And he’s a Congressman now, you know? He can’t really be swiping on Tinder anymore. It’s not a good look for someone trying to pass government bills.”

“I get it,” you nodded, agreeing with him. “I have a lot of clients that are in the same boat. Many of those who are in more sensitive occupations that can’t be seen in the more… open areas of society. I hold no judgement at all. After all, I’m simply here for him.”

Sam looked satisfied with your answer, and the waiter came back to take your orders. 

This consultation was unlike anything you had before– in your entire five years of matchmaking. Bucky didn’t say a single word, even when you tried to speak to him. He kept his eyes on you, which was slightly unnerving since he refused to speak. 

Sam had to keep swooping in to respond your questions, but you still barely got any answers. You had nothing to work with. No ideal type. Nothing that he was looking forward to in the future. 

You left the restaurant with another handshake to both men, and a promise to call Bucky to meet up with him again to discuss his potential options. 

You even listened to that damn recording over and over again, but you couldn’t even find a single thing that indicated what Congressman James Barnes would want in a woman or man. You looked through the files and consent forms that were submitted to you – that he signed– and found only the vaguest of answers.

Name: James Buchanan Barnes DOB: 1917, March 10 Occupation: Ex-Assassin, Current Congressman

What are your strengths and weaknesses? Left arm is strong. Right arm is slightly less strong.

Does your social media accounts accurately represent you? Please include your handles! Don’t have accounts.

How do you handle conflict? Fists and/or guns.

What does your ideal partner look like? Not part of The Big Three.

What characteristics do you hope to find in a partner? Human.

How do you spend your free time? Work.

What are your core beliefs? Loyalty. 

What are your expectations for a long term relationship? Peace.

Are you seeking marriage, a serious partnership, or something casual? ?

Do you have any deal breakers? Liars.

Why did your last relationship end? I was drafted into WWII and didn’t come home.

You want to slam your head into your desk. You usually received essay answers from your clients. You were beginning to understand why your boss handed you this client without regard for your current workload– she saw the responses he submitted. There was no one in this company that would be able to handle the shit that Bucky gave you to work with. You weren’t even sure that you would be able to work with this. 

You did your research on the congressman in between work of your other clients to try and get a hold of his personality because he wasn’t answering your calls. You wanted to pretend that he was a busy man working to pass bills in the government, but deep down you know that he’s trying to avoid you all together. 

He was a mysterious man– that was for sure. He had enough controversy to put a celebrity to shame, but with his looks and his financial state, you were certain that there were enough bachelor women in New York that would be more than willing to throw that behind them. There was also the benefit that he was a soldier. Lots of women enjoyed having a protector in the home, especially in the tough times of impending doom that was constantly looming over the city you lived in.

Bucky was almost the ideal man that everyone was looking for. Handsome. Smart. Strong. He had an edgy vibe to him that was alluring– almost like the bad boy type that girls would chase in high school. He also had the politician’s salary that would definitely make panties drop. He thankfully did not have the politician’s shady background, either. 

You’re still thinking about him when you’re sitting across from your next client, Mel, who’s telling you about her last date. 

“It was okay,” she said with a deep sigh. You know that look on her face. She’s detached. You’ve seen it painted on her features more than once before, and you don’t allow the dread to show up on your own face. 

“I hear a but coming on,” you said, fixing a smile on your face.

“It’s just difficult to date these days,” she admitted, slouching a bit in her seat as her hands clasped over her cup of coffee. “I had to cancel on him three times before we finally went on that date the other day. And it was nice, it really was, but I just… I don’t know. I feel bad.”

“Is it because of work?” you guessed, reaching over the table to place your hand over hers. “I know it’s hard working for the government. Really. I get it. It’s demanding, and you’re the personal assistant to someone that just wants you on your feet twenty-five hours of the day.”

She gives you a sad smile, and nods at your words. “He asked me to go on another date tomorrow night. And I want to, but– there’s this charity gala tomorrow that my boss is throwing. I have to go.”

“You can’t invite him as a plus one?” you offered as a solution.

“God, I wish,” she groaned. “Working for the government like I do– I could explain it to you, but it would be so much easier if I could just show you–”

Mel cut herself off, straightening in her seat as she locked eyes with you. She adjusted both her hands to hold yours in hers. 

“Mel?” you asked, still smiling at her.

“Are you free tomorrow night?” she asked, serious. “Can I ask you to be my plus one? Maybe you’ll be able to see the life I live– and it’ll help you figure out the kind of man that will be suitable for the life I live. Trust me, Daniel is great. Amazing guy. He’s just too… free spirited. Too spontaneous. I need structure and plans and I need you to see my life in order to really grasp it.”

You let out a sigh as you weighed the pros and cons. 

This sounded like a bad idea. Getting too involved with a client was never a good thing. In fact, it crossed a lot of boundaries and raised a lot of alarm bells in your head. You may have gone to your client’s weddings– the weddings of matches that you put together– but that was another form of networking. This was a charity gala for a government event. You would be completely out of your own element. 

However, you really didn’t have anything to do tomorrow. You had no appointments with your clients in the evening. You did have enough dresses in your closet that you could go through– and Mel was your favorite client. You had set her up on more than a few dates since she had enlisted your service, and she had turned down more than enough men for you to know that she was struggling. She wasn’t old by any means, but she was still a hopeless romantic that just needed some assistance, and you really wanted to help her out.

“Please?” Mel tried again, pulling you out of your own thoughts.

“Okay,” you relented, letting out a small sigh through your nose as you did.

She squealed, excited. “I will text you the details. I’ll let the staff know your name so you don’t have to worry about a single thing. Just show up pretty like you always do!” 

You gave her a smile, one more genuine than the ones that you normally show your clients.

You step up the stairs of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, thankful that there aren’t any photographers trying to stop you for a quick photo. Around you, you recognize several celebrities here for the charity event along with politicians of varying levels of influence. Your eyes fall on the banners, seeing the past heroes of the Avengers staring right back at you.

A small sense of nostalgia flows through you as you continue your way to the doors, only stopping momentarily to check in with the doormen. 

As you move towards the second floor to get a better view of the entire floor, a server comes by with a tray, offering you a flute of champagne that you gratefully take. You take a small sip as you move through the museum, eyes flitting over the different people in the gala. You rest your elbows against the railing, scanning over the entire crowd. Your eyes can’t help but run numbers over every single person that you see. 

You see the brand of their suits and dresses scream at you. The wear of their purses and shoes let you know exactly how disposable their income is. How tall they hold their head gives you insight on how insecure they are. You watch how each woman communicates with each man. Every gentle touch, flutter of eyelashes, subtle drop of eye contact from the eyes to the lips. 

You can easily tell who is single, who is taken, who is pretending to be single, and who wishes they were anything but single. 

“You made it!” a cheery voice calls your name from behind you. 

You straighten your spine as you turn around, a smile fitting over your lips. Then, you raise an eyebrow at Mel. She’s wearing a blazer and skirt, holding a tablet in hand with her hair pulled back in a low ponytail.

“You texted me that this was a formal event, Mel. What are you wearing?” you teased lightly, looking her up and down. “My plan was to find you a date tonight.”

“I’m working right now,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “I saw you from downstairs, so I slipped away to say hello real quick. You look great, by the way. Not that you don’t look amazing usually.”

You let out a small laugh, looking down at yourself briefly. Your dress was simple, a strapless black evening gown that clung effortlessly to you, with a cascading, sheer, flowing hem that moved with each step that you took. You paired it with a simple golden necklace matched with a timeless gold wristwatch. The purse that hung off your shoulder finished off the look, adding to the overall sophistication to the look. 

You didn’t deny her compliment, smile widening at her. “Would’ve loved to see you in something similar.”

“Maybe next time,” she smiled back, moving to loop your arm through hers. “We’ll be starting the dinner service soon, so let’s find your seat.”

You allowed her to lead you away, noticing the crowd was also moving towards the banquet hall now. Mel dropped you off at a round table towards the end of the room, though you didn’t necessarily mind. There was a placard with your name on the charge plate. You allowed your purse to hang from the seat as you took your phone out, allowing yourself to rest for a few moments.

Others were still filtering in, finding their seats at the seating chart at the front. You lost sight of Mel the second she left your side. It was becoming increasingly clear that she needed to be matched with someone as busy as her. You let out a sigh as you pulled up profiles on your phone, removing some men that you thought would work with her. 

You didn’t even look up as someone took a seat beside you. 

“I don’t answer your calls, so you come directly to where I work?”

You paused at the voice, looking up. Bucky is sitting beside you, champagne in hand as he flicks away a placard that is definitely not his own. He replaces it with his as you watch the random name get discarded somewhere on the floor behind him. 

You blink at him– it somehow didn’t even cross your mind that he would be here tonight. You curse yourself slightly. For a man that you thought about constantly, you completely missed the mark with this one. Why wouldn’t he be here? 

“I was invited,” you said, placing your phone faced down on the table. You cross one leg over the other, shifting your body to face his. “Though, I am hurt that you don’t answer my calls.”

A sigh escapes his lips as he shakes his head. You watch as his fingers play with the folded piece of paper with his name written with perfect calligraphy– hands that are slightly calloused from the years of war and battles that he’s fought.

“What business does a matchmaker have at a government charity event?” he finally asked, stormy eyes meeting yours. 

“You would be surprised to find there are many highly influential and single government workers that are looking for my company’s services,” you said, giving him a small shrug. “Call it networking.”

He watched you for a few moments, eyes scanning your figure. If he was anyone else, if you didn’t do prior research to know that he was a former assassin and spy, you would have thought he was checking you out. No– he wasn’t. He was searching for something. 

You didn’t give him any answers. 

When Bucky’s eyes finally settled on your face again, you gave him a polite smile. His eyebrows twitched as his eyes narrowed at you.

“Is something the matter, Congressman Barnes?” you asked, folding your hands in your lap. 

“I don’t need your services. Take me off the list,” he said, his voice gruff and low.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Wilson has paid in advance for us to serve you. The contract extends until you have found a match,” you reminded him. “You signed the consent form to allow us to give Mr. Wilson updates on how your dates go as well. We have to continue to at least try to reach out to you, even if you ignore my calls.”

“I will sue your office for harassment,” he threatened.

“You signed consent forms allowing for me to call, text, and email your direct lines of contact as per agreement,” you repeated, smiling at him as you tilted your head. “It would make things so much easier for both of us if we met regularly so I can get you on at least one date a week, Congressman.”

Bucky drags his metal hand down his face as he fights back groaning out loud. You can only keep your smile trained on your face as you watch him. 

“Can I perhaps order you a drink, Congressman? You strike me as a whiskey kind of guy,”  you hummed, raising a hand towards the waiter that was walking by.

“Make it neat,” he muttered beside you, completely defeated as you ordered drinks for the two of you.

Dinner service goes by without another hiccup. The two of you don’t discuss the nature of your relationship as others join your table. You don’t recognize the others at the table, but they recognize Bucky. That’s enough for you to pretend that you don’t know Bucky like that.

However, you do take the chance to spread your business card around the table with a pretty smile and a flutter of your lashes as you give your well rehearsed spiel.

“And you’re responsible for… how many marriages between your matches?” one of the women at your table asks, surprised.

“Goodness..” you sigh dramatically for effect, placing a hand over your chest. “I would say– about eight now? They are all lovely people that I have taken time to connect with. Amazing friends that I have grown to love, and I’m happy to have been able to bring them together for life.”

“Then you’re an expert,” Bucky suddenly said beside you as he picked up his whiskey glass. “What do you think makes a perfect partner?”

“Of course, that depends from person to person,” you respond, smiling at him before looking at the rest of the table. “I’m not here to build a person out of thin air for you. I am here to show you that love exists, and that you are worthy of it. Even if you don’t believe that there is someone out there for you, I believe it. There’s someone out there for everyone.”

The women were captivated by your sugared words, sliding over their own business cards to you, asking you to call them on the next business day. You grin as you take each card, sliding them into your purse. You ignore Bucky’s eyes on the side of your face as you continue to chat with everyone else. 

You tune out during the speeches that Mel’s boss has. You don’t necessarily care for it, though you do your best to look like you’re paying attention. You’ll read some reverbed version of this long winded monologue tomorrow morning, and Mel will definitely let you know how she feels about it later. 

When the talking is over and the music turns on, you find yourself being dragged by the other women at your table to be introduced to some other single women attending the gala. At the very least, you didn’t end up lying to Bucky. You ended up doing networking here after all. 

By the time you managed to get out of the hands of single men and women trying to enlist your services, your purse was stuffed to the brim with business cards that weren’t yours, and you would need to order some more cards of your own on Monday. 

You managed to slip out to a secluded hallway, away from the music and festivities. You kept walking, running a hand through your hair as you sighed. You found an open balcony, the cool New York air blowing through it and a bench calling your name.

You rested your aching feet, and decided to look through the cards you got– trying to organize who you would delegate to some of your coworkers and who you would take on as your own from the short conversations that you had. Your workload was already heavy as it was, and you still had a certain man that wasn’t making your life any easier for you. 

“Can I pay you to get me off your list?”

Speak of the devil.

“Maybe if you say please,” you respond, still shuffling the cards into two separate stacks.

The devil doesn’t respond to you. You let out a deep sigh.

You looked up, finding him leaning against the doorframe of the balcony door. His hands are tucked in his pocket, looking at you. You close your purse, resting your hands on the cement bench as you let your eyes scan him up and down.

“I have a great match for you. She works in the government as well. She’s a personal assistant, so she understands the kind of work that you do as a Congressman. Just as busy as you are. She has her ideal type as someone taller than 5’10’’. Doesn’t have a preference for age, but has told me that she wants someone with an old soul. She’s cute. Somewhat of a busy-body, but that means that she’s pretty low maintenance, and you don’t have to worry that much about dates,” you said. 

His eyes narrowed at you. “Are you setting me up on a date or selling me a product?”

“Depends on the angle that you look at it,” you shrugged. 

Bucky sighed, closing his eyes tight. “If I go on this one date, will you leave me alone?” 

“If it goes well on your end and hers, then yes,” you nodded. “However, the company does assist in setting up the first, second, and third date. From there, it is up to you and her to decide if you two will be an official couple. If you do, you both are obligated to report it to the company. I will then check up on you during the milestones of your relationship.”

“Milestones?” he asked, frowning at you.

“You know, your anniversaries. First month. Six months. One year. If you even need help proposing to her one day, then we can definitely help you with that as well– Mr. Wilson paid for the full Ador Matchmaking Package, so it’s included,” you informed him. 

Bucky stared at you like you had two heads and six pairs of eyes on each head. You continued to smile at him, and moved to stand in front of him. 

“I am not here to make your life difficult, Congressman. In fact, I think that finding you a partner can be a wonderful thing. I find that being able to share your life with someone– share your struggles with someone– can relieve a lot of the stress that you may have,” you said, locking eyes with him.

“Are you speaking from your own experience?” he asked, clenching his jaw tight. Your smile faltered for the first time. You quickly fixed it back into place. 

“I have seen and matched many successful couples,” you answered, ignoring the true intentions of his question. “Just trust me.”

Bucky let out a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he looked to be contemplating his options here.

“I’m not ready for a date. I have my own issues that I just… I have issues,” he admitted to you, lowering his hand. “You left me a voicemail– saying you wanted to discuss more of my… desires with a partner. Let’s start with that.”

“Of course,” you said, trying to hide the giddiness in your chest. Finally. You were getting somewhere with him. “We’ll take this at your pace.”

On your first meeting with him, you had to explain the dating in this century. Bucky still continues to stare at you like you were insane, and you can only sigh as you try to break down the new lingo of the year for him.

"What do you mean by that?"

"By what?"

"Talking stage. Situationship. What is that?"

"Just because you go on dates with someone, doesn't mean that you are dating them, Congressman. Same thing with talking. You can be talking with them, but are you talking with them? It's all in the nuances. Situationships are a bit more... sensual."

Bucky still doesn't get it, and you're worried about sending him off on dates with women- some of your older clients even know about these phrases. You're afraid Bucky might think he's going steady with someone who isn't serious about him at all.

The second meeting included texting etiquette and dating terms. Bucky couldn't wrap his head around why people sent emoticons to each other- he hated phone calls already. He despised having to send those cute emojis to express his emotions over text.

"Ghosting?" he deadpanned at you. "Did you ask me if I have ever been ghosted before?"

"It's a general question, Congressman-"

"No- I don't know what that means," he cut you off. "Did someone fucking die?"

You stare at him like he's crazy, but you clearly slip your mask back into place and remind yourself that he was born in the late 1910s.

"It's when someone that you were previously talking to just randomly disappears. Remember we were talking about the talking stage during our last meeting? Say you thought your date went really well, and you're looking forward to your next date, and you try meeting up with her again, but she just- poof! Disappears. Gone without a trace."

"You can search her up in the database and find her easily."

You almost want to cry at how serious he looks and sounds at this moment.

"Not everyone is an ex-assassin, Congressman."

Your next meeting has you handing in your resignation on the spot. You never thought you would have to explain what a thirst trap is to someone over the age of thirteen, but here you were. It came up during the topic of dating apps, and how he despised every single moment that he was on them.

"I saw girls in tiger outfits," he told you.

"Like... full fur suits?" you asked.

"No, like bikinis."

"Oh. Like a costume?"

"Yeah. Why do they do that?" he asked, frowning at you.

"To look sexy," you shrugged at him. "Some people are attracted to that."

"People are attracted to tigers?"

"No, Congressman. They are attracted to the girl showing the wildly inappropriate amount of skin," you said, fighting back the laugh bubbling up in your throat. He looked utterly disgusted right now.

"Why would anyone put that shit on?"

"Some people enjoy it as a kink," you said, clearing your throat to hide your laughter. "Some see it as an acts of service kind of thing. You know, love languages."

Bucky looked like he was about to combust in his seat. "Love languages? Since when the hell did love have a language?"

"Words of affirmation, quality time, physical touch- just to name a few," you said, nodding at him.

"Isn't that the basics of romance? All of that, combined?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed at you. He almost sounded scandalized.

You gave Bucky a wide grin-- one that wasn't your practiced smile. "That's what I like to hear. Keep that in mind while I try to find you a match, okay?"

It's on your fourth meeting when you officially dub Bucky as your most stubborn client that you've ever had. You are losing patience, and you thought you had an astounding amount of it. You didn’t think that he could be worse than the questionnaire that he filled out.

Bucky spoke a lot, but he didn’t say anything in his words. He talked in circles that had your mind running. 

Over four meetings, you could barely managed to figure out that he wanted a partner that would be able to keep up with his busy schedule, and not get upset with him for being closed off. You could work with that– someone understanding. That was basic level, but that should have been something that he could have said within the first minute of speaking to you. Not over the eighteen hours that you have sat down with him and talked.

You know Bucky is also getting increasingly frustrated as your meetings go along, too. You’re questioning him in different ways that he’s not used to– he’s not used to being on the opposite end of an interrogation, especially not about his desires in a woman.

“I still don’t understand why we have to meet like this,” Bucky said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I told you– the questionnaire that you submitted to us was damn near empty, Congressman,” you stressed. “I have nothing to work with here. I can’t find you a partner if you put a question mark as an answer!’

“I think it’s pretty straight forward,” he grunted in his seat.

“You have to have a physical type that you’re attracted to, at least,” you finally said, exasperated as you dropped rubbed circles into your temples. 

Your notebook was filled with scribbles that you would try to make sense of later, but you knew there was nothing substantial from this latest meeting with your stubborn client. This is your fifth meeting with him and you still have nothing. 

“I… I don’t. Not really,” he answered, looking down at his desk.

 Bucky’s leg was bouncing up and down under his desk, an anxious habit you observed he did when he was over the meeting and you knew that it was time for you to wrap it up for the day.

“James,” you said, exasperated. “Everyone has a type. Someone that they see on the street that their eyes linger on just a little more than the next person. Nothing comes to mind? Not even just one feature?”

He stopped bouncing for a moment, then lifted his gaze to meet yours. Your breath caught in your throat at the unexpected contact, and you held it. You watched him just as intently as he watched you, waiting for him to speak as your heart began to uncharacteristically thump in your chest.

“Eyes,” he finally said, never breaking those stormy orbs away from you. “You can tell a lot about a person by looking them in the eyes. I like a person’s eyes.”

You swallowed thickly, swiping your tongue over your bottom lip as you cleared your throat. You tore your eyes away from him to look down at your notes, scribbling the word down, and circling it twice.

“Thank you. That’s progress. Not a lot for me to work off of, but I can find someone with pretty eyes for you,” you replied, giving him a smile of relief. 

“Add smiles to your notes. Pretty smiles are good, too.”

 You pause at his words, eyes narrowing at him for a moment. He smiled back at you before you went ahead and wrote down the word next to ‘eyes.’

“Do you really think there is someone out there that is willing to date an ex-assassin that committed several war crimes?” he asked, leaning back in his seat. “Not to mention, I’m old enough to be a lot of these people’s grandfather’s.”

“Great grandfather’s,” you corrected him.

“Wow,” he scoffed, but a smile fit over his face.

“I think you need to give yourself a little more credit. You deserve it,” you said, closing your notebook. You shoved it into your tote purse, and stood up to straighten your blazer. Bucky’s eyes followed your figure as you moved. “You may have done things that you’re not proud of, but haven’t we all? What matters now is that you’re doing your best to rectify the things that you didn’t even have control over.”

“It was still me that did it,” he said, sucking in a breath.

“And the man in front of me is a great match for a lot of women out there, if he just allows me to set him up with someone,” you replied. You watched as his eyes fell on your face again, and you smiled at him. “I promise, Congressman. There’s someone for everyone. Including you. Someone that accepts your past, and looks forward to the future that you envision– that you won’t even share with me even though it’s my job to try and find someone that fits that future.”

A chuckle falls from his lips as he shakes his head. He straightens in his seat, busying his hands with organizing the manila folders on his desk. 

“I still don’t think I’m ready to just get out there and meet people, sweetheart. That’s not… I haven’t dated in a long time.”

You stared at him for a few moments. He’s avoiding looking at you right now– there’s a sheepish tone in his voice. He’s trying to glide over the vulnerability of his confession by organizing pens that are already color coded, and a calendar that is properly filled. 

“Go on a date with me,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His metal hand closes over a pen, and stops. “What?”

“A trial date,” you clarified, squaring your shoulders off to hide the embarrassment creeping up your neck. “You haven’t been on a date in a long time, and I’m the one trying to get you on dates. Let’s see how you are on dates, and once it’s over then I can give you a few pointers. Tell you if there’s anything that you need to work on– or let you know that you’re simply overthinking this whole thing.”

“Is this part of the service Sam bought?”

“No,” you answered honestly. “But it’s my job to help you, and you’re not confident in yourself. I need to build your confidence so you can meet some of my clients. No woman likes an insecure man.”

Bucky’s searching your figure again– doing that same thing he did at the gala. Searching for something in you. Hesitation maybe? Regret, you guess. Maybe he thinks you’ll take back your words. You stare right back at him, unwavering. 

You’re breaking a lot of your own personal rules, and boundaries these days, but you don’t say that out loud. You’re doing a lot to help your clients– starting with Mel’s charity gala, and now offering to do a test run with Bucky. It seems that you just can’t help yourself. 

“When’s your next free night, Congressman?” you asked, taking your phone out from your purse to pull up your calendar. “I’ll clear my evening for you.”

You met him at an upscale restaurant of your choosing, telling him that you would plan the date as is normal by Ador standards when it comes to the matchmaking dates. All he needed to do was show up and look nice. You thought you would be early, just like last time. You’re pleasantly surprised to find him opening the door to your Uber, a bouquet of flowers in hand.

“Hi there,” you smiled at him.

“Hi,” Bucky replied, a bit stiff. You kept your laugh to yourself as he took a few steps back to allow you to get out of the car, and then he shut it behind you. “This is– uh– for you.”

He holds out the bouquet– one that you can tell is on the pricier end of the market. The scent is strong, the buds are young, and the colors are vivid. The bow wrapped tight around it is pristine and sharp as well. Your smile only seemed to grow a bit wider as you took it from his hands, brushing your fingertips against his as you did. 

“They’re beautiful. I love them, thank you,” you told him, truthful.

“Thank God,” he muttered, leading you towards the restaurant. “Sam said something about women in this era not enjoying flowers. I almost didn’t get you any.”

“Women still like flowers,” you said, eyebrows raising at him.

“That’s what I told him, and I’m glad that you agree. I’ll have to tell him that the professional sides with me,” Bucky chuckled, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he held the door open for you to enter first. 

You felt his hand rest on the small of your back as he joined behind you, and you made the mental note in your head– he really wasn’t all that closed off. In just a few moments, he proved to be extremely charming. What was his issue with dating?

The two of you were shown to a quieter table towards the back of the restaurant, with Bucky pulling out your seat. You’re getting more impressed by the second here. Maybe it’s the fact he was around during the prime time of men being chivalrous, but you were certain that this would have a lot of your clients sinking their claws into him and never letting him go. You just had to find him someone that he didn’t want to let go of.

The dinner was a set course that you both ate quietly save for small comments on how the fish was cooked perfectly. Otherwise, you didn’t say much until the table was cleared and more wine was poured into your glasses. You both thank the waiter before turning your attention back to each other.

“So, Congressman. Was the last date you really had back in the forties?” you asked, resting your chin in your palm as you stared at him.

He lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Bucky– Just… Bucky is fine for right now. And no. I went on a date a year or so ago.”

“Okay, Bucky,” you said, testing the name on your tongue. You watched as the corners of his lips curled slightly. “How did that date go?”

“Ran out on her,” he recalled, and you furrowed your eyebrows at him. He let out a deep sigh. “Not my best moment, but she said something that kind of… triggered me, I guess. Couldn’t really stay for much longer without having a panic attack.”

You keep your eyes on him for a few moments before you decide to reach for your wine glass and take a slow sip, digesting his words as the liquid runs down your throat. You let out a small hum. 

“Well, you can’t run from me,” you smiled at him, “I already know your past. There’s nothing that you need to hide from me that I’ll be scared of.”

“I’m sure you’ll show up at my office if I run away from you,” he chuckled with a shake of his head. 

“I will. You are notorious for not answering your phone,” you reminded him.

“I honestly hate that thing,” he said with a deep sigh. “I preferred when people sent each other letters. They were much more personal. You could see people’s handwriting, and how they felt with each stroke of their pen.”

You raised your eyebrows, surprised. You didn’t expect this. However, it made sense. Bucky did strike you as a guy that would prefer sentimental gifts over expensive, over the top trinkets.

“If I send you a letter or write you a sticky note, will you be more inclined to meet with me again?” you asked.

Bucky can’t help but laugh at your question. “Sure, sweetheart. I’ll meet with you again if you send me a heartfelt letter.”

“I’ll spray my perfume and add a kiss mark next to my signature, just for you,” you teased. “Send it straight to your door.”

He shakes his head at your antics, though his smile never falters. His fingers play with the stem of the wine glass, twirling the glass in his flesh hand for a few moments as a comfortable silence fills the air between you two. The live pianist in the restaurant fills in the gaps between your conversation, allowing the two of you a moment of peace as you watch over each other. 

Bucky looks handsome tonight. He’s ditched the usual tie that he wears with his suits, and a couple of the buttons are undone at the top of his shirt. You can see the shining necklace of what you assume is his dog tags hiding against his chest. His blazer is hung at his chair, the material matching the slacks he wears. His hair, which is normally gelled back, is slightly out of place from the day. A few strands are framing his face and you find that you like it better this way. It looks a little fluffy. His beard is well maintained as per usual, a little shorter than you remember seeing it last week. 

He’s scanning you the same way you’re scanning him. This time, you know that he’s not searching your body for answers like he had done previously. You feel oddly exposed under his gaze, but not uncomfortable. A shiver runs down your spine as his eyes continue to drag up and down your figure.

“I’m surprised your boyfriend is alright with you going on dates like this,” he finally said, your eyes meeting his. “Even if this is supposed to be something that is meant to help a client of yours.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, finger circling the rim of your wine glass. You wet your lips as you suck in a small breath, preparing for the questions to come after you respond to his statement.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” you told him.

It’s Bucky’s turn to raise an eyebrow at you. He rested his arms on the table, leaning in closer to you. “You’re telling me that my matchmaker that’s supposed to find me a girlfriend isn’t taken? This sounds like a scam, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes at his blatant sarcasm, sighing deeply. “I don’t have to be in a relationship to know how relationships work, Bucky.”

“Then, why? What’s the reason that the professional relationship maker doesn’t want to be in a relationship?” he asked.

You bit the inside of your cheek, the question weighing heavy on your mind. Out of your coworkers, you are the only one that is without a partner. They are all going strong with someone– on the path of getting engaged, or already married. You are the only one alone, and you’re the best employee in the company. You look down at the table for a moment before lifting your eyes to meet his. 

The truth is- you're afraid. You fear allowing someone into your heart, seeing the vulnerability of everything that you are. It's such a small reason that everyone holds close to their heart, a reason that you have coerced others out of their shells... but you still can't seem to get out of your own.

“I haven’t found the right match,” you answered. 

“Who’s the right match for you?”

You sighed, leaning back in your seat for a moment. “I have a deal breaker. I need to watch the guy climb a fence. If they look fucking stupid while doing it, then I’m out.”

“What?” Bucky whispered, staring at you in disbelief.

You smiled at him- a pretty smile that you knew he liked.

“I like athletic guys. Ones that can preferably pick me up like I don’t weigh anything. And that can carry all the groceries into the house in one trip, or all the bags when I go shopping. I make enough money to sustain myself, and I’ll continue working even after I get married to keep my own income separate from a joint account. A guy that will let me do whatever I want without questioning me or my decisions because he trusts me. I’m not really a homemaker, if you understand what I’m saying. So, it’s a little difficult. My preferences in the bedroom differ from what I enjoy in reality, so the men I seek don’t want to date all of me. They want someone submissive 24/7, and that’s not typically who I am.”

You’re more than certain you gave Bucky more than he asked you for, but you don’t really care. You’re trying to gain his trust so that he opens up to you, tells you more about what he wants in a partner, so that you can find someone for him.

“So,” you continued, picking up your wine glass again. “What are your preferences in the bedroom– or have you not done anything since the forties?”

Bucky’s lips parted, then shut. His mind looked to be short circuiting in real time, still processing your words. Then, he cleared his throat.

“Are all women as forward as you while on dates in this time period?” he finally asked.

“Not all,” you chuckled, taking a sip of the wine. You can’t help but tease him, “I just find myself comfortable enough to speak with you like this. What about you, Congressman? I feel like we’ve known each other long enough for you to talk to me about this kind of thing.”

Bucky downs the rest of the wine in his glass, surprising you with his actions. His eyes are dark when they lock onto yours, and his voice is low. The gravely tone makes goosebumps rise on your skin, and you instinctively straighten in your seat at the commanding presence he’s giving off. You don’t dare look away from him.

“I don’t prefer to talk about my preferences in the bedroom. I'd rather just show you.”

Bucky’s hand is cradling the back of your head, a soft barrier to keep your head safe as he pushes you back against the wall. Your lips are still connected to his, head angled upwards to deepen the kiss with him. Your purse is sliding down your arm, about to hit the floor with a soft thud when he parts from you to grab it, securing it over his own shoulder before returning back to your lips.

He really is a gentleman at heart.

Your moans are swallowed greedily into his throat as if the two of you didn’t just have a five course meal an hour ago, and his hands are moving to your thighs, bunching up your dress to your hips. Once he feels your skin against him, he groans against your lips, a tingle racing down your spine and going straight to your core. 

He tastes like wine, but faintly of cinnamon, too. With him so close to you, you’re overwhelmed and wrapped by the scent of smoke and wood, and you don’t hate it. There’s cologne somewhere in the mix here– something that you can’t detect since it’s so late in the night, but you can smell the smell of him on his neck.

“Bucky,” you whimpered, his fingertips digging into the flesh of your thighs.

“I got you,” he muttered in response, hands moving to the underside of your thighs to scoop you up. 

Bucky easily shifted to have your legs wrap around his hips, and tilted his head upwards to trail kisses down your jaw and neck. You let out a soft sigh, angling your neck to the side to let him have more space to play.

“This is what you wanted, right?” he grunted before nipping at the soft skin at your neck. You let out a soft moan, gripping at the lapels of his blazer.

“What?” you whispered back as his tongue moved to soothe the wound.

“You said you wanted a man that could pick you up like you weigh nothing. I’m right here, sweetheart.”

You barely have time to process his words before you’re being pulled off the wall. He still has you in his arms, and your lips are caught in his again. Bucky moves through his apartment without having to see anything, going straight to his bedroom. He opens the door, holding you with only one arm as he carries you to bed. 

Sitting down, you’re straddling his lap. 

You grab his face in your hands, hungry for him. You can’t get enough. 

“You’re so handsome,” you whispered between kisses. 

“Not too insecure for you?” he chuckled softly.

“Don’t ruin the moment,” you huffed, biting his bottom lip softly. 

Bucky’s hands fall to your hips once more before moving to your back, finding the zipper of your dress. He unzips the piece without hesitation, and you briefly part from him to allow him to pull it off of your body. 

“God,” he groaned, taking a moment to look at you. His hands are on your waist, and your body shivered involuntarily at the cool touch of his metal hand. “You were hiding all of this from me, sweetheart?”

You weren’t wearing a bra. You couldn’t– not with the strappy dress that you were wearing. Of course, you had a jacket on earlier, and the material of your dress had one of those built in bras. You didn’t feel the need to explain it to him, not when Bucky was already taking a nipple in his mouth and kneading the other breast in his hand.

A moan fell from your lips as you arched your back into him– his free arm going to your back to support you and pull you even closer. You grabbed onto his shoulder, his hair, grounding your hips into his as he hummed into your chest.

You locked eyes with him, watched him as he swirled his tongue over the stiff peak of your nipple. Shit– this man was so hot. There was no way he was real. You couldn’t understand why this man was still single– age or lack of confidence aside. You didn’t get it. 

“Sit on my face,” he ordered you, your eyes widening slightly. 

You’re not certain you heard him right. 

“What–”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he clicked his tongue, already moving the two of you deeper into his bed. He’s still fully dressed, laid back on the pillows, and you’re still sitting on his lap. He has his metal hand under his head, staring at you as he waits.

“My underwear–” you tried to start, lifting your hips to remove the last garment between what he wanted you to do. 

Bucky’s hands move faster than you can swing your leg over his body. A resounding rip fills the air, and you see the fabric of your underwear get thrown off to the side of his bed. His hands settle over your hips, and you are once again being effortlessly lifted towards him– heart thundering in your chest.

You didn’t have any mental preparation before his tongue met your heat. His arms locked around your thighs, holding you in place so you couldn’t even attempt to hover over him. No, he had the full weight of you on him, and he was moaning into you. The vibrations alone had your thighs tensing around his head, hands reaching down for his hair for some stability.

His tongue flatted against your core, licking up all the wetness that had seeped through without him touching you earlier. Bucky moaned at the taste, absolutely floored at your excitement. He angled his head just slightly, nose nudging at the sensitive bundle of nerves that made your body flinch. 

He chuckled beneath you at your reaction, pressing harder against you, nuzzling his nose deeper into you– putting more pressure on your clit as he began to piston his tongue in and out of your aching pussy.

“Bucky!” you moaned his name, like it was the only thing you could say.

He groaned in response, eyes opening just briefly to lock on yours– those same piercing eyes were dark, blown out– and you realized he enjoyed eating you out just as much as you enjoyed having his tongue lap against you. 

Bucky liked this. He enjoyed  this– got off on this. You falling apart above him, unable to run from his ministrations as he brought you closer and closer to the edge where he could watch you without any restraint. He could see everything. He could see the way your chest rose and fell erratically, the way your skin flushed, the way you bit your lip, the way your eyes were dilated as you looked down at him.

“Bucky– I’m so close,” you whimpered, tugging on his hair.

And he lifted you up and away from his mouth.

You felt a sense of loss immediately, panic rushing through your body as he chuckled beneath you. You watched as he licked his lips from your juices, and he pushed you back down to straddle him once again.

“What– why?” you whispered, damn near close to tears. 

Bucky pushed himself up to sit, unbuttoning his shirt as he did. He let out a small hum as he took off the garment, wiping off the last bits of you off of his face and beard before tossing it to the side. Then, he grabbed your face with one hand, yanking you back into a deep kiss. 

You melted into him, pliant, trembling, needy. You tasted yourself on his tongue as he licked into your mouth. The gripping hand that held your face softened, moving to stroke your cheek affectionately moments afterwards. 

“You didn’t say please, sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips. 

Your eyes widened slightly– oh. You were going to kill him when you got out of this bedroom. He chuckled against your lips, knowing that you knew what he was referencing to. However, your irritation faded away as you heard the clink of his belt against his metal hand– noting that it was being taken off and discarded to the edge of the bed.

In one swift movement, you were on your back with Bucky in between your legs, lips on yours once more. 

You sighed into his mouth, closing your eyes as you felt his bare skin against yours. You could feel the scars of his shoulder under your left hand, the muscles of his right arm– his broad chest. You felt the ripples of his abs as your hands trailed down. 

Then you felt his length slide against your folds, coating itself in your slick. 

Bucky’s head rested in the crook of your neck, both of you letting out a soft moan as the tip of his cock briefly caught on your clit. You could feel the warm bead of precum drip onto your skin, your eyes falling shut at the sensation as a shiver of anticipation rushes through your body.

“Tell me what you want,” Bucky muttered, hands running up and down your sides. 

“You,” you responded instantly, a bit breathless. 

He chuckles, shaking his head before moving to press a kiss against your hairline. Bucky’s hands stop at your breasts, and you whine as he rolls both nipples in between his pointer fingers and thumbs.

“Gotta be a little more descriptive than that, doll, because I’m right here. Where do you want me?” he hummed, rutting his hips against yours again.

“Fu–ck,” you gasped, the word coming out broken from your throat. You collect yourself briefly, opening your eyes to look at him. “God, Bucky– you. I need your cock in me– please, I wanna cum all over your cock– I need it so bad, need you so bad–”

Your words die on your lips, cut off by the feeling of being stuffed absolutely full. Bucky’s forehead rested against yours, lips parted in a noiseless moan as he slid all the way to the hilt. Neither of you can say or move or breathe for a few moments– you’re both too overwhelmed. You can feel him so deeply inside of you, you’re sure he’s at your cervix.

“It’s like you were fucking made for me,” he finally groaned before pulling out, only leaving the tip of his cock in before thrusting all the way back in, starting a punishing pace. 

You can’t keep up with him, but you don’t even have to. Bucky’s doing all the work for you, his hips snapping into yours in perfect rhythm. When your back arches off the bed from the overwhelming pleasure of him, he scoops his arm underneath you to lock you in place as his other hand grabs both of your wrists to pin overhead to keep you from scrambling away from the intensity of the thrill.

Your first orgasm crept on you without any warning– but you were already wound up, and he knew it. You were a mess beneath him, moaning his name like it was the only thing you knew, hips rising to grind up to meet his, overstimulated by his lips all over your neck and chest.

He whispered pretty praises into your ear when you came around his cock, feeling his hips stutter slightly, and listening to him moan as you clenched around him tightly. Bucky didn’t stop there, though.

You didn’t have time to even come down from your high before he was flipping you over onto your stomach, him still inside of you. 

Your face was shoved into the pillow, his hand buried into your hair as the other hand grabbed at your hips to pull back into his own. He moaned behind you– and he was hitting you at a deeper, more delicious angle that made you see stars.

“Oh– Bucky– it’s too much,” you whined into the pillow, turning your head to breathe.

“You can take it,” he chuckled, letting out a soft moan after. “Your pussy is swallowing me up, can’t you feel it? She’s so greedy for me.”

You can only moan in response, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull. You fisted the pillows beside your head for some stability, some purchase– something– and Bucky thought you looked so pretty like this. Back arched, lips parted, trying to hold on for dear life while your walls clamped onto him desperately as moans kept escaping your lips.

He wouldn’t be able to last much longer, and you could feel it with the way his thrusts grew more erratically. 

Bucky’s hand left your hair, moving to hold onto your hips in a way you were sure you would have bruises in the morning that you would admire in the mirror. You could feel pressure building once more– another orgasm as he fucked harder into you– and a moaned out your name as you felt fuller than you thought you could. Your walls spasmed around him a second time, and you heard him let out a soft laugh above you as you struggled to breathe.

His hands moved to either side of your head, lowering himself to press kisses up your spine. You could feel his cock still throbbing inside of you, both of your releases beginning to dribble out of your abused hole and drip onto the sheets beneath you by the time his kisses made its way to your shoulder blades.

“Came a second time, sweetheart?” he murmured against your skin.

“Why the fuck are you still single?” you whispered, voice hoarse.

He smiled against your skin. “Waiting for the right match.”

You need to draw the line somewhere. There needs to be a boundary, even though you’ve already crossed every single one there is. You’re certain if someone finds out, you’re fired and blacklisted from the industry without any sort of defense from your side.

You ran the hell out of Bucky’s apartment the morning after. You rejected his offer for breakfast, and his offer for a ride back to your apartment. You wouldn't allow him to do that for you, not when you were in the middle of a crisis in your own head. 

You were trying to find him a girlfriend, but you weren’t sure if you could be his girlfriend, not when you weren’t even certain of love yourself.

You skillfully filled up your calendar for two weeks, apologizing to Bucky and letting him know you had emergency clients that needed your help, and you had a destination wedding to get to. It wasn’t a total lie, but it was also something to help you get your mind off of everything– to help you clear your head. 

It was contradictory– being a matchmaker and preaching for love, but refusing to fall in love yourself. You know that, but you didn’t want to think about it. Being in love meant being vulnerable with someone. It meant showing somebody the softest parts of you. It meant giving Bucky more than what he saw of you that night you spent together, and it terrified you. 

You don’t know if you were ready to give up the façade of control you had over your life, and it was so easy for him to strip it all away from you.

However, you knew you had to face him and your own feelings. You also know yourself better than anyone else.

“Let me get this straight– you want me to go on this date with your other client. After we went on a date, and we slept together?” Bucky asked you, eyebrows raised.

“Technically, you are my client, too. It’s my job to put two clients together,” you responded, nodding.

Bucky is staring at you, and you’re trying to avoid making eye contact with the bouquet of roses that he got you. Your heart is breaking, and you’re trying not to let it show. You’re really trying to be professional here, and you already broke so many rules. You went to a charity gala that wasn’t work related. You went on a date with a client. You slept with said client. 

“So us sleeping together– is that something that you just do with all you clients?” he asked, a scoff escaping his lips.

Your eye twitches just slightly. “I don’t even offer the trial date to any of my clients, Congressman,” you said, your lips in a thin line.

“Then why me?” he demanded. “Because I certainly had a good time. Both on the date and after– or was that just me?”

You bite your lip as you take in a deep breath. You had a great time. An amazing time. In fact– you enjoy a lot of your time with Bucky, as much as you hate to admit it. When you’re not interrogating him, he’s fun to talk to. The date banter was cute. The aftercare was top tier– he drew you a bath and sat in the soapy water with you and washed your hair. 

“You are my client,” you dismissed, ignoring his question. “Mr. Wilson has paid for my services, and we went on the trial date for me to evaluate how you are on the field. You aren’t bad on dates. You’re great. I think you’re ready to meet people– like that girl I told you about at the gala.”

“We slept together,” he said again. 

“And it was nice,” you nodded.

“That’s it? Just… nice? It didn’t mean anything else to you?” he asked. He was doing it again. Searching you for an answer. You hoped that your body didn’t give it away– hoped that he didn’t explore you well enough to know all your tells.

You fixed your smile on your face. “Is there something that you’d like to say, Congressman?”

Bucky’s lips part, as he watches you, eyebrows furrowed. He’s mad, and you know it. Guilt and dread builds up in your stomach, and you, for once, feel small. You watch as he sucks in a breath, and leans back in his seat.

“Fine. Set up the date. Just send me the details,” he said, looking away from you. “I have a meeting to get to, if you’d excuse me.”

He’s lying, and you know it. The windows of time he blocks out for you are usually at least three hours long. You’ve only been here for about thirty minutes. You don’t comment.

You can only manage a tight smile before you turn away from him. You don’t take the flowers with you, as much as you want to. Those flowers did nothing to deserve your cold shoulder. You close the door on your way out, taking your phone out of your purse as you dial a number. It picks up on the third ring.

“Hey Mel. Found you a date,” you said, trying to hide the jealousy in your voice.

You give her the details of Bucky, and you hate the way she sounds so excited because you know she is– she’s a good girl, and a great match. You wouldn’t be surprised if they got along well, if you were being honest.

You can only go back to the office, set up the date, then email both of them the details after going through their schedule to find the best time for the both of them. You receive a confirmation email back from both parties within minutes, and the dread in your stomach only grows larger.

You try to busy yourself when the date night comes along, staying in your apartment with a cheap beer and shitty romance movies that make you wonder if love exists or if you’re just too stupid to really think properly.

Mel must be having a great time right now, you think. The time of her life, even. You feel ugly with jealousy at this current moment in time, and you’re trying to shove it all away with greasy take out because you like Mel. She’s sweet. Bucky is the best match you could have found for her. Out of all the men in your books– he is the best out of the best.

And you’re so green with envy that you want to scream.

You wonder what flowers he bought her. You wonder if he pulled her chair for her to sit when they got to dinner. Maybe he even draped his fucking blazer over her shoulder if she got cold and didn’t wear a jacket– fuck! You should’ve pretended to forget your jacket so you could’ve pulled that move on him on your date.

You wonder if he decided to take her home. 

You clench your jaw as you pick up your phone, finding no notifications. There are no calls from either of them– no updates on their date. Could be a bad sign, but also could be a good sign. You groan into your hands.

You don’t get any restful sleep that night, and you’re scheduled to meet Mel at a coffee shop the next morning for a debrief on her date.

She looks great, which only seems to piss you off some more. You do your best to hide it. 

“Bucky was very handsome, like you said. I think he was taller than six foot though,” Mel started off with.

You smiled at her, “Sounds like the date went well?”

“He was a gentleman,” she grinned at you. “Very sweet the entire night. Almost too sweet, I think.”

You paused at that, tilting your head slightly. “Is that… a bad thing?”

“Um… Not necessarily?” she chuckled slightly. “I don’t know. It just seemed like his mind was somewhere else most of the time. He would answer when I talked– most of his questions to me were generic, but it felt like he was just kinda talking through me, not to me.”

“First dates are generally awkward for some,” you said, mentally kicking Bucky in the shin while kissing his face at the same time. “Did you want to see him again?”

“Actually… at the end of the date, he told me there was someone that he was already interested in,” she said, giving you a small smile as she reached into her purse. “And that he discussed handwritten, sentimental letters with her. He said that you walked away from him last time, but he was certain that I would see you again, so he asked me to give this to you.”

Your eyes widened as Mel slid over the envelope over the table, your lips parting as you saw your name sprawled over the paper in his handwriting. Panic flashed over your face as you looked up at her, and her smile only grew wider.

“Like I said– he was very sweet to me, but he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else than with me last night,” Mel said. “And he apologized profusely to me for wasting my time, and told me that I didn’t have to do this if I didn’t have to– but I like you, and I think this is really cute. You don’t see guys write love letters to girls these days. However, I expect a wedding invitation if that happens.”

She leaves you in the coffee shop with the letter that takes you too long to open. When you finally do, you find several pages folded up. Behind the handwritten letter, you find the Ador Matchmaker questionnaire as well. Your eyes widened– he filled it out. Completely. To the brim, with full answers. 

You don’t know how long you spend in the café, rereading both the letter and his answers before you’re booking a ride towards his office

You stand in the hall, his handwritten letter tucked safely in your purse as you try to will your heart to calm down in your chest. The receptionist let you know that he was definitely in the building somewhere. You don't know if he’s in the middle of a meeting or an appointment, but you’re willing to wait. 

Eventually, you hear footsteps against the marble floor, and you hear the chatter of different voices echoing against the walls. Then, it slows, and the voices come to a stop. You look up, finding Bucky in the center of a crowd of other men in suits. They’re all looking at him, waiting– and he dismissed them with a nod and a mutter of a couple words. They disperse immediately.

He fixed his suit with his hands, walking past you and to his door, unlocking the office. He doesn’t say a word, but holds it open for you to step in first. Your heart squeezes at the gesture, and you move. 

Your eyes fall on the wilting roses first. He put them in a vase, in the corner of his office where he can see them from his desk. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked. The door shuts as he walks in behind you, and he goes towards his chair. Bucky cleared his throat, taking a seat. 

“Yes,” you said, sitting at the chair opposite from his desk. “I’m here to follow up on your date with Mel.”

You watch as his eyebrow twitches in annoyance. “I see. This couldn’t have been a phone call? An email?”

“You are very infamous for avoiding my phone calls, Congressman. Should I send you a letter for my clients to deliver to you, too?” you asked.

Bucky stared at you for a few moments, before sighing. He relaxed in his seat, closing his eyes. 

“Is this the part where you tell me that this is unprofessional? That you can’t be in a relationship with me?” he asked, his voice quiet. “Is that why you pulled away from me so quickly after the date?”

“Because it was unprofessional,” you argued back. “It shouldn’t have happened the way it did– part of me feels like I took advantage of you.”

“You didn’t,” he immediately said, eyes snapping open to meet yours. Your breath caught in your throat. “You did not take advantage of me. I wanted you– I want you just as bad as you wanted me.”

“Your letter said that I make you feel human,” you said, letting out a shaky breath. “You mean it?”

“I rewrote that thing five times before I got the proper wording down, sweetheart,” he confessed, sighing. He dragged his hand over his face, shaking his head. “The first four drafts didn’t convey what I wanted it to.”

“And you really think that I can make you happy?” you whispered.

“You said it yourself. You find it easy to talk to me,” he said, a laugh escaping his lips. “I agree with you. You are the easiest person for me to talk to. I think I could tell you everything, and that scares me.”

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears. “It scares you– but you still want me?”

“I have lived through war upon war,” he said. “I think I know better than anyone than to let fear overtake what I want in life.”

You’re scared, and you know he can see it from the way he’s looking at you. You tried to ignore that look in bed– the way he looked at you like you were precious and gentle beneath him as you came undone. The way his eyes weren’t just full of lust, but affection, too.

“I’ll jump a fence for you,” he added, making you laugh. 

You stood up out of your chair, feeling the weight of his eyes on you as you rounded the side of his desk. You placed a hand on the back of his chair, turning it to the side so you could have full access to him.

“I am so scared of love,” you admitted to him, moving to straddle his lap. 

“I figured,” he said, resting his hands on your hips. There’s a smile on his face that you can’t help but return. “We can take this slow. At your own pace.”

“I promise I’m good at my job though,” you murmured, sliding your hands up his chest and linking your fingers behind his neck. Your lips meet his in a sweet kiss, a sigh escaping him as you finally connect.

“Mm… I beg to differ. Can I fire you now, sweetheart?” he whispered, lips barely ghosting over yours, “I don’t need your help planning a second date.”

masterlist

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla

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[vermililion]

I am definitely not thinking about Bucky's first time in around 100 years like he is so sensitive to every touch already, the serum coursing through his veins heightening each brush of your skin, each hitch of your breath as he licks up the column of your neck, the quickening of your heart as his fingers trail over the ribbon on your panties, don't even get me started on how overstimulated he would get as you trail your fingers down his torso, over the waistband of his pants, sliding down the zipper, his cock hot and aching against the seam of his trousers, and when you finally make contact when your fingertips graze the outline of him through his boxers, he quite literally almost busts right there and then, but I am 10000% not thinking about how he would lose his composure the second he slides into you.

Bucky has barely sunk his aching cock in you before he pulls out with a wince, his mouth pulled in a pained frown.

"Buck, what's wrong?" panic floods your body as you begin to sit, pushing yourself up on your elbows. "What's happening?" The heat that had once filled your body as you worked each other up is replaced with ice, and the terror at crossing his boundaries fills your muscles.

Bucky shakes his head, muscles in his jaw tensing as he hisses through his teeth. Every indicator points towards pain. The furrowed brow, closed eyes, tensed jaw, heavy breathing—these are all bad signs, terrible signs, so you begin to move, to slowly pull back from him, afraid to cause any more damage, but his hand on your bare leg stops you. Vibranium fingers dig into the plush flesh, gripping the fat of your thigh as he releases a shaky breath.

"I'm not- I'm fine," Bucky assures, grip on you loosening.

"Are you sure? We don't have to do this. I don't want to pressure you into anything that you-"

"You aren't pressurin' me into anything, sweetheart." His voice is a defeated sigh. "It's just—" he shakes his head. "Really sensitive."

You blink at him for a moment, brain slow to connect the pieces of the puzzle laid before you. Seconds tick by as you finally start to work it out. Your eyes shift between his embarrassed smile, the hand on your thigh, your bare legs and his, frankly intimidatingly, hard cock, pre cum oozing like pearls over perfect pink skin.

Oohhh.

Oh.

"Buck-" you start, a teasing smile creeping across your face.

"Angel, don't." Bucky fixes you with a rather intimidating look, but you press on, no longer daunted by him.

"Bucky..." you press. "Were you gonna com-" You can't say another word as he interrupts, cheeks flushing bright red.

"It's been a long time, okay?" he explains, blush spreading to his ears.

"How long?"

"Longer than you've been alive."

“That long?” You balk. “Even after you coming back and - not even then?”

“When would I have had the time? Between tryna figure out who I am plus meeting and dealing with you, I didn’t really have all that free time to get it on” Bucky explains, fingers creeping up your thigh to squeeze the fat at your hip.

"you did not just say get it on."

“what was i meant to say?”

"i don’t know, anything but that!"

[vermililion]

Interim Measures | Thunderbolts* x Reader

Summary: After officially moving into Avengers Tower, the team is still figuring out how to coexist. Game night doesn’t help, but it does bring its own kind of messy, necessary magic.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post Thunderbolts*

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS, mild language, references to trauma, emotional fallout, light angst, found family themes

Word Count: 2.8k

Author’s Note: thunderbolts* gave me new life for 2012 avengers tower fics and so did this request! i genuinely love this weird little disaster team (+alpine because why not!!!) and needed to see what it would look like with them in the tower trying to function like people. also i had way too many feelings about sam beefing with bucky over the avengers name and needed to start unpacking that somewhere, so here we are! ALSO APOLOGIES I HAVEN'T PLAYED MONOPOLY IN YEARS!

The kitchen lights buzzed softly overhead, too bright in the corner where you were crouched in front of the oven, but too dim where the tower’s shadow pooled behind the countertops. A tray of garlic knots hissed in protest as you tugged it free, steam hitting your face like a slap. You wrinkled your nose, shifting your grip on the mitts as a voice cut through the open archway behind you.

“Y/N!”

Yelena. Shrill, accusatory, exasperated—exactly as expected.

“It’s your move, you coward!”

A thump followed. Probably John hitting the table again, because subtlety had never been in his vocabulary.

“I am not a coward,” you called back, wedging the tray onto the stovetop. “I’m feeding you. You’re welcome.”

“Feeding us doesn’t undo what you did to Bob on his last turn,” Ava’s voice, cool and dry, cut in next. “You’ve got a target on your back, by the way. Just letting you know.”

A small, distressed huff—soft, barely audible—came from the other room. That would be Bob. You pictured him in his usual corner of the couch, legs folded up, Alpine curled in his lap like a little loaf of disapproval, her white tail flicking every time the dice clattered too loud.

Even though Alpine was Bucky's, she’d appointed herself emotional support for the entire tower, but she liked Bob best—especially on game nights, when the stakes were fake and his nerves were real.

“I didn’t mean to bankrupt him!” you yelled, flipping a knot over to check the underside. “I thought he had the insurance card thing—”

“He did!” John shouted. “You made him auction it to pay hotel fees, you absolute menace.”

“I was trying to win!”

“Then get in here and make your next mistake,” Yelena snapped. “I’m going to throw a coaster at your head.”

Alexei’s voice boomed through the din, cheerful and loud, like someone had cracked open a vintage radio set.

“You cannot rush brilliance! Let her make snack! It is tower law.”

“Tower law isn’t real,” Ava muttered, flatly.

Alexei ignored her. “Garlic knots are important. Very important.”

You peeled off the mitts and leaned against the counter, grinning to yourself as their voices rose and fell through the wide, open-plan suite. Somewhere deep inside the Tower, the ghost of what the team used to be—sharper, shinier, cleaner—lingered in the corners. But this was something else entirely.

And maybe, against all odds, better.

Fridays in the tower were game nights if the stars aligned and no one was mid-mission, half-phased into a wall, or otherwise traumatized. The rules were ever-shifting. Monopoly, Uno, Codenames, Cards Against Humanity… 

Once, Bucky tried to teach everyone Spades and nearly threw a chair when John kept asking what a trick was. It had ended with Ava flipping the scorecards into the fireplace and Yelena declaring herself the winner anyway.

Sundays were yours, though. Dinner night. You cooked something warm and heavy—roasted chicken thighs, lentil stew, garlic rice with spicy pickled onions—and prepped enough containers to get the fridge through the week. 

Everyone contributed in their own way: Alexei chopped aggressively and bragged about his Soviet knife skills; John pretended he’d sautéed the onions even though you’d done it while he scrolled through Spotify for music.

Yelena never cooked, but she did provide color commentary from a stool at the counter, legs swinging, knives twirling between her fingers.

Bucky helped more often than not. Quiet but steady. He didn’t speak much unless asked, but he peeled garlic, standing beside you at the stove without making a show of it, and always handed you the right spice before you reached for it.

And Bob, sweet Bob, did the dishes. Every time. By hand. Even when you told him the dishwasher existed. You’d find him at the sink long after everyone else had drifted to bed, sleeves damp, hair curling at the edges from steam, humming tunelessly as he lined up every plate like soldiers at roll call.

You’d once tried to tell him it wasn’t necessary. He’d only blinked and said that it gave him something to do with his hands.

The fridge was perpetually stocked. Not just with leftovers but with oddball favorites: Yelena’s stupidly expensive slavic yogurt, Ava’s green juice she never admitted she liked, the exact brand of pickles Alexei liked to drink the brine from, Bucky’s black coffee concentrate, your homemade hot sauce.

Bob labeled everything. John always peeled the labels off. The cycle was eternal.

But the rest of the week? That was where the true mess happened.

Ava spent most mornings phased halfway into the comms room wall, curled up with a tablet and two pairs of noise-canceling headphones, deep in surveillance reports no one else could decode.

She tracked potential threats, flagged bad data, and occasionally passed notes to you on folded post-its with silent suggestions for better firewall naming conventions. 

Alexei had declared the Tower gym “insufficient” and built his own out of repurposed weight racks, welding tools, and an enormous, illegal punching bag made from some kind of tank lining.

Sometimes he trained rookies who cycled in from allied agencies. Other times, he just played power ballads and monologued at them mid-lunge.

John had become the reluctant public face of the team—media-trained within an inch of his life. You’d seen him leave interviews with shaking hands and a clenched jaw, walk straight past the team and disappear into his room for hours.

The others pretended not to notice. You didn’t. You always saved him leftovers.

Bob had taken to gardening on the roof. Rows of quiet green things in mismatched pots. Tomatoes, kale, snap peas. Herbs labeled in faded marker. He didn’t talk much about it, but once, when you asked if he needed help, he’d declined.

But sometimes, when your nightmares got too loud, you’d climb the fire stairs at 3 a.m. and find him already there—sitting cross-legged among the basil, bathed in moonlight.

Bucky had become the Tower’s mechanic, and not just for the quinjet and busted drones, but for everything. He rewired loose outlets, calibrated Ava’s phase stabilizer by hand, and rebuilt the old espresso machine when the team complained that the coffee tasted “sad.” 

But it was the smaller things that caught you off guard. The way you’d mentioned offhand that your phone screen had cracked, again, and found it sitting on your nightstand the next morning, good as new. The way your bedroom door stopped squeaking one day without explanation. The way he always seemed to notice when your boots had come unstitched or your wrist brace needed replacing.

Even Yelena sewed buttons back onto jackets while watching late-night reruns of trashy reality shows, legs kicked over the arm of the couch like she owned it.

She once patched a tear in your hoodie without asking. You found it folded on your bed the next day, smelling faintly of musk and tonka beans.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t official. There were slammed doors, and tension at the morning briefings. There were long silences after missions that went sideways. There were nights when the news blared the word Avengers in a tone that sounded more like a threat. Nights when Captain America’s voice, Sam Wilson, appeared on the TV and the room went still.

But it worked. Somehow.

You moved to the fridge, grabbing the good dipping sauce (the one Yelena always pretended not to like but used half of anyway), and tucked it under your arm with a stack of mismatched plates. The tray was hot against your hands, but you didn’t bother with a towel this time.

As you walked toward the main room, the yelling resumed.

“She’s bringing food, you vultures, stop plotting her death,” Bucky’s voice drawled from somewhere near the game board, smooth and low and a little too smug.

“Oh no,” you muttered.

Sure enough, the moment you turned the corner, six pairs of eyes met yours with a mix of glee and calculated vengeance.

John pointed a dramatic finger. “You. Betrayer.”

“You bankrupted the sunshine,” Ava added, nodding toward Bob, who gave you a tentative little wave and soft smile. Alpine remained curled in his lap, tucked like a snowdrift against his knees, her ears flicking as if she too had been personally offended.

You tried not to laugh as you lowered the tray to the coffee table. “He mortgaged an entire district to avoid a hotel fine! That’s not my fault!”

“It was just a spa resort,” Bob mumbled, almost inaudibly. “With a water feature.”

“And yet, somehow, still not worth four thousand dollars,” you replied, flopping down onto the carpet with a thud and grabbing a garlic knot to stall.

Alpine hopped off Bob’s lap with feline disdain and sauntered across the middle of the game board like a warlord, sending two houses and a Community Chest card skittering.

“Alpine,” Bucky said from his place on the couch, not even looking up. She ignored him completely but circled back anyway, leaping gracefully into the space beside him and settling with a decisive thump. He scratched behind her ears absently, his focus half on the board, half on her.

And Yelena—Yelena was staring at you like a predator who’d memorized your every weakness.

“Roll,” she said simply.

“I just sat down.”

“You had twenty-five minutes.”

“You think the knots bake themselves?”

“Yes,” Yelena said flatly, arms folded. “You have been in there for ten years.”

Alexei popped up from his chair. “She was forging them in battle,” he announced. “Bringing honor to this house.”

John scoffed. “She was stalling because she’s afraid to land on my properties.”

You raised a brow. “The ones you mortgaged to buy all four railroads?”

“They were strategic purchases.”

“They were vanity projects,” Ava said without looking up, shuffling her money into an aggressive stack.

You handed a garlic knot to Bob, who murmured a soft thanks. He hadn’t said much all night—not unusual on a bad day—but he’d stayed close. Sat on the edge of the rug, knees tucked in.

“You missed two full rounds,” Bucky said, voice low but teasing, the kind that softened around the edges when it was aimed at you. “You better not throw the whole game again.”

You rolled your eyes. “That happened one time.”

“One time,” Ava repeated. “And Bob had to sell all his properties to stay in the game.”

“I offered,” Bob said quietly, already dipping a knot into sauce. “It made sense.”

“It was heartbreaking,” Yelena corrected, yanking her piece out of jail and back onto the board. “And I’m still avenging him.”

“She’s not,” John muttered.

“I am.”

You exhaled, reaching for the dice, and rolled.

The dice clattered over the board, hit the edge of the tray, and landed six and one.

Seven.

Everyone leaned in.

You counted slowly, hovering your piece, dramatic as possible. “One… two…”

“Don’t you dare,” John said.

“…three…”

Alexei inhaled audibly. “Is this—!”

“…four…”

Yelena was already winding up her throw with the coaster.

“…five… six…”

Bob covered his eyes. Alpine flicked her tail like she was counting along.

“…seven.”

Your piece landed squarely on John’s triple-mortgaged property.

A pause.

You blinked. “Oh God.”

The room erupted.

Yelena launched the coaster, but it missed by two feet. Bucky groaned and sank deeper into the couch. John punched the air. Ava clapped sarcastically. Alpine stood, stretched luxuriously, and knocked one of Bucky’s neatly stacked bills off the table with surgical precision.

Bob, quietly, passed you a garlic knot in solidarity.

You looked around the room, chaotic and glowing, the weirdest mix of people to ever be called heroes by anyone. You, a reformed mercenary. Bucky, worn down but here. Yelena with her dry humor and untouchable grief. Ava in half-phase. John, slightly more tolerable than yesterday. Bob, a sunlit ghost trying to keep the Void at bay.

Alexei burped and immediately started humming some old Russian tune.

You laughed.

God help the next threat to Earth.

The game devolved shortly after your miraculous survival roll.

Ava accused John of skimming from the bank. Yelena started replacing property cards with garlic knots. Alexei declared himself “the moral victor” and retreated to the armchair with a root beer float. Bob started sorting the play money into perfect color stacks, completely detached from the arguing. Alpine wandered over and settled on his foot like a guard post. And Bucky, after quietly raking in his rent earnings like a man counting war spoils, stood and slipped out onto the balcony without a word.

You gave it five minutes before following.

The Tower balcony door sighed on its hinges as you nudged it open with your shoulder, two cold drinks balanced precariously in your hands. Bucky didn’t turn around, just leaned heavier into the railing, fingers curling tight around the metal like it could anchor him. City lights stretched below, fractured reflections blinking in the curve of the river far beyond. You set one of the bottles beside him.

He spoke without looking. “Didn’t realize ‘betrayal’ came with refreshments.”

“Only the highest quality,” you said, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “Flat ginger beer and a side of pity.”

That earned a faint huff of breath. “I don’t need pity.”

You leaned forward beside him, arms brushing. “Then it’s just the ginger beer.”

A beat passed. He took it.

“I didn’t mean to ditch the game,” he said eventually, eyes still on the skyline. “Just—too many voices. Too much everything.”

“I figured,” you said softly. “But you should know, in your absence, Alexei declared diplomatic war on Ava and claimed the east side of the board in the name of Soviet capitalism.”

That got a real laugh, quiet and dry, but warm. He took a slow sip.

The night air cut sharp, even in summer. Wind pulled at the hem of his hoodie, tugged loose strands of your hair across your cheek. From inside, the muffled sounds of arguing and laughter still rose, someone (probably John) yelling “you can’t federalize a utility card,” followed by Ava’s eerily calm, “watch me.”

For a second, it was almost peaceful.

Then Bucky asked, “You think we really are the new Avengers?”

You blinked. “You mean like, officially?”

He shook his head, still not looking at you. “No, not the press briefing or the headlines. Not whatever Val’s cooked up to keep herself out of jail. I mean…” His voice dropped, something darker under the surface now. “Do you think we’ve earned it?”

You exhaled slowly, watching the lights flicker across the water.

“She technically stole the name. We didn’t,” you said at last. “None of us knew what we were getting into with that impromptu press conference. We didn’t ask for the rebrand.”

“Sam doesn’t see it that way.”

“No. And I get why.” You glanced over at him. “The Avengers meant something different to him. They were the real deal. God-tier. Legacy shit.”

Bucky nodded, jaw working. “And now it’s us.”

“When’s the last time you talked to him?” you asked, careful not to make it sound like a demand.

Bucky hesitated. “Few weeks ago. We kept it surface level. Updates. Mission debris. He asked if I was still breathing. I said yeah.”

You let the silence stretch.

“He’s pissed,” Bucky added eventually, quieter this time. “Not at me. Or—not just me. He’s pissed at Valentina, at the whole system. That they took what he was helping rebuild and slapped it onto a PR stunt with government strings. And he’s right to be.”

You didn’t interrupt.

“But I think—” He exhaled, running a hand down his face. “I think it hurts more that it was me standing next to the mic when it happened. Like I let it happen.”

“You didn’t know what she was about to say.”

“No. But I didn’t stop her either.”

“At least we have Valentina under our thumb.” You glanced at him. “Did you ever think you’d be defending the Avengers name?”

That got a tired laugh. “I used to think the whole thing was a circus. Tony and his suits, Steve with his speeches. Then I watched Sam try to drag it back from the ashes. Make it mean something again. Of course he’s mad someone painted over that.”

You were quiet for a while. Below, a car alarm shrilled and cut out just as fast. Someone inside slammed a fist against the window and shouted for Bob to stop un-mortgaging his properties just to give them away. You smiled faintly.

“They were gods,” you said finally, “and we’re just… the mess that showed up after. We’re not clean. We’re not shiny. We’ve got blood under our nails. But—” You looked over. “We showed up. We didn’t run.”

Bucky finally met your eyes. There was something unreadable in his expression. Then he nodded, slow and heavy.

“I don’t know if that’s enough,” he said.

You shrugged. “Neither do I. But it’s not nothing.”

He didn’t smile, but something in his shoulders loosened. You stood like that for a long moment—wind in your hair, Tower glowing behind you, the label Avenger hanging in the air like a word half-healed.

Eventually, he bumped your arm gently. “You’re still going to lose that game, by the way.”

“Please. I’ve already redistributed Bob’s fortune. I’m basically a humanitarian.”

Bucky gave you a look. “You are the villain.”

You smirked. “Then I’m in good company.”

He didn’t argue that.

When you both returned inside, Yelena threw a pillow at your head and declared the game a mistrial. Bob looked relieved. John was using a garlic knot to bribe Ava into giving him back his train station. Alexei was asleep in the chair.

Alpine had claimed Bucky's previous spot on the couch and refused to move, so he sat beside you instead, his shoulder brushing yours as he stole one of your remaining knots.

“New Avengers,” he said under his breath, not quite bitter this time.

You bumped your knee against his. “Sure. Why not?”

You didn’t know what the future held. But for now, it held garlic knots, soft alliances, bruised but loyal teammates, and maybe—just maybe—a second shot at saving the world.

Even if no one was entirely sure what to call you.

tag list (message me to be added or removed!): @nerdreader, @baw1066, @nairafeather, @galaxywannabe, @idkitsem, @starfly-nicole, @buckybarneswife125, @ilovedeanwinchester4, @brnesblogposts, @knowledgeableknitter, @kneelforloki, @hi-itisjustme, @alassal, @samurx, @amelya5567, @chiunpy, @winterslove1917, @emme-looou, @thekatisspooky, @y0urgrl, @g1g1l, @vignettesofveronica, @addie192, @winchestert101, @ponyboys-sunsets, @fallenxjas, @alexawhatstheweathertoday, @charlieluver, @thesteppinrazor, @mrsnikstan

[vermililion]

You’re the Glue | b.b 𐙚˙⋆.˚

Pairing | New Avengers!Bucky Barnes x New Avengers!Reader

Summary | After a mission goes horribly wrong, the team ends up stewing in their own anger on the car ride home. You try to lighten the mood, but instead it makes everyone angrier. When you're down, Bucky’s there to comfort you.

Warnings/tags | Thunderbolts* spoilers?? Tower fic, fluff, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, yearning, cursing, nsfw, MDNI (18+), smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, praise kink, soft dom!Bucky, kissing, protective!Bucky, breast play, oral (f receiving), fingering, your honor Bucky’s obsessed with reader, no use of y/n.

Word Count | 12.3k

A/N | Baby's first fanfic!! I’ve been wanting to write for some time and how fitting that my first one is about my husband. Please have mercy on me, I write for fun. It’s not great, but I had a blast writing it. I hope you enjoy!! And if you did let me know:))

It’s a cold day. The kind of cold that sits deep in your bones, chilling you to your very core. No snow is on the ground, but it’s getting close to that time of year. You shiver in your seat, wrapping your arms tightly around your middle to bring warmth back into your system.

The car sways slightly with the intense winds, but Bucky has a firm handle on the wheel, keeping it steady. Silence settles over the car; only the occasional groan, sigh, and low engine rumble break the quiet.

The team just completed a mission, and though everything worked out in the end, it didn’t seem to matter. Many things had gone wrong. The intel you had gathered was bad, the plan was thrown out the window, and the whole team was out of sync. All of that caused a rift between the members in the car.

Bucky’s driving, grip so tight on the wheel that his knuckles are white. You’re not sure if it’s from anger that the team had entirely ignored the meticulous plan you and Bucky had put together hours before you left, or if the uncomfortable silence is eating at him like it is you.

Yelena is in the passenger seat, feet propped up on the dash, picking at the chipped polish on her nails. Her face says everything. She’s pissed. At everyone, but specifically Walker.

During the mission, he went to throw a punch, and instead of hitting his original target, he clocked Yelena right in the jaw. You don’t think she meant to get in the way, but she was just so occupied with getting the mission done that she wasn’t too keen on her surroundings. Now, a purple bloom of color is setting into her skin, along with other marks littered across her face and body, not unlike the others sitting in the car.

Walker is sitting in the bench seat ahead of you, closest to the window. He’s rubbing at his jaw, where Yelena punched him as “payback” on the walk back to the car. When Walker hit her, it was an accident. She didn’t see it that way; no one could convince her otherwise. You had to stifle a laugh when it happened because it was so abrupt, but also because of the clear shock on John’s face.

Ava’s next to him, arms crossed over her chest, and her brows drawn together. She occasionally bumps Walker with her elbow when the car drifts off its straight path, causing grunts and a string of low curses from the blonde man’s mouth.

Alexei’s eyes are closed, no doubt sleeping, next to Ava, who paid him no mind. You don’t think he’s upset with anyone, but the stillness lulled him to sleep, and you’re envious that he can nap at a time like this. But he can doze off at any time, no matter the circumstance. One time, you found him snoring upright while waiting for the microwave to beep, notifying him that his ramen was finished.

Bob is to your left on the second bench seat. You can feel the anxiety radiating off of him. Though he hadn’t helped out on the mission, he decided to come along for the ride. But he most likely regrets his decision now because he hates seeing the team like this. Bob always tries to lighten the mood, but he knows it’s useless this time.

You, on the other hand, don’t share everyone else’s sentiments. Yeah, every single thing was fucked from the start. But at least the job is done, and no one has any serious injuries, which is a win in your book.

Your head is swimming with ways to get everyone to stop sulking, but you don’t want to make an already bad situation worse. So, you settle on breaking the silence and suffering the consequences.

“Still on for movie night?” You say almost sheepishly, but there’s a hint of amusement in your tone. You’re met with silence. Only Bob looks your way briefly before his head drops between his shoulders, eyeing the floor. Instead of letting that deter you, you continue your pursuit.

“John picked last time, so it’s someone else’s turn. And I don’t think I can sit through another shit action movie. It’s just an excuse for men to blow shit up at this point.” That earns a strained laugh from the man beside you, but he doesn’t lift his head.

”Hell no.” Yelena grumbles from the front seat. “After this car ride, I am not sitting next to any of you.”

”I second that notion.” Walker pipes up, rolling his eyes in the process.

”At least there’s something we can agree on.” Ava ‘accidentally’ knocks her elbow into Walker’s arm again, and he looks like he’s seconds away from losing it.

You sit up in your seat, trying to draw their attention. “Oh, come on. We always watch a movie every other Friday. It’s tradition.”

John shakes his head. “Not happening.”

”I made homemade brownies, and I’ll make popcorn.” You put on your best smile, even if it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Your smile quickly fades when no one answers. You glance around the car, and not a single soul is looking your way.

You lock eyes with Bucky in the rearview mirror. He loosens his grip on the steering wheel and gives you an almost apologetic expression. Your heart stutters in your chest. It’s a simple gesture but still melts some tension away from your shoulders.

You and Bucky have become friends over the last few months, or at least that’s what you’d like to think. When you first met the super soldier, he was closed off, grumpy, and didn’t talk much outside of a mission. But if you were lucky, you’d earn a stiff nod or grunt in response.

You strangely saw him as some sort of challenge. And you never backed down from a challenge. He didn’t have to like you, but you at least wanted to get more than a gruff sound from deep in his chest.

You started to memorize his schedule. Not like a creep, you just noticed the little things he did throughout the day. He wasn’t a morning person, so you avoided him until he finished his early workout. Usually, that changed his mood drastically; his posture was less guarded, and his expression had softened slightly.

He’d come to the kitchen after exercising, and you’d always have coffee ready, offering him a cup. Plain black coffee, just the way he likes it. You’d slide the mug near him with some sweet treat you had made prior that week. He would nod as a thanks, which had already been a small victory.

The common room was a safe place for him to gather intel or scope out potential missions. Pieces of paper were sprawled out on the table, and a soft glow illuminated his face from the screen on his laptop.

You caught on pretty quickly to what he was doing and started asking if he needed help. He always looked up from his work, stormy blue eyes meeting yours, and shook his head, no. Unfortunately for him, you were persistent.

You flopped down in the seat next to him with your laptop. His dark eyebrows knit together in confusion as he stared at you from behind his screen. You propped your head in your hand while the other was busy scrolling through articles, news reports, and random findings online.

You turned your screen around, giving him the vital information you found. Soon after, you began working together as a team, granting you much more than his usual guttural noises. From then on, everything was a breeze. Well, not exactly a breeze, but you considered him your friend.

Bucky made small talk in the morning over coffee, complementing you on whatever pastry, muffin, or dessert you made. He asked you to spar with him after John had slept in one morning. You were giddy with excitement that he chose you, but that feeling disappeared when he kicked your ass that day. Your chest heaved with exertion as your body slumped down on the mat, sore and aching. You knew he wouldn’t go easy on you, which was okay with you. You just had to step up your game.

It became easier to spar with Bucky after learning his tells. He would give you a few helpful pointers, which your original sparring partner, Yelena, hadn’t cared to do.

There were plenty of late nights between the two of you. You and Bucky hunched over a laptop, leaning into each other's space while researching and losing sleep.

But, if you’re being honest, you didn’t mind being sleep-deprived because you liked being next to him. Breathing in his scent, a mix of sandalwood, musk, and a hint of spearmint. Hearing the snort he let out when you made a joke. Seeing the corner of his lip turn up when you get animated about certain information.

It had turned from friends in your head to perhaps…more. You developed a crush on the tall, dark-haired man. Of course, you knew he was handsome; you weren’t blind. But you thought maybe the butterflies dancing in your stomach from his laugh or smile would go away. Then, his metal hand brushed against your skin. You’d feel like your world was turned on its axis and knew your attraction to him wouldn’t go away anytime soon.

As you sit in the car, gaze locked on Bucky’s blue irises, you must force yourself to look away so your heart doesn’t beat out of your chest. You tell yourself to try again to shake the team out of their irritated state. Maybe that will take your mind off your intense feelings for Bucky.

”We can order in Chinese. That’s always a comfort food of mine.” You offer.

Yelena turns entirely in her seat, shooting daggers at you. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Your back hits the seat as if she stabbed you. Yelena never raises her voice at you, not even when angry, because she’s never angry at you.

You consider Yelena more of a friend than anyone in the car. You connect more deeply with her, for which you are genuinely grateful. But now, as she stares you down, you feel a sense of dread putting down roots in the pit of your stomach.

“What?” It comes out smaller than you intended, and you can hear the hurt in your voice. Bucky hears it and immediately tries to meet your gaze in the mirror, but your eyes are directly on Yelena’s. They’re usually deeply warming, but there’s only a raging fire right now.

“Not everything is a puzzle you can assemble and force the pieces to fit. You can’t make everything better. You don’t make anything better.” Yelena’s voice is booming in your ears, loud and harsh. You feel too vulnerable. Too seen. You don’t know whether to scream or cry. You decide to stay silent instead, letting the anger boil beneath the surface.

”Knock it off, Yelena.” Bucky speaks up. His jaw is clenched, as if he could say more, but he chooses not to. You’re glad he doesn’t, though, because you might just let yourself cry in front of the team. All anyone will see is just how broken and raw you feel on the inside. But the others in the car don’t seem to be paying too much attention. Either they��re trying their hardest to ignore it, or they’re determined not to get involved.

Yelena’s eyes haven’t left yours, completely ignoring Bucky’s warning. “I’m sick of you trying to fix everything. Just let it be broken for once.” The anger threatens to bubble up, but you keep it at bay.

”Enough!” Bucky seethes at Yelena, whipping his head in her direction. Yelena finally settles back into her seat, satisfied with releasing her wrath on you.

You take a deep breath in before you say a word. ”Got it. Loud and fucking clear.” Your voice is steady, firm even. You're not going to let everyone see the raw and bleeding parts of you. Not now. Not ever. You glance out the window, a storm brewing behind your eyes, focusing on how the buildings pass by in a flash.

You hear a soft groan in front of you, but you don’t look for the source of the sound, too busy stewing in your irritation. “Did I fall asleep?” You recognize the voice as Alexei’s. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and pats his thighs, sitting up in his seat. “Well, what did I miss?”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Everyone breaks off in different directions once they’re back at the Tower. No one has said a word. Maybe it’s better that way so that everyone can cool down. Bucky follows behind you, keeping just enough distance for it not to be noticeable. He wants to check on you but isn’t quite sure how.

You’re quiet, and your muscles are taut, which is unlike you. Bucky knows all your intricate details, and you are far from a quiet person. Sure, there’s a gentleness about you, but you’re also lively. Especially when it comes to you talking about your passions. Your face lights up, and it’s as if the colors around you are suddenly brighter.

One of his favorite things is to catch you in the kitchen, hips swaying to the smooth music drifting through the speakers. You always seem in your element when baking and humming along to the song while your hands are whisking. Bucky would be embarrassed if anyone caught him, but it’s addicting. You’re addicting.

When the gentle parts of you come to the surface, it’s like watching a butterfly float through the air. There’s something so delicate about that side of you, like you're made of glass.

You’re constantly checking up on the team. You make sure they’ve eaten or drank enough water, or if they need a person to talk to. You’re always there. And now, no one is there for you when you need it most, which kills Bucky.

You’re speed walking to your room, arms tucked against your chest as if you’re closing in on yourself. Bucky practically trips over his feet, trying to catch up to you. He calls your name, but you don’t seem to hear. He finally gets close enough to grab hold of your arm. Not forcefully, just a light touch against your skin to pull you out of your daze.

Your breath hitches in your throat at the sudden contact, and you stop dead in your tracks. You glance down at where his flesh hand is and then up at his eyes. He drops his hand to rest at his side when he has your attention. His fingertips tingle from touching your skin, and it feels like tiny jolts of electricity.

There’s a beat of silence as he clenches and unclenches his fist before he clears his throat. “So, no movie night?”

”You heard them, it’s not happening.” You mumble, your voice is so soft. He might've missed it if he hadn’t been beside you.

“Right,” Bucky murmurs back, matching your tone so he doesn’t scare you away. He wants to say he’s still up for it, but then it’ll just be the two of you. Then again, is that so bad? You stare at each other without speaking. He opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off.

”Look, I’m pretty tired. I’m gonna go to bed. It’s been a long day.” You rub a hand over your arm, where he touched you, and now he’s spiraling. Maybe she didn’t want to be touched, and now she’s trying to rid her skin of any trace of me. He shakes the thought away and gives you a stiff nod.

“Of course, you must be exhausted. Goodnight, I’ll see you in the morning.”

”Night.” You give him a tight-lipped smile before turning away and heading to your room, disappearing into the hallway's darkness.

Bucky stands there, one hand on his forehead, as he rubs at the growing headache. His mind is racing. He should have said so many things and asked if you were okay or wanted to talk about it. But Bucky was never truly good with feelings. He’d rather cram them deep down inside than open that Pandora’s box of issues.

He’s getting better, though, revealing the dark parts of himself. The nightmares, the memories that make his muscles tense, Hydra. Not to everyone, just to you. And you always listen. You make it your purpose to give him all your attention; he knows he doesn’t deserve that. But you give that part of yourself so freely.

He can’t just stand idly by while you’re hurting. So, he turns from his spot and wanders around the Tower to find Yelena. She’s not too hard to find. She’s standing in the kitchen watching her mug rotate around in the microwave with a cookie in her mouth. Bucky stands right behind her, hands on his hips.

”Apologize.”

Yelena spins around, clutching the spot on her chest right over her heart with her eyebrows raised. “Fuck, James. Give a girl some warning.” Her voice comes out muffled from her mouth full of crumbs.

“You’re an ex-assassin. You’re supposed to hear me coming from a mile away.” Bucky deadpans.

Yelena swallows down what’s in her mouth before speaking. ”I am off the clock. My guard is down.” She shrugs her shoulders, then points a finger at the super soldier as if scolding him. “Plus, I was chewing. I could have choked.”

Bucky ignores her dramatics and repeats himself. “Apologize.”

”No.” She whirls around as the microwave beeps and takes out the cup of hot water, placing it on the counter.

”Why?”

Yelena grabs a white packet from the cupboard, ripping off the top and shaking the contents into her mug. “Because I’m sick of her being so positive all the time.” She grabs a spoon from the drawer to stir the rich chocolate liquid.

“And? What’s wrong with that? This team needs a little fucking positivity.” Bucky snaps.

She twists to face Bucky, leaning against the counter and bringing the cup of hot chocolate to her lips. “Seems like you need a little positivity.”

“Yeah, maybe I do.” Bucky lowers his voice; his mind flicks to you and how content you make him when you’re around. “Listen, without her, this team would be nothing.”

Yelena tilts her head; her voice is thick with faux pity. “Are you saying she’s the glue that holds us together?”

“Yes,” Bucky says simply. Even if she doesn’t mean what she says, that’s precisely what he meant. You’re the glue.

Yelena quirks a brow. “Have you gone soft, Barnes?

He disregards her question and continues. “Just apologize.”

“Fine, fine. Don’t get your panties in a twist. I will…tomorrow.” She takes another swig of the dark liquid.

“No, right now.”

Yelena rolls her eyes and begins walking out of the kitchen, Bucky hot on her heels. “I’m tired. I’ll do it bright and early tomorrow so you can see her beautiful smile.” He pauses for a moment, caught off guard by her statement. She smirks at him over her shoulder as she strides to her room. He recovers quickly, following her again.

She snorts when he doesn’t answer. “That is what this is about, right? You can’t stand to see her sad. It’s breaking you. Making you have all kinds of feelings. Your little heart can’t take it.” Yelena opens her door, getting ready to close it behind her.

“No, that’s not-.” Before he can deny her revelation, she interrupts him.

“Goodnight, Barnes. Or should I say loverboy?” Yelena gives him a smug look, wiggling her eyebrows before closing the door in his face.

Great, he thinks, that’s what I get for prying.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

It’s been a couple of hours, and you're still lying in bed, wide awake, to your dismay. You spent about an hour tossing and turning, then another hour staring at the ceiling. Now, you can’t decide between a blanket or no blanket. Maybe you need a glass of water, but no, scratch that; you need a drink.

You can’t help but play the day's events over in your head: the mission, Yelena’s words, Bucky. Your skin still prickles where he touched your arm. He was so gentle with you, as if you were fragile.

Of course, he knows you're not. You’ve tripped him up a few times while sparring, knocking him flat on his ass. That shouldn’t give you as much thrill as it does, but who can blame you?

Still, you think about his hand gingerly placed on your arm as he examined you with concern etched on his face. And, you had pushed him away. Not because you didn’t want him. Fuck, you wanted him. But you knew if you opened up and let him see how wounded you were, that would leave you more exposed than you already felt. You’re wishing you had stayed. Let him take your mind off everything, but it’s too late.

You kick your feet over the side of the bed and amble over to your bedroom door, neglecting to put on your slippers. You pad through the hallway, and a figure in the living room snags your attention.

Bucky is on the couch, a quilt draped over his legs as colors dance across his form, and he’s taking you in. You note how his shoulders drop and his features soften, almost as if he were waiting for you. But that’s absurd. You rid the thought immediately.

He pulls you out of your daze as his voice cuts through the air. “You alright?”

You shrug, gesturing to him on the sofa. “I could ask you the same question.”

His gaze flicks down as if noticing where he is and what he’s doing. “Oh, yeah, I couldn’t sleep.” He focuses back on you, no doubt wanting you to answer his question.

“Me either.” You tip your thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “You want a drink?”

“Sure, sounds good to me.”

You go to the bar, rummaging through the liquor cabinet until you find what you are searching for—a clear glass bottle with dark amber liquid. You couldn’t care less about how much it cost, but you can tell by the ornate design of the bottle that it had to cost half a fortune. It's not something you have the money for, especially before this job, but Valentina always supplied the best for appearance's sake.

You take two short whiskey glasses from the shelf, setting them on the counter before detaching the glass stopper from the geometric bottle. You fill both glasses halfway and head back to the living room.

You step around the couch and hand Bucky his. He nods in appreciation as you sink into the spot next to him. You’re close enough to feel his warmth, but there’s still some distance between you.

You take a sip of the liquid. A smooth, smoky, and vanilla flavor hits your taste buds and floods your senses—a welcoming contrast to distract from how shitty you feel.

You already feel a thousand times better, Bucky next to you, the liquor calming you, and the steady sound of the TV playing in the background. You tip your head toward the TV as you get comfortable.

You turn towards him as your arm rests on the back of the couch, elbow bent so your hand can support your head. “Having movie night without me?”

He shakes his head. ”No, never. It just happened to be on.” The corner of your lip lifts, and your chest warms. You can’t tell if it’s from the whisky heating your body temperature or the way he said never, and you think you might believe him.

”Well, you are watching a movie on movie night, so that’s a little suspicious.” You tease.

”Shit, I guess I am.” There’s amusement in his voice as a faint smile appears. He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, doll. I would’ve invited you but thought you wanted to be alone.”

You hum in response. “I thought I did, too, but I was wrong.”

Bucky’s tone turns serious as he scans your face. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

”Hell no. Distract me, please.”

“Anything for you.” He says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You swear your heart skips a beat, and your cheeks flush slightly. Somehow, you know he’s not just saying that to make you feel better. You feel like you can breathe easier knowing that.

“Anything, huh?”

”Just say the words, sweetheart.”

“Care to share that blanket?” You think the whisky is calming you and giving you hidden confidence you didn’t know you had.

”I s’pose.” He drawls with a smirk on his face. You scoot closer, and he lifts the quilt, covering your legs. It was never about needing warmth, just an excuse to be near him.

“Much better.” You mumble.

Bucky stares at you, blue eyes flicking between your features like he’s trying to memorize you, and a shiver runs through you under his gaze. He clears his throat, running his metal hand through his hair.

“Right, distraction.” He leans his head back against the couch, examining the ceiling as he sifts through his brain for a topic of discussion. All you can think of is how distracted you already are.

“Oh, got it.” He locks his eyes with yours once again. “Alexei was riding the elevator this morning.”

Your eyebrows draw together, utterly confused. “That’s usually what happens.”

”For half an hour.”

You giggle at how strange that sounds. “Wait, why?”

��I don’t know. When I asked him about it, he said he was testing a theory and then swore me to secrecy. So, you can’t say anything.” He arches a brow. “I’m pretty sure he just pressed all the buttons, though.”

Laughter bubbles out of your mouth, exactly what you need. You’re hurt, and anger is a distant feeling.

“I have one.” Bucky nods his head for you to continue. “Ava phased through the bathroom the other day, and I was completely naked.”

His jaw drops, and then he proceeds to bust out laughing. It’s a sound you never get tired of hearing, probably because it’s so rare, but also from the way it makes your stomach do somersaults. “That’s the one place you shouldn’t phase into. Is she ever going to learn how to knock?”

”I wouldn’t hold out hope. She apologized profusely, but I know she won’t stop doing it.” You put your glass on the coffee table to give him your attention.

“I don’t know how to top that one.” There’s still a lingering grin fixed on his lips as he thinks for a moment. “I caught Walker watching Titanic. He kept telling me it was already on when he sat down.”

”I knew he was a sucker for romance.” You pause, tilting your head and narrowing your eyes at him. “Wait, that means you’ve watched Titanic.”

”Of course, I have. People say it’s one of the classics.”

“And, what did you think?”

“It was good.” You can hear the reluctance in his tone. You give him a look to carry on. Bucky rolls his eyes, but there’s no malice behind it. “Jack clearly could have fit on that door.”

“Right?” Your voice goes up an octave, and you're grinning from ear to ear like a lovesick fool. “Yelena and I had a whole conversation about how they could've made it work.” Your face drops immediately after you realize what you said.

You let out a long breath, and suddenly, whatever is on the TV is extremely interesting. Your eyes are directly on the person on the screen, but you’re not paying much attention because your head is spinning again.

Why are Yelena’s words affecting you so much? You’ve never truly cared what other people think. But, then again, she’s your friend. Perhaps your best friend. Shouldn’t her opinion matter?

Bucky breaks your train of thought, not easily deceived by your sudden intrigue in the television. “She’s wrong, y’know?”

“Hmm?”

“You do make everything better.” His words are like silk, soft and comforting. You whip your head to meet his gaze. There’s a slight smile on his lips; the color in his eyes is swirling and shifting. It’s like a tide pulling you in and telling you, you’re safe. You fully trust that he will keep you safe, and you won’t overlook that.

You return his smile, and the light reaches your eyes. He parts his lips and sucks in a breath—it’s subtle, but you notice. You don’t know what to say, but settle on, “Thank you, Bucky.”

“Sure thing, doll.”

You turn your attention to the TV to hide the blush crawling up your cheeks. Then, because that liquid courage is coursing through your veins, you rest your head on his shoulder. Bucky tenses beneath you, and you internally kick yourself for making him uncomfortable. You almost pick your head up. As if he’s reading your thoughts, he relaxes, and his breathing becomes lighter.

You stay like that for a while, enjoying each other’s company as you watch the movie. Your lids feel heavy, and before you know it, they flutter shut. You’re sleeping on Bucky’s arm like you belong there.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Bucky noticed your breathing even out about twenty minutes ago, but he’s still watching you like you're a masterpiece in the Louvre. He’s scrutinizing every aspect of your person as if he’ll be quizzed on it later. He wants to pull you into his arms and tuck your head under his chin as you lie on his chest, but he doesn’t want to overstep a boundary.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been this calm; it’s refreshing. To forget about any piece of his past for a second and drown in you. There’s no promise of nightmares or bad memories taking shape at the forefront of his mind.

Bucky yawns and leans his head against the back of the sofa. Maybe I’ll rest my eyes for a moment, he thinks before closing them and drifting off to sleep.

The sun peeking through the curtains stirs him awake, and he reluctantly opens his eyes. Your head is still a gentle weight on his arm, which brings a sleepy smirk to his face.

It dawns on him how this must look, and he realizes he should get up before any team member sees. Yelena’s already hinting at his crush on you. He can’t have everyone on him about how dopey he must look, staring at you like you hung the stars.

Bucky slowly moves from his spot on the couch, careful not to rouse you. He takes your head in one hand and shifts to stand up. Bending over, he grabs a pillow and maneuvers it under you. He delicately pulls your legs and sets them on the couch, draping the blanket's full length over your shape. Your body twitches slightly as you settle into the new position.

He steals one last glance at your peaceful demeanor as he stretches. He groans at the sharp pain in his upper back and neck, no doubt from the way he fell asleep. But he honestly doesn’t care. He’d do it all over again to feel any part of you on him. Bucky leaves you to get some much-needed rest as he starts his morning.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You rise from sleep to the sound of clattering and blink a few times to adjust to the light. There’s a pillow under your head that you don’t remember putting there, and the quilt from last night covers the expanse of your body. You must have fallen asleep.

The recollection of last night hits you like a tidal wave. You were cuddled up on Bucky’s arm last night, which lulled you to sleep. He must have adjusted you before he went to bed. The thought gives you a fuzzy sensation in your brain.

The smell of coffee fills your nostrils, and you finally get off the couch. You drift into the kitchen. You spot Yelena and Walker talking by the counter. At least someone made up.

Walker detects you instantly. “Hey, sleepy head. How was the couch?” Yelena’s eyes dart up to meet you.

You shrug, stepping into the room. “Surprisingly, not bad.” Yelena turns around and opens the cupboard, reaching for a mug.

John nods and clears his throat. “Sorry for yesterday. Our dumb asses ruined movie night.”

You wave him off. “Don’t worry about it.” You watch Yelena bring the coffee pot to the mouth of the cup, pouring the dark liquid as steam wafts into the air.

”No, movie night is important to you. We should have sucked it up and watched it.” He reiterates.

”It’s no big deal. That just means we're watching two next Friday night.” You jokingly add.

Walker chuckles. “It’s only fair.”

Yelena turns around and hands you the cup. You must have missed her putting cream in because now it’s a swirl of tan and white. You give her a look of gratitude before bringing the warm drink to your lips.

“Can we talk?” Yelena asks with a soft expression. You can almost see her guilt on display.

”Yeah.” You murmur as your hands wrap around the mug, soaking up the heat.

”Alone, dipshit.” She adds, shooting Walker a glare over her shoulder.

He frowns, his eyebrows scrunching together. ”I was literally in here before both of you.”

It’s your turn to glare at the blonde man. He raises his hands in surrender and wanders out of the kitchen, mumbling something about women under his breath.

Yelena flicks her gaze to you and begins. “I apologize for what I said yesterday. I regretted it as soon as the words left my mouth. If I could take them back, I would.”

Yelena glances around the room, trying to find the words to convey her feelings. “I wanted to stay mad, but you were changing my mind about being mad, making me more mad. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, though.”

You sigh, shaking your head. ”It’s okay. I should have read the room instead of pushing everyone to feel a certain way.”

“No, you were right. It was a stupid reason to be upset with each other. Although there’s always a good reason to be angry at Walker.” She tilts her head in the direction John went. You let out a soft chuckle. “Do you forgive me? You can punch the other side of my jaw if that makes you feel better.”

You snort. “Tempting, but no. I forgive you.”

”That’s a relief. I thought I was going to have to replace you with one of the boys, and that makes me want to vomit.”

Your jaw drops in mock horror as you clutch your chest. “You would replace me? You wound me.”

”I’m kidding. No one could replace you.” Yelena hums as a thought pops into her head. “Barnes was right; you are the glue.”

You quirk a brow. “Huh?”

”We were talking last night. He was the one who told me to apologize.” She pauses, raising a hand. “To be clear, I was going to anyway. Plus, I never let a man tell me what to do.”

That causes you to giggle, and then you gesture for her to continue. “Go on.”

”Anyways, he implied that you’re the glue that holds this team together, and I couldn’t agree more.” She softly nudges you with her elbow. You feel your cheeks warm, and you sip at your coffee to hide how those words affect you.

Yelena rolls her eyes playfully. “Man, you two are ridiculous. Just kiss already.”

”What are you talking about?” You don’t even know why you’re trying to deny it; she caught you red-handed.

”Don’t get me started. How you look at each other, and Barnes is so protective of you. I also found you both cuddled up on the couch this morning when I was on my way to apologize to you.” Yelena gives you a look that says, Don’t you dare try to gaslight me.

Cuddled up on the couch this morning? That means Bucky didn’t leave in the middle of the night like you thought. He stayed. You bite your lip to suppress a smile, but how ecstatic you are is no secret.

”Ugh, you’re so weird. Remind me never to talk about him around you again.” She turns on her heels and heads out of the room, leaving you with a mess of feelings to sort out in your head.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

It’s late afternoon when you eventually get the courage to talk to Bucky. You’ve been avoiding all the usual places he goes throughout the day because you're afraid you’ll tell him how you feel. Gosh, you feel like a foolish teenager.

You want this more than anything. You want him more than anything. But there are a lot of what-ifs to consider. What if he doesn’t feel the same, and then you feel awkward? What if you do test this out and it doesn’t work out? Now you’ve ruined your friendship. And worst, what if he has feelings for you and wants you just as badly? You won’t know how to act with that last one.

You ultimately said to hell with all those questions because you need answers, and the only person who can answer them is Bucky. You won’t beat around the bush any longer; if there are consequences, so be it. You can live with whatever outcome, even if it hurts.

When you arrive at his bedroom, the door is already open a crack. You softly knock on it, causing it to swing open more. His gravelly voice comes through the door. “Come in.”

You push the door to proceed forward into his space before closing the door behind you. Bucky is leaning against the headboard, one leg crossed over the other with his laptop on his thigh. “Hey.” You mutter as you step closer to his bed.

He straightens instantly, placing his laptop next to him. “Hi.” As he moves to sit on the edge of his bed, he sucks air through his teeth and his face contorts into one of discomfort. He tries to hide how sore he is, but fails miserably. “What’s up?” His voice comes out strained.

Concern is written on your face as you examine him. “You’re in pain.” You cross the room to stand before him.

Bucky tries to brush off your worries. ”It’s nothing. I must’ve pulled something while training.”

You give him an unimpressed look and motion for him to turn. “May I?”

“Really, I’m fine.” He shrugs, but even that gesture seems to cause him more pain.

“Can I touch you or not, James?” Your tone relays a sense of authority, but your voice remains soft.

He lets out a deep sigh and reluctantly turns to the side, so you have access to his back. “Yes, ma’am. You can go ahead and touch me.”

You’ve never been one for formalities, but the way he says ma’am has you reeling. You recover, though, positioning yourself behind him, a knee propped on the bed for leverage.

You place your hands on his shoulders, lightly squeezing his muscles and working your way down his arms. He’s stiff beneath your touch, so you gently coax him by whispering in his ear.

“Relax for me.” As if you commanded him, he drops his shoulders and lets his head fall forward. You increase the pressure and start to massage the knots in his neck, eliciting a low groan from deep within his chest. You continue to knead his upper back, neck, and shoulder muscles until you can feel the tension melting.

”Training, huh?” You ask as you carry on with your task.

”That’s what I said.” Bucky mumbles, evidently lost in the relief you’re giving him.

”Yes, but you’re lying.”

You hear him swallow hard. “What?”

”I know you fell asleep with me on the couch last night.”

Bucky picks his head up, though he hasn’t turned to meet your gaze. “Were you awake?”

”No, Yelena told me.” You pause, rubbing at a stubborn knot in his back. “You could have gone to bed, y’know?”

He nods once. “Yeah, I know, but,” the super soldier wavers slightly, “I didn’t want to.”

The confession hits like a punch to the gut. You want to press the matter, but as your hands journey back up to his shoulders, he rests a hand over yours, and you freeze.

He pivots to face you, his flesh hand still over yours. As he turns, your other hand falls to your side, and you pick your knee off the bed. “Thank you, but why did you actually come here? Because I know you didn’t come here to take care of me, sweetheart.”

Suddenly, you’re incredibly nervous. His eyes are locked on you, and his hand's warmth causes your heart to race. “Uh…it’s something Yelena said.”

Bucky grabs your hand off his shoulder, taking it in both of his—flesh and metal. He starts to rub soothing circles into the skin. “You two made up then?”

“Yeah,” the word seems to get caught in your throat from how he’s massaging your hand.

”Good, I’m glad.” He rotates your hand, palm up, and repeats the action to that side. “So, what did she say?”

You swallow hard to regain your composure, but your heart is still rapidly beating. “She said I’m the glue that holds this team together. She mentioned that she may have gotten that from someone else.” You give him a knowing look.

Bucky halts his actions and releases your hand. Then, he moves to the other one and starts massaging it. “I wonder who.” You arch a brow, and he sighs, conceding in his efforts to deny it.

“Fine, I said it and I meant it.” He adds emphasis to the last part. “You do a lot for this team; we don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve you.” You quietly gasp, but he still hears it.

He drops your hand and proceeds. “You’re kind, caring, and you always listen. Even if it’s not worthy of your attention. I mean how many times have you listened to the same damn story from Alexei’s ‘glory days’?”

You giggle, light and breathy. You flush a deep red color, and there’s no use in hiding it. “I don’t mind.”

”See, that’s what I’m talking about.” Bucky braces his hands on his knees and hauls himself up to stand before you. “You care so much about everyone else, but don’t let anyone do the same for you.”

He leans in, and you sharply inhale. Your eyes dart between both his eyes before your attention dips to his parted lips briefly. He notices, because of course he does, and the corner of his lip lifts into a sly smirk. He glances down at your lips in return.

Did you die and go to heaven? Because there is no way this is happening. Are you reading this wrong, or did he honestly look at your lips? You want to close the distance, but it’s not that simple. You have to leave before you do something stupid.

You step around him and begin to book it to his door, but he’s much quicker than you. “Where are you going?” Bucky snatches your arm before you can get too far. He spins you around to scan your face.

Your eyes flick up to meet his, and you’re sure he’s going to drive you wild. ”I think I might do something reckless if I stay.” You murmur.

”Then, let me do it instead, doll.” Bucky’s voice is low and rough, sending shivers down your spine.

He inspects you for any sign of hesitation, but there is none. His flesh hand moves to brush your hair out of your face and tuck it behind your ear. Bucky lets his touch drag down your jaw, tracing the skin there. Then, he takes a firm hold of it and brings you closer, capturing your lips.

The kiss is soft and slow at first, lips moving against each other like you have all the time in the world. Bucky’s other hand finds your waist, and he pulls you closer until there’s not an inch of space between you. You melt into him, and one of your arms wraps around him as your other hand cups the back of his neck, deepening the kiss.

It quickly turns hungry, your lips moving with his in a desperate dance of passion. As it starts to get heated, his tongue runs along your bottom lip, requesting access.

You part your lips immediately, and his tongue slips into your mouth. He lets out a satisfied hum when he finds your tongue. He’s completely immersed in you. His tongue explores your mouth like it’s a personal mission to taste every inch of you. Your knees buckle slightly, and his hand leaves your jaw to grab your hip, granting you stability.

Your tongues slide and swirl with one another as your hand snakes up and under his shirt, feeling his bare skin. Bucky positions his leg between your thighs, and you moan into the kiss at the contact.

He breaks the kiss and gazes down at you. You’re flushed and trembling with desire. You're both trying to slow your breathing, but it’s pointless. He dips his head to attach his lips to your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone. You grind against his leg, needing some friction. “Bucky,” you breathe.

He growls against your skin, sending vibrations through you. He tightens his grip on your hip and begins to help guide your movement. Then, he moves to your ear, taking your earlobe between his teeth and licking its shell. “Tell me what you need, doll.” His tone is raspy in your ear.

Your breathing turns erratic at all the sensations, and your knees threaten to give out, but you know he has you. “I…I need you.”

“Fuck,” he drawls in your ear before pulling back to get a glimpse of you. “That’s all I want to hear. Are you going to let me take care of you?”

You open your mouth to speak, but the words won’t come. You nod in response, and he doesn’t waste any time.

“Good girl.” Bucky picks you up by your thighs effortlessly as if you weigh nothing. You realize you’ve always wanted to witness that super soldier strength firsthand, and now you have a front row seat to the show.

Bucky carries you the short distance to the bed and lays you down gingerly. He crawls onto the mattress after you and nudges your legs apart with his knee so that he can situate himself between your thighs. He braces his arm next to your head, hovering over you. You bite your lip at the sight of his bicep on full display. He lets out a low chuckle as his other hand slips under your shirt.

He lets his fingers dance across your flesh, reveling in the way you shiver. Bucky takes the hem of your shirt in both hands and pulls it over your head, tossing it somewhere in the room. He hums at the sight of you before making quick work of your bra. He reaches around you and unclasps it as he lowers the straps off your shoulders.

He drinks you in, naked from the waist up. “Damn, you’re gorgeous.” Bucky plunges to kiss along your sternum while his hand wanders up to cup your breast. He trails kisses to your other breast before his tongue darts out to tease your nipple.

His eyes flick up to you as he wraps his lips around your nipple, sucking and swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud. His hand gently squeezes and massages your other breast. You arch your back and you let out a soft whimper. You feel a heat pool in your lower stomach as the tension builds in your aching body.

“Bucky, please.” You beg while you buck your hips up into him to relieve some of that growing pressure.

He releases your nipple with a soft pop. “Shh…patience, doll. Let me take my time with this beautiful body of yours.”

Bucky switches to the other, giving each breast equal attention. You grunt in frustration, and he laughs against your skin. You begin to protest, but he bites your nipple, causing a new wave of pleasure to crash over you. You silence yourself and let him work his magic.

As he languidly kisses and sucks the opposite breast, his fingers toy with your other one. Bucky’s thumb rubs and flicks over your nipple, drawing a moan from your lips.

Once he’s satisfied, his mouth moves further down. He kisses and nips at your skin as he travels to your lower stomach. Bucky licks along the spot above your waistband, and you squirm underneath him.

“Lift your hips for me, doll.” He pats your thigh and glances up at you; his blue eyes are dark. You obey, digging your heels into the mattress to lift the lower half of your body. He hooks his thumbs into your shorts and peels them off, leaving you in just your panties.

He’s breathless as he admires the way you’re sporting those black, lace panties. Bucky licks his bottom lip before taking it between his teeth. You’re thrumming with anticipation from how he’s examining you like you’re his next meal and he’s starving. He traces the outline of your underwear with a single digit. Then, runs his finger over your core, his touch feather-light, but it still causes you to twitch.

“Mmm…so wet for me.” Bucky plants a soft kiss to your underwear clad clit. He takes the lace band and drags it down your thighs. You raise your legs, and he slips them off and stuffs them in the back pocket of his jeans. You playfully roll your eyes, and he smirks at you.

“What, I can’t have a little souvenir of our first time?” He grabs the underside of your knee and hooks it over his shoulder as he kisses your inner thigh.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t, I just kinda like that pair.” You jest.

”I can see why.” Bucky looks up through his lashes and winks at you. You giggle, and you’re sure that this man is going to be the death of you. “But, I gotta say, I prefer you in nothing.” He fans his hot breath across you as his mouth gets closer to where you need him most. “Such a pretty pussy.”

Yep, he’s going to kill you, and if it isn’t from that handsome face, then it will be from that filthy mouth. You smooth his hair back and out of his face, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of him. He looks like a dream. Maybe this is a dream because he’s too damn perfect.

Bucky leans into your touch as you run your fingers through his long hair. His expression softens, and he presses a lingering kiss to your thigh.

“Can I taste you, babydoll?” His voice goes deep and husky. Your breathing stutters at the nickname; he can tell you like it.

“Yes, please.” Your eyes are pleading, like you can’t wait a second longer.

”Anything for you.” He lowers his mouth to lick a strip up your center. You whine and grip his dark strands. Bucky’s tongue dives back in, devouring you. His tongue works expertly on your wet heat, licking up your juices and teasing your entrance.

You writhe and squirm under him as erotic sounds exit your wide-open mouth. “Fuck, that feels so good. Your mouth is perfection.”

Bucky groans against your pussy hearing your sounds and praises. His metal hand rises to rest on your lower stomach as the other one grabs your hip, holding you still. He flicks his tongue over your clit before lightly sucking on it. He swirls his tongue around you in tight circles. You tip your head back, letting out a loud, throaty moan.

He lets go of your hip and traces a finger around your entrance as he continues to suck and lick your bundle of nerves. Bucky dips his finger into you and steadily pumps it in and out.

You whimper at the sudden intrusion, and your free hand searches for something to grab onto. You find Bucky’s metal hand on your stomach and grasp the back of it, trying to ground yourself. He flips his hand over, holding your hand in his as he works at your cunt.

He slides a second finger in, stretching you out and pumping deeper into you. Bucky breaks away from your clit, his teeth faintly grazing it, as he comes up for air. Now that you can see his whole face, you notice the way his mouth and chin are covered in your juices. It only adds to the intense pleasure you feel from his skilled fingers.

”You’re doing so well, sweetheart.” He squeezes your hand and brings it to his lips, kissing your knuckles before resting your clasped hands on your abdomen again.

You can feel the pressure building inside you with every stroke of his fingers, and it’s overwhelming. You don’t think anyone has ever made you feel this incredible, and you never want the pleasure to end.

He curls his digits inside you, caressing your walls. You squeeze around his fingers, and he picks up the pace, wanting to bring you to the edge. Your thighs begin to quiver as moans and whimpers fill the room. “Bucky…I’m so close. Please, don’t stop.”

”Wasn’t plannin’ on it.” He drops his head down, mouth pushing between your slick folds. Bucky doubles down on his efforts. His fingers thrust faster while he sucks on your clit hard, then his tongue starts to move with even more purpose—swirling, flicking, and teasing.

Without warning, your orgasm wracks through your body. Wave after wave of pleasure crashing down upon you. You come undone with a strangled cry as your eyes squeeze shut. Your hand instinctively pulls on Bucky’s hair as you ride out your climax. He helps you prolong your orgasm by keeping up with his ministrations.

He slows his movements to a stop and lets you catch your breath. You shudder with aftershocks of pleasure as you come down from your high.

He unhooks your leg from his shoulder and begins to kiss and nip up the expanse of your body. He inches up your form until he’s level with your face. Your eyes are still closed, and he chuckles low at your blissed out state. He plants kisses on your forehead, cheeks, and nose, making you release a breathy laugh. He finally places a soft, sweet kiss on your lips before leaning back to inspect you.

“You still with me, doll?” Bucky brushes a stray damp hair out of your face. You open your eyes, giving him a soft grin. “Ah, there’s my pretty girl. You doin’ okay?”

Your smile grows wider because he looks like an angel above you and has the nerve to call you pretty. “Better than okay. That was unreal.” You grab the back of his neck as your thumb caresses the skin. “Do you eat pussy for a living?” You jokingly add.

He gives you an amused look. “I can eat your pussy for a living. Keep me down there between your thighs and I’ll be a happy man.” He pinches your thigh to emphasize his words.

You giggle and wish time would stop for a minute because you want to stay in this moment forever. You snap yourself out of your daze and gesture between the two of you. “This isn’t fair.”

”What’s not fair, doll?” He gives you a quizzical expression.

”You’re wearing too many clothes.”

He shakes his head, grinning. “I can fix that.”

Bucky climbs off the bed and reaches behind him, pulling at the collar of his black shirt until it's off. You’re faced with sharp lines and toned muscles like a fucking ancient Greek sculpture. It’s absurd how sexy he is. You don’t know if you’ve met a more attractive person.

You lean on your forearms to better view him as he continues the show. Bucky unbuckles his belt; just the clang of the metal makes a fire light within your very bones. He slips it out of the belt loops of his dark-washed jeans before tugging them and his boxers down his legs.

You cast your eyes down at where the material pools at his feet, then slowly let them glide up his figure. Fuck. You don’t know where to look. His thighs, chest, biceps, abs, dick-

He’s huge, and he looks painfully hard. Forget what you said before about his handsome face and filthy mouth, his dick will be the death of you. You’re sure that’s the best way to go, though, so you can’t find it in your heart to care much.

Bucky crawls back over top of you, settling into his original place. Your hands are instantly on him, tracing his dips and contours. His stomach muscles flex beneath your touch.

“Stunning.” You mutter. You lift your head to kiss along the spot where skin meets metal, and he quivers above you.

“Doll-“ His voice is sweet and warm like honey in your ear. You register that his cock is hard against your thigh as you trail kisses to his neck. You grip him firmly in your hand, carefully stroking his leaky cock.

He gasps softly at the feel of your soft hand on him. Bucky’s forehead falls to your shoulder, and his breathing is ragged in your ear as you continue your movements. Your thumb swipes at the precum that beads at the slit, spreading it to give you more purchase.

”Oh, sweetheart.” He growls, low and rough. “Fuck, I need to be inside you.”

You hum in agreement as you free him from your grasp. “Well then,” you move your mouth to hover beside his ear and whisper. ”Take me, baby.”

Bucky grunts and pecks your shoulder before pulling away to gaze into your eyes. His eyes are dark with desire, matching your own. He takes his dick in his hand and positions himself between your thighs. He runs the head through your slick and teases your entrance with his tip.

“Are you ready for me?”

Your free hand finds a place on his bicep in preparation, knowing you’ll need stability from his sheer size. “Yes, Bucky.”

He slides inside of you, nice and slow, taking his time to stretch you out on his cock. His entire body stiffens as he feels how tight you are. Bucky groans and his jaw clenches as if it’s taking every bit of control not to slam into you. You suck in breath and tilt your head back. He instantly takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, gently forcing your gaze back on him.

“Eyes on me, doll. I want to watch you as it goes in.”

Fuck. You’re so turned on that you can’t even respond to him; you just obey. Your eyes are locked on his as he pushes inside you at an achingly slow pace like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you.

He bottoms out inside you, and you feel impossibly full. You’re just staring at each other now, your rapid breaths mingling in the space between you. Bucky’s giving you a moment to adjust before he even thinks about moving. He also wants to take a moment to feel you surrounding him; it’s overwhelming.

You have to remind yourself to breathe. The stretch of your pussy around him is intense. His dick is buried so far into your tight warmth it’s like he’s drowning in it, but instead you're the one losing oxygen.

He moves his hand from the spot on your chin to cup your cheek, stroking the flushed skin. He leans down and captures your lips in a hungry kiss, hot and desperate, like he needs to taste you. You reciprocate with equal fervor, your hand snaking up into his hair to deepen the kiss as your tongues merge.

He moves both his hands to grab your thighs and hikes them up to wrap your legs around his waist. Bucky’s metal hand settles on your hip as the other searches for your hand on the back of his head. He wraps his fingers around your wrist and pulls it from its place in his hair. He breaks the kiss and brings your palm to his lips, before pinning it above your head.

He leisurely starts to ease in and out of you while trying to get a read on your expression. He wants to make sure you’re feeling good or if you need more time to adjust. But, instead, you softly moan, giving him the reassurance he needs to speed up.

“Atta girl, taking me so well.” Bucky praises. It only seems to make your core wetter, making it easier for him to thrust into you. You tighten your grip on his bicep as he snaps his hips into you. His grip on your hip is bruising as he sets a rhythmic pace, steady and deep.

His hand on your wrist lets go before his fingers glide across your palm to interlock your hands, holding it against the mattress as if to say, I’m here, I’ve got you. You squeeze his hand in a silent reply to remind him that you’re here and not going anywhere.

Bucky adjusts himself as his thrusts turn erratic and sloppy as his pace quickens, slamming deeper into you. He wants to see you completely fall apart under him. You moan loudly at the new angle he’s providing you. He begins to hit that sweet spot deep inside you over and over. The tension rises sharply and quickly, like you might explode at any minute.

”Yes, Bucky. Just like that. So fucking good.” The words spew from your lips like an erupting volcano, and you can’t help the sounds you’re making, loud moans and strained whimpers.

”You sound so pretty, babydoll. Don’t hold back. Let me hear you.” He reaches between your bodies with his metal hand to rub your aching, sensitive clit with his thumb.

You arch your back into him and your hand finds purchase on the carved lines of his back, nails digging into the flesh, leaving behind little crescent moon shapes. The flood of sensations washing over you causes you to clench hard around him as you cry out in pleasure.

”Bucky, I-I’m…” You cut yourself off with a groan as he hits your cervix again.

”I know, sweetheart. I can feel you squeezin’ me.” He rubs your clit faster, applying more pressure, his thumb moving in tight circles. “Let go, doll. Come for me. I want to feel you come on my cock.”

That’s all the motivation you need as you scream his name while your pussy flutters around him. Your body is trembling as you orgasm for the second time tonight. Your vision blurs, and you’re seeing stars. The feeling is euphoric. It’s as if you’re on cloud nine, floating on ecstasy. It’s a struggle to keep your eyes open, but you need to watch him come undone.

He lets out a strangled moan as he feels you come. It’s the best feeling in the world, and he knows he could easily get addicted to it. He eases off your clit and returns his hold on your hip, firm as if he’s afraid to let go.

Bucky thrusts in once, twice, three times before spilling deep inside you. Hot ropes of cum filling you and coating your walls as he grunts your name, throwing his head back in pure bliss. He clutches your intertwined hands like a lifeline.

You watch in awe as he releases into you. Your mind is still in the clouds as you cup his jaw and force his head down. He opens his eyes, adoration swimming in his soft blues. He presses his forehead to yours as he works you both through your climax, pushing his cum deeper into you.

He ceases his movement, but stays buried to the hilt deep inside you. He wants to keep that connection for a bit longer. You can feel cum leaking out of you as your body goes limp. Bucky rests his weight on top of you, and you welcome it.

He nuzzles his face into your neck as you both come down from your highs, chests rising and falling rapidly. Your hand moves into his hair as you lightly scratch his scalp with your nails. Bucky groans in appreciation, and his lips brush against your neck with lazy kisses.

“Damn,” you breathe into the air. “Is it going to be like that every time?”

He chuckles into the side of your neck, vibrating your body. Bucky inclines his head back, letting go of your hand to lean on his forearm over you. His face has a soft expression, a mix of arrogance and amusement.

“I’m pretty sure it only gets better, doll. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.” He pinches your side, and you huff air out of your nose in laughter.

“Oh, really? You’re quite cocky, aren’t you?”

“I’m only confident in my ability to please you.” He shoots you a look like he knows how good he made you feel.

Bucky pulls out of you, causing you to softly gasp from how sensitive you are. He rolls over into the spot beside you and takes you with him, cradling you into his warm chest. He places a lingering kiss on your forehead and then tucks your head under his chin. It’s as if you belong there.

You practically melt into him, wrapping your arms around his waist and burrowing the side of your face into his chest. Bucky hums and starts playing with your hair while his metal fingers draw meaningless patterns into your back.

”I’ll clean us up in a bit. Maybe run a bath,” he thinks out loud, making a soft smile grow on your lips. “But right now, I just want to hold my pretty girl.”

You let your eyes flutter closed, reveling in the moment and his soothing actions on your back and hair. “You won’t hear any complaints from me, handsome.”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You’re in the kitchen, three different pans heating on the stove. This could potentially be a fire hazard, but it isn’t much of a concern for you. You’re cooking pancakes, eggs, and sausage as you hum to one of the songs blasting from your phone.

Your hips sway to the music, gently, because it seems every time you move, pain surges between your thighs. You don’t mind, though. It’s a reminder of Bucky and the long night you spent together. But, fuck, you’re sore.

You didn’t realize how much stamina a super soldier has, but now you are acutely aware. You thought it would be a nice, relaxing bath after your first round, but someone got a little too handsy. And as you were drying, the towel wrapped snugly around you, Bucky tore it off and had his way with you again. Hence, why you’re hurting this morning, this kind of pain is something you can and will get used to, though.

You decided to make breakfast for him as soon as the sun woke you up, and you couldn’t stop admiring his sweet, sleepy expression. Half the reason is to thank him for rocking your world last night, and the other half is for much-needed sustenance.

You use your spatula to push at the edges of your fluffy pancake to flip it eventually. As you're flipping it, warm hands envelope your waist. You jump slightly, the sudden contact startling you. Bucky rests his chin on your shoulder and whispers in your ear.

”Sorry, doll. Didn’t mean to scare you.“ His voice is still thick with sleep; he must have just woken up.

You grin as you continue with your task. “You’re fine, I just didn’t hear you come in.”

”You left me.” Bucky murmurs against your skin as he kisses a trail down your neck to your shoulder.

”I was making you breakfast in bed, but now that you’re not in bed, it’s just breakfast.” You tease him as you check on your eggs.

He hums, clearly amused by your teasing. “Mmm…I missed you.” Bucky squeezes your torso, and you giggle. “I thought it was all a dream when I didn’t see you next to me.”

”No, not a dream. Very real. The throbbing between my legs is proof of that.”

Bucky snorts as his hands glide down your figure. “I would apologize, but I’m not that sorry. You know I can’t get enough of you.”

He dips his fingers under the hem of your oversized shirt and starts to massage your thighs as he mumbles in your ear. “I can’t keep my hands off of you.”

“Bucky,” You softly moan, enjoying the sensations he’s giving you. “You’re distracting me.” Your spatula drops to the counter as you reach up to rest a hand on his cheek, keeping him close to your ear.

He lightly laughs in your ear as he pulls you by your hips, your ass flush against his growing erection. His fingers dig into your flesh, gripping and rubbing at your thighs.

”A good distraction?” Bucky nibbles on your ear.

You bite your lip to suppress another moan. You take a firm hold of his jaw and turn your head, angling your lips inches from his.

”You know it.” You mutter against his mouth before pressing your lips to his.

It’s soft and tender, lips moving unhurriedly like you're learning from every brush of each other's mouth. His teeth graze your bottom lip, and he gently bites it, tugging on it before letting go.

Bucky dives back in, kissing you deeply as his tongue pushes its way past the seam of your lips. As he slides his tongue against yours, his fingertips trace your inner thighs. Your skin dots with goosebumps from his touch. You start grinding your ass on him until-

“Ah! What the fuck?” A voice cuts through the air, and you instantly break away from Bucky’s mouth to see the source of the words.

Yelena is shielding her eyes with a repulsed expression on her face. Bucky moves away from you, adjusting himself in his sweatpants. You straighten out your oversized shirt, bunched around your torso, even though you’re wearing shorts underneath.

“Is your dick out or can I open my eyes now?” Yelena can barely get out the words because she’s gagging.

Bucky groans, rubbing at his forehead, so you answer for him. ”Holy shit, Yelena. No! We’re not animals.” You glance over to Bucky, and he shrugs with a mischievous grin as if to say, Well…

You shake your head at him. “Not helping.” You whisper.

You turn back to Yelena, and her eyes are still squeezed shut. “You can open your eyes now.”

She hesitantly peels her eyes open, peeking behind her hand. Once she knows you’re both decent, she drops her hand to her side.

”Now, I have to wash my eyes with bleach to get that image out of my head.” Yelena grumbles, advancing further into the kitchen to the coffee pot.

”We were just kissing.” You insist, though you’re blushing.

”It looked like a lot more than kissing to me.” Yelena mutters as she begins to pour herself a cup.

Bucky steps around you, a hand on the small of your back as he kisses your cheek. “Sorry, that was my fault.” He murmurs. “Guess I should have stayed in bed. I’ll see you there?” He offers you an apologetic look.

You give him a soft smile. “Yeah, I’ll bring you breakfast in bed like I originally planned.”

He nods, giving you one last kiss on the cheek like he can’t resist you. “Alright, babydoll.” The nickname melts you, and you’re beaming at him before you know it.

Bucky begins to wander out of the kitchen, but pauses to glance over his shoulder. “Smells delicious, by the way. I meant to say that, but got a little…distracted.” You giggle, and he veers right and out of the room.

You return to your cooking and notice the pancake is slightly burnt. You scoop it onto a plate with an easy grin, like it doesn’t matter to you, because Bucky’s lips were on yours as it burned.

“Cute.” Yelena's voice breaks you from your trance, and when you glance at her, she’s slanted against the counter, sipping her coffee as she stares at you.

“Sickeningly cute, but I suppose cute nonetheless.” She mutters into the mouth of her mug.

You snort as you begin to assemble the breakfast on your dishes. As you're plating the food, you catch Yelena from the corner of your eye. She’s still studying you, and it’s starting to make you uncomfortable. You turn your body towards her.

”What is it?” You cross your arms over your chest, waiting for her to spit it out.

”Although I never want to see that again,” she gestures to the air around you, referring to the make-out session she just witnessed. “I’m happy for you two.”

Her words cause you to stagger briefly. That’s not what you thought she would say, but you are pleasantly surprised. “Thanks, Yelena.”

You consider Yelena’s statement for a second. You have this weightless feeling that you’ve never had in the morning. You seem to walk with a bounce to your step. There’s a constant fluttering in your stomach. You’re happy. And it’s all because of Bucky. Even though this is new and fresh, you somehow know that feeling will never disappear.

[vermililion]

eighteen hours.

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Weeks apart on separate missions leave you and Bucky Barnes aching, desperate, and one heartbeat away from unraveling. The reunion? Eighteen hours of pure, breathless release.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, multiple rounds, overstimulation, edging, mutual desperation, shower sex, window sex, kitchen counter sex, use of restraints (soft), masturbation mention, lingerie tease, squirting (f), super soldier stamina, mild teasing from tb* members

It started like any other assignment.

A sharp morning. Polished boots. Steel chairs arranged around the Watchtower’s mission table. The kind of day where even the light felt clinical—too white, too bright, too final.

Valentina entered with a clipboard in hand and that usual glint in her eye, the one that said she already knew something you didn’t want to hear.

“Barnes, Yelena, Alexei, Bob—Bucharest first. Bogotá by week three. Rotating safehouses. No crossovers.”

You stiffened.

“Walker, Ava, and…”

She looked straight at you.

“You—Algeria. Then east through Istanbul. Targets on the move. You’re expected to stay mobile and out of range.”

The silence afterward said everything.

That pause before your name wasn’t a slip.

It was surgical.

Across the table, Bucky’s jaw tensed. He didn’t look at you, but his shoulders rolled tight. His metal hand flexed once, resting flat on the table like he was physically grounding himself.

This wasn’t routine.

This was designed.

The room shifted. Teams gathered their gear. Orders confirmed.

But neither of you moved.

Bucky brushed your fingers beneath the table—the kind of small, hidden touch that wasn’t meant to say goodbye. It was a promise.

We’ll find each other.

However we can.

—

Packing was mechanical.

Weapons, suits, coordinates, clearances.

Everyone was buzzing around the hangar level, focused on countdowns and jet fuel. But Bucky caught your wrist with a glance that made your breath hitch—then gently steered you down a side corridor.

He didn’t stop until you ducked into a quiet auxiliary room—once used for archive storage, now mostly forgotten. The lights were dim. A narrow bench ran along the wall. A few old mission files sat boxed in the corner.

He shut the door behind you.

“Just for a minute,” he said, voice low. “Just wanna be where you are.”

You barely nodded before he pulled you into his chest. He held you like he needed it—not tight or desperate, but complete. His warmth poured into you as you buried your face into the space between his neck and shoulder.

You ended up straddling his lap on the bench, both of you half-armored, half-undressed—hands roaming like you were trying to memorize every line, every scar, every breath.

“I hate this,” you muttered into his neck.

“I know.” His voice was steady. Anchoring. “But we’ll be okay.”

His mouth found the slope of your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then lower—teeth grazing before lips closed around your skin and sucked.

You gasped—part surprise, part pure heat.

“Bucky—”

“Gonna leave a few. Let ‘em wonder how many more are where they can’t see.”

He left another. And another. The bruises bloomed warm beneath your skin—high enough that your tactical suit wouldn’t cover all of them.

When he pulled back to look at you, his pupils were blown wide, lips kiss-bitten and breath ragged.

“You’re mine,” he murmured. “Even if they split us across the damn planet.”

You ran your hands up under his shirt, nails scratching lightly across his ribs—grounding yourself in the solidity of him.

“You’ll text me when you can?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if it’s just one word?”

“Even if it’s just a photo.”

You smirked. “Of what?”

He grinned, leaning back like he had all the time in the world—even though you both knew better.

“I’m waiting for boob pics, love. Minimum one per timezone.”

You laughed into his neck and kissed his jaw, soft and smiling.

“You’re such a menace.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

When the comm finally buzzed for final departure prep, you lingered another moment, forehead pressed to his.

“We’re good?”

“Always.”

And then you slipped out—his warmth still clinging to your skin, and his hickeys hidden beneath your collar like the loudest secret in the world.

—

The first few days weren’t unbearable.

Busy hours blurred the worst of it—briefings, drone recon, field scans. The kind of missions that demanded your hands stay full and your focus sharp. You told yourself it helped. That staying in motion kept the ache at bay.

But the nights were something else entirely.

By the third night, sleep wouldn’t come. The cot beneath you was too narrow, too cold. You rolled over instinctively and reached for the other side—empty. Your palm flattened against the mattress like it could summon him there.

It didn’t.

You’d already stripped out of your tactical suit, skin flushed from a lukewarm shower and a restlessness that refused to settle. The mirror over the sink caught your reflection just as the last of the sun dipped beneath the window—warm dusk light casting gold across your damp collarbone, your bare shoulder.

You grabbed your comm. Lifted your phone.

Pulled down your undershirt just enough to let the neckline dip low—sweat clinging to the curve of your breasts, a faint bruise from his mouth peeking out beneath the edge of the fabric.

The angle was deliberate.

Head tilted back. Lips parted. Not a full reveal. But it said everything.

Still thinking about the way your hands fit around my waist.

Bet you’d wreck me if you were here.

You hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.

—

His reply came six hours later. No text. Just an image.

The lighting was shit—whatever rooftop he was on barely lit by the glow of city spill—but it didn’t matter.

He was shirtless.

Dog tags heavy and low over his chest.

Hair a little messier than usual, as if he’d just run a hand through it before taking the shot.

But the part that made your thighs press together?

His sweatpants.

Slung low. Way too low. Obscene, really—the waistband clinging just above the vee of his hips, and beneath it? A thick, unmistakable bulge pressing upward. Not subtle. Not suggestive.

Hard. Veined. Heavy. Angry.

Like he’d taken the photo mid-thought, right before palming himself. Like maybe he had.

Your name was probably still on his tongue when he snapped it.

You sucked in a breath, cheeks hot, and held the screen to your chest like it could warm the parts of you he was supposed to be touching.

This was manageable, you told yourself.

Just teasing. Just playing.

It would pass.

—

It got worse.

What started as playful—just a little edge, a little fun—turned into something raw. Unbearable. Every picture, every breathy message only twisted the knife deeper.

Bucky cracked first.

The signal finally held long enough for him to send a voice note.

You were mid-gear check when it came through, tucked into a corner of the safehouse with your earbuds in.

“Woke up with my hand around my cock,” he rasped, voice low, wrecked. “Thought it was you at first. Swear to God, I could feel you there. Your breath on my neck, your legs wrapped around me. Then I realized I was alone again.”

A pause. A harsh exhale.

“And fuck, baby… I nearly lost it.”

You played it three times.

Nearly dropped your comm on the third.

—

You didn’t just tease back. You retaliated.

The next photo was a mirror shot—deliberately filthy. You stood in the dim light of your bunk, chest bare, your breasts fully visible this time, no shame. One hand was sunk into your panties, fingers clearly pressing against the soaked fabric. The other held your phone steady, angled to catch the full view: your messy hair, parted lips, heavy-lidded eyes, and the slick glint of sweat on your chest. No caption. Just raw hunger in pixels.

This help you sleep tonight? Or should I take more?

He didn’t respond immediately. But when he did, it was short.

You’re not playing fair.

My cock’s been hard since sunrise. Haven’t touched it. Saving every second of this for you.

You sent a quick clip later—just a few seconds long. You didn’t even speak in it.

Just six seconds. The camera angled low—your hand slipping beneath the blanket between your thighs. No real view, just the movement. The blanket shifted slightly with every circle you traced over your clit. Soft moans escaped—broken, breathy, like you were trying to stay quiet. Then a whimper—his name, trembling from your lips. No skin shown. No climax caught. Just the sound and the hint and the promise of you falling apart.

Bucky watched it on repeat like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

—

Then came Ava.

You’d crashed hard that night—exhausted, sweaty, and stripped down to just your lingerie. The maroon lace set he liked. The same one he’d picked out. It had become a habit—wearing it when you missed him. A reminder. A tether.

Ava had been reviewing footage by the window for perimeter movement when she caught it.

The camera was focused outward. But the mic had picked up your sleep sounds in the background.

She wasn’t trying to be cruel when she played it back.

She just raised an eyebrow and pressed play—a grin tugging at her lips as the soft moans filled the air. You were murmuring his name. Restless. Breathless. Like you were dreaming of him—no, feeling him.

“Mmh… Bucky—please… inside me… deeper—oh god… please—”

Your voice cracked on the last word, a sharp gasp like you were right on the edge.

You could’ve died.

“Jesus,” Ava had laughed, not unkind. “Want me to send it to him? Y’know, for motivation?”

You didn’t answer fast enough. She already hit send.

—

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even text back. Just disappeared for a few hours.

Locked himself in the bathroom of the Bogotá safehouse, palms braced on the sink, sweat dripping from his temple to his jaw. The floor was cold. His cock throbbed painfully in the tight grip of his tactical jeans, already slick with precum from the sound of your voice in his ear—played over and over again like a goddamn drug.

He groaned low, forehead resting against the mirror as he finally undid his fly—reached in and freed himself with a hissed curse.

Hard. Angry. Red at the tip and twitching. His hand flexed uselessly beside him, trembling from restraint.

He closed his eyes and whispered, “Fuck, baby… what are you doing to me…”

But he didn’t stroke.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Not without your hands.

Not without your thighs tight around his hips.

Not without your voice whispering that he could let go.

So he tucked himself away again—biting down hard on the side of his fist until it bruised, his pulse roaring like a storm.

Later, when the signal held again, he finally texted:

This was supposed to help.

All these videos. These fucking pictures.

It’s making everything worse, doll.

I need you so bad, I swear I’m gonna lose my mind.

—

He stopped sleeping properly.

The circles under his eyes were darker now, sharp enough to draw questions if anyone had the nerve. His mouth was constantly pressed into a tight, agitated line. The usual post-mission calm he carried—that calculated, steady presence of command—was cracking.

Every time he sat down to write up route plans, his hands twitched. His left hand—the metal one—wouldn’t stop flexing. Clenching. Releasing. Like he was trying to ground himself in anything that wasn’t your voice moaning his name.

The last time he tried to issue orders midbriefing, he nearly snapped a comm tablet in half.

“Safehouse Delta’s too close to the highway,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ll reroute south. Four klicks. We’ll—”

He trailed off.

Everyone stared at the map table, then at Bucky—who was clearly no longer looking at anything but the wall. Or rather, through it.

His jaw clenched again. He tried to redirect.

“We’ll send Bob first to—”

But Bob was already looking sideways at him.

“You gonna pass out?”

“No.”

“You look like your brain’s buffering.”

“I said I’m fine.”

But his voice had cracked. Just slightly.

Yelena leaned back in her seat with a dramatic sigh, chewing on the end of a protein bar like this was better than Netflix.

“Alright,” she announced loudly, “I’m just gonna say what everyone else is thinking.”

Bucky didn’t even turn his head.

She kept going.

“You’re clearly about three days from spontaneously combusting from blue balls. You’ve been staring at walls, misreading maps, and grinding your teeth like it’s a fetish. Which—respectfully—gross.”

Alexei smothered a laugh. Bob coughed loudly into his fist.

“You need to jerk off or jump off a building,” Yelena finished, deadpan. “Pick one.”

Bucky finally looked up.

His eyes were bloodshot. His voice was tight when he replied.

“I’m not jerking off.”

That shut them up.

Yelena blinked. “…Okay. That’s not where I thought that was going.”

“I’m saving it. All of it.” His hand twitched again. “She deserves every goddamn second of it.”

A pause. The silence stretched—not awkward, just charged.

Even Alexei nodded solemnly, as if that was the only acceptable answer.

Yelena rolled her eyes but muttered, “Romantic. Disgusting. Continue suffering, I guess.”

—

Later that night, Bucky paced the rooftop alone. Fingers twitching. Breath uneven.

He pulled up your last photo again.

Your hand between your thighs. Lips parted. That little text below it:

I’d spread for you right here on this cot if you were with me.

He groaned into his palm.

Pressed the heel of his hand against the painful bulge in his pants.

Didn’t move. Didn’t stroke. Just gritted his teeth and endured.

“You better be ready for what I’m gonna do to you,” he muttered into the dark.

—

It was just after 7:00PM when the jet touched down.

The sky above the Watchtower was bruised in golds and fading gray, clouds curling low like dusk had rolled in too early. Your shoulders ached. Muscles stiff from too many hours strapped in gear, too many days sleeping with one eye open.

Your boots hit the floor with more weight than usual—the kind that didn’t come from exhaustion alone. It was something else. Something thick in your chest, pressing behind your ribs.

Inside the compound, it was unusually quiet.

Operatives passed by in pairs. Brief nods. No chatter.

Ava veered off toward medical, threw a wink over her shoulder, and mouthed, “Go get your man.”

You didn’t smile. Not yet.

Not until your fingers brushed the key panel of your shared room, and the door clicked open beneath your touch.

Something shifted the moment you stepped inside.

The air smelled like candle wax, clean linens, and something warmer underneath—musk and sandalwood, with a trace of vanilla. The room glowed gold in low light. Flickering candles burned on the desk, by the bed, and one small one beside the bathroom mirror.

It was quiet. But not empty.

He was there.

And the second he saw you, his face lit up.

“Hey,” Bucky breathed, already halfway to his feet. His voice was low but clear, as if speaking pulled breath right back into his lungs. “You’re home.”

That ache—the one locked in your chest—snapped clean open.

You dropped your duffel just as he reached you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, your cheek pressed against his collarbone. He smelled like soap and steel and something distinctly him—warm skin, freshly showered, a hint of cologne that clung to his shirt.

He didn’t devour you. Didn’t grope, didn’t rush.

He just held you.

One arm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head. His lips brushed the top of your hair.

You clung back like it might hold you together.

His hand ran slowly down your spine. You could feel the control in it—the way his chest rose hard against yours, like he was barely keeping the rest of him contained.

“I changed the sheets,” he murmured softly. “Lit a few candles. Put your shampoo out. Thought maybe you’d want a hot shower first.”

Your heart cracked, melted, rebuilt itself.

You nodded against him, cheek brushing the curve of his neck.

“You remembered.”

“Of course I did.” His smile touched his voice, even as his hand lingered low on your back. “You always say you wanna feel clean before we get dirty.”

That earned a small laugh from you—quiet, but real.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, cupping your cheek in one hand. His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye, like he was checking you for damage.

“I missed you,” he said. “Like breathing stopped.”

You kissed him, soft and slow—lips barely parting, just enough to feel the warmth of him beneath the quiet.

“Missed you more.”

He didn’t rush you when you stepped out of your gear. Just watched with quiet reverence, helping peel the layers off your shoulders and arms. He kissed your shoulder once—right over the old bruise he left weeks ago—and whispered:

“I’ve been thinking about this moment for 36 days. But I’m not rushing it. Not until you’re ready.”

Then he took your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and nodded toward the bathroom.

“Go on. I’ll be right here.”

—

You hadn’t even closed the door behind you.

The steam was already thick, curling from the shower where hot water slammed against tile. You peeled your clothes off slowly, shaking the last of the travel dust from your skin, limbs heavy from the mission—but your chest felt lighter. He was here. You were home.

You stepped into the spray and let it hit you.

Heat flooded your shoulders. Rolled down your spine.

The ache you’d ignored for weeks cracked wide open across your bones.

You arched slightly under the pressure of the water, fingers dragging slowly down your stomach. Your thighs pressed together at the memory of his voice—his lips on your neck, his hands gripping your hips like they belonged there.

You knelt briefly to grab a bottle you knocked over. Bent forward. Stretched.

And then—

“Mmh…”

Just a sound. A breath.

But it came from somewhere deep—unconscious, raw, and aching. It slipped from your throat like his name was caught beneath it.

The floor creaked.

You turned, startled—and everything inside you tightened.

He was there.

Bucky Barnes. Standing in the doorway of the bathroom like something ancient and carved from firelight. His chest rose fast, hard, like he’d sprinted across the room. Hair damp with sweat, not water. Shoulders tight. Fists clenched at his sides.

And he was naked.

Completely.

You hadn’t even heard him undress. But there he stood—broad, solid, his cock achingly hard and already slick with precum, flushed dark and twitching with every strained breath he took.

His eyes drank you in.

Steam wrapped around his body, clinging to every line of him. You watched his jaw twitch, chest heave. His cock twitched again—another thick drop of precum beading at the tip.

“Baby…”

His voice cracked. A breath. A prayer. Hoarse and wrecked.

“Please…”

“Please stop torturing me.”

But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Like he was waiting for your permission—even now, even while unraveling at the seams.

You reached for him.

One hand. Simple. Open. You pressed your palm to the center of his chest—felt the hammering heartbeat beneath it, the way his breath hitched.

He whimpered.

The sound broke from his lips like it had been fighting its way out for days. He stepped forward, cupped your waist, then your jaw, thumb trembling against your cheek.

“You’re real,” he whispered. “Fuck—you’re here.”

You smiled softly. Nodded.

He stepped into the shower with you—no hesitation this time.

The water soaked him instantly, but he didn’t care. He was already soaked in you. The scent. The need.

His hands were everywhere. One warm, the other metal, both reverent. They dragged up your spine, gripped your hips, held your face like it was holy.

“Missed you,” he rasped between frantic kisses.

“Missed your mouth. Your voice. Your thighs. The way you sound when I’m inside you—fuck, baby, I’ve been dying.”

Your back hit the tile with a dull thud. His body pressed into yours, all solid heat and desperation.

His cock bumped against your stomach—hot, heavy, leaking.

He gasped. “Touch me… please, just—let me feel you.”

You did more than touch.

Your hand curled around the base of him, felt him throb in your palm. He swore low against your neck, forehead pressing to yours as his hands skimmed lower, between your thighs.

“Jesus, sweetheart—”

His fingers slid through the slick between your legs.

“You’re soaked…”

He groaned. Slid two fingers inside you.

You gasped, walls clenching hard around the intrusion.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Tight… tighter than I remember. You really waited for me?”

You bit his jaw. “I didn’t even let myself finish, Bucky. You ruined me.”

That was all it took.

He gripped your thighs, lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing, and pinned you to the shower wall. You wrapped your legs around his waist, arms around his neck.

“Hold on to me,” he breathed. “That’s it… Good girl.”

He lined himself up. Slick head pressed against your entrance. And then—

He sank in.

One thrust. Deep. Full.

You both cried out—voices echoing in the tile and steam.

The stretch. The heat. The sudden, perfect fullness.

He fucked into you with short, desperate thrusts—buried all the way, hips snapping with precision. You met him every time, nails clawing his back, gasping against his mouth.

Your orgasm ripped through you without warning—sharp, wet, loud.

“James, I—I’m coming!”

“I’ve got you. Let go. Soak me, baby.”

You did. You clenched so hard around him he almost collapsed.

He followed seconds after—buried deep, groaning your name as he came hard inside you, hips jerking, forehead pressed to your shoulder. His body trembled with the force of it. He held you there, still wrapped around him, his cock twitching inside your pulsing heat.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Not letting you out of this room for days.”

You kissed him through the fog, smiling against his lips.

“Good. I’m not going anywhere.”

—

Your legs were still shaking when he carried you out of the bathroom.

No towel. No words. Just the heat of his arms around you, the steady thump of his heart against your ribs, and the way the air between you still crackled like static. You smelled like him. He smelled like you. It wasn’t over. It had only begun.

He laid you on the bed like something sacred.

Candles glowed around the room, casting golden halos over damp sheets and flushed skin. The maroon lace slip sat untouched where he’d left it—delicate, sheer, wicked.

You reached for it with trembling fingers.

But Bucky caught your wrist gently. “Let me,” he said.

His voice was lower now. Hoarse. Reverent.

He lifted the slip over your head slowly, letting the lace fall like a whisper down your body. It hugged your hips, clung to your breasts just enough to tease—translucent and sinful. His lips brushed your spine as he adjusted the straps, hands shaking.

“I thought about this every night,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder.

“Fantasized about it. About you, straddling me in this. Had to lie there with my fists clenched, cock aching, just—breathing through it. Didn’t touch myself. Not once.”

His voice cracked. “Didn’t want to waste a single drop that wasn’t for you.”

You whimpered.

He hovered above you now—fully naked, flushed, his cock already hard again. Veined and glistening, twitching with the pulse of how badly he needed to be inside you.

But he didn’t rush.

Didn’t even move until you cupped his jaw and pulled him down into a kiss.

Mouths met softly, then harder.

Tongues sliding slow.

His body sinking into yours, heat to heat, heartbeat to heartbeat.

You grabbed the back of his neck and whispered against his lips, “Come here. Let me ruin you.”

He groaned, deep in his throat, and you flipped him onto his back, straddling his hips with shaking thighs. The lace slip rode up your thighs, leaving nothing in the way when his cock pressed hot and heavy against your dripping heat.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped. “You’re soaked through.”

You leaned down, your breasts brushing his chest, and ground your hips against his length. “You did this,” you whispered. “With every text. Every picture. Every breath.”

He was gone. Let you take full control.

You gathered the hem of the lace slip, just enough to bare yourself to him, and guided him in—sinking down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

Both of you moaned, raw and open, mouths slack with need.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, head thrown back, fists clenched in the sheets.

“Still so tight, baby. Still fucking perfect.”

You started to move—slow at first, grinding your hips in deep, lazy circles that dragged the tip of his cock right against your most sensitive spot. His hands clamped hard on your thighs, trying to keep his control, but you didn’t make it easy.

“You gonna come again just from riding me?” he asked, breathless.

You nodded. “Already close.”

He groaned, slipping one hand between your bodies to rub firm, precise circles over your clit.

“There you go… let me feel you. Let go for me.”

And you did.

Your second orgasm hit like a goddamn wave—crashing through your spine, stealing your breath, squeezing around his cock so tight he choked on a moan.

He didn’t last much longer.

You kept grinding, whispering filth into his ear—how full he made you feel, how wrecked you were for him, how you still weren’t done.

That tipped him.

He came hard with a strangled moan, cock pulsing deep inside you, hips jerking as he flooded you for the second time. His arms locked around your waist as he gasped into the crook of your neck, trembling from the force of it.

You stayed like that, slumped against his chest, bodies stuck together with sweat and slick and heat.

“You alright?” he asked, voice scratchy.

“I’m feral,” you whispered back. “And I’m not finished.”

He chuckled, still panting. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not tapping out anytime soon.”

—

Later.

The wine sat untouched on the desk.

The lace slip lay discarded in a crumpled pile on the floor.

The candles had burned halfway down, wax pooling thick at the base.

And you?

You were flushed. Sweaty. Trembling.

Knees sinking into the mattress as you straddled his thighs once more, this time with your back to him—hips hovering, your whole body tingling.

He leaned against the headboard, sweat shining on his chest, watching you like a man possessed.

“You sure?” he rasped, voice ragged and frayed.

You didn’t answer.

You just reached back, gripped his cock at the base, and lowered yourself onto him slowly—inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt inside you.

Both of you moaned. Loud.

Deep.

Almost pained.

Your hands braced against his shins behind you for leverage, thighs spread wide as you rode him hard—your ass slapping against his hips, slick and flushed with every bounce.

“Oh, fuck—”

His hands gripped your waist like he was anchoring himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart—you’re still so fuckin’ tight…”

You started to move—slow, heavy grinds, rolling your hips like you needed every inch of him rooted inside you. Bucky gasped behind you, his hands traveling from your hips to your thighs to your breasts, groping, squeezing, completely feral.

“You ride me like it’s the only thing keeping you alive,” he growled.

“Look at that ass—fuck, I can see it bounce every time you fucking slam down.”

You moaned—head tilted back, chest rising and falling—sweat glistening between your breasts.

And then—his fingers slid between your thighs from behind. Two of them, circling your clit with ruthless precision.

“I wanna feel you come again, baby. Let me feel you fucking gush on my cock.”

Your thighs trembled. Muscles locked. Your core started to spasm.

“Bucky, I—I think I—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Do it. Come on, baby. You’re dripping, you’re so fucking close—let it happen.”

You broke with a cry.

Legs shaking. Hands digging into his thighs.

Your pussy clamped down hard, and then it hit—

You squirted.

Hard.

Hot wetness sprayed between your thighs, down over his cock, soaking the sheets. Bucky let out a strangled moan, clutching your waist like he was going to lose his mind.

“Goddamn—fuck, look at you. You’re gonna make a fucking mess, aren’t you, baby?”

He didn’t stop.

He snapped his hips up into you, relentless now—grinding deep as your soaked cunt fluttered around him, so overstimulated your vision blurred.

“Still want more?” he panted, thrusting up again, angling perfectly.

“I can feel how much you need it. So greedy for me—so fucking full of my cum, and still not satisfied.”

You couldn’t answer. You just moaned, nodding wildly, nails dragging down his thighs, thighs shaking uncontrollably.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his breath hot on your shoulder as he leaned forward, one hand now wrapped tight around your throat.

“You gonna come for me again? Gonna make a mess on my cock one more time?”

“Yes—James, please—”

And you did.

A second wave slammed into you.

You screamed, back arching, body locking as you squirted again—wetter this time, gushing down over his balls, onto the sheets, soaking everything beneath you.

Bucky lost it.

“Shitshitshit— I’m coming—fuck, baby—I’m—”

He grunted, jerking up into you with three final brutal thrusts as his cock pulsed deep inside you, filling you again, so hot you felt it flood your walls.

You collapsed forward onto the mattress, his arms catching you just before you slumped completely. He held you tight from behind, your body still twitching, both of you covered in sweat, slick, and release.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, voice dazed, completely gone.

“You just… soaked me, baby.”

You half-laughed, half-whimpered. “I couldn’t help it. You broke me.”

“Good,” he growled, kissing your neck. “You can break me next.”

—

You should’ve been done.

You should’ve been shaking, satisfied, breathless from three rounds and nothing left to give.

But you weren’t.

The ache still lived in your bones.

The emptiness still throbbed between your legs.

And when Bucky’s lips brushed your temple—slow, tender, trembling—you felt it in him too.

He needed more.

You both did.

The sheets beneath you were damp. Your thighs were slick. Your chest rose with every sharp breath, nipples flushed and sensitive, body still twitching from your last orgasm. And still… the hunger hadn’t dulled.

“You okay?” he whispered against your throat.

“No,” you rasped, voice cracking.

“I need you again. Right fucking now.”

Bucky exhaled a shaky breath. His cock twitched against your thigh—already stiffening again.

“Jesus, doll… you’re insatiable.”

He kissed your jaw. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Then he shifted—slow but deliberate—and suddenly, your wrists were gathered above your head. You gasped at the motion, but his grip was careful, tender. He reached for the discarded shirt at the foot of the bed and looped it around your wrists—soft, warm, not tight.

“Just wanna keep you here,” he murmured, kissing your palms one at a time.

“Let me take care of you.”

Your stomach fluttered. Your thighs clenched.

And when he dropped between your legs, your breath hitched so hard your back arched off the bed.

“James—”

“Shhh,” he purred, brushing his stubble along the inside of your thigh.

“Gonna keep you right here, sweetheart. Gonna make you come until your body forgets what rest feels like.”

His tongue dragged through your folds—slow, warm, filthy.

The first flick over your clit sent your hips off the bed—but he was already holding you down, fingers firm, spreading you open like he was fucking home.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he growled into your cunt, voice rough with disbelief.

“Jesus, baby, you taste like both of us… fuck. You’re perfect.”

He devoured you.

Long, slow licks that lapped up his own cum still leaking from you. Wet, obscene noises filled the room—every slurp, every moan against your pussy like it was the only thing that ever mattered.

You whined. Cried out. Legs trembling.

His mouth worked faster, tongue flicking your clit with maddening precision—soft then hard, gentle then firm, always changing, always knowing exactly how to ruin you.

“Bucky—fuck—baby I—”

Your voice broke.

Your hips bucked.

You were so close again, already, already—

He pulled back.

“Not yet,” he rasped, lips wet and eyes dark.

“Not until you beg for it.”

You sobbed—from the overstimulation, from the ache, from how badly you needed to fall apart.

“Please—please, baby, I can’t—just let me—let me come, please—!”

That broke him.

He groaned, deep and guttural, and latched onto your clit with his mouth wide and relentless—tongue flat, dragging fast and rough, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs.

You exploded.

A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm hit like a strike of lightning—your whole body shook, fists clenched, toes curled, thighs trembling. You gasped so hard your ribs ached. The headboard thudded behind you.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice soaked in reverence.

“One more, baby. Just one more for me.”

You didn’t even get to respond.

Didn’t even breathe.

Because his tongue never stopped.

He kept sucking—soft at first, then harder—until another wave curled sharp behind your ribs. You sobbed his name, pulled at the binds, tried to run but couldn’t move.

You came again.

Harder.

Legs seizing, slick gushing between your thighs, soaking his face, your body curling from the sheer force of it.

He kissed your trembling thighs through the aftershocks.

Pressed his forehead to your belly.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“I don’t even know where I am,” you panted.

“And I think I like it.”

—

Later—

Maybe thirty minutes.

Maybe five.

Time had stopped meaning anything.

It warped, curled, bled together beneath the hum of overstimulation and breathless ache.

You lay curled on your side, one leg bent, sheets tangled around your calves. Sweat cooled on your skin in sticky rivulets. Your breathing had started to even out, but your body still pulsed from the inside—too full, too stretched, too tender to be still.

And then—

The mattress dipped behind you.

You felt his warmth before you felt his hands.

He slid in close—chest to your back, thighs pressed to yours, breath curling against your neck.

His lips brushed your shoulder.

“Still want me?” he asked, voice soft as fog.

You answered with a sigh. Reached back without looking, your palm wrapping around the hard length of him, thick and hot and already twitching against your fingers.

“Always.”

You rocked your hips back, slotting yourself perfectly into him.

He kissed your spine.

Tucked his face into the crook of your neck, and whispered like a man undone.

“I’ll never stop wanting you.”

One hand lifted your top leg, just slightly—fingers gliding over your thigh. His other arm wrapped low around your waist. You felt the weight of him, the warm press of his tip teasing at your entrance—slow, so fucking slow—until he finally pushed inside.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, as if the heat of you had burned him.

“You’re still tight. Still fluttering around me.”

You whimpered.

He thrust deep.

Steady. Gentle.

Every movement an unspoken prayer.

No rhythm. No pace. Just a rolling, molten motion—his cock dragging deep and slow, slick with everything you’d already shared, stroking right against the spot that still trembled.

“I could live here,” he breathed. “I want to live here.”

Your hand gripped his forearm where it wrapped across your middle. He pulled you back against him with every gentle thrust, grounding you in the heat of his body, his breath stuttering where it ghosted along your neck.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmured. “So fucking good.”

“Still feels like a dream,” you whispered.

“Then don’t wake up. Just… stay right here. Let me have you like this.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. Tears stung, soft and sudden. It wasn’t pain—it was too much pleasure. Too much love. The way he moved inside you like your body was a temple. Like every inch of you was his.

“Tell me you’re mine again,” he whispered, voice breaking.

You choked on a moan.

“I’m yours, James. Always.”

You came first—slow and quiet. A gentle quake that rippled from your core outward, your body trembling against him as your inner walls clamped down tight. You gasped softly, a sob in your throat, your hands fisting in the sheets.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder.

“Let go, doll. Let me feel you.”

He wasn’t far behind.

He buried himself deep, groaning low into your hair, his whole body taut as his release surged inside you again—slow and warm, his cock pulsing deep as he held still, hips locked to yours.

You lay there, body slack and soft, his cock still inside you.

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

His fingers traced lazy shapes on your belly, his lips pressing soft, almost absent kisses to your damp shoulder, your neck, your cheekbone.

“You okay?” he asked eventually, voice quiet.

You nodded.

“I think I’m in love with you again.”

He smiled against your skin. “Good. I never stopped.”

—

Your body was trembling again.

Not with the sharp, writhing spasms of climax—but the deeper, low-grade tremor of exhaustion.

The kind that came after too many orgasms and too little rest.

Muscles fluttering, breath short, limbs weak. You felt boneless and heavy, like your body had melted halfway into the mattress.

And yet—

Your core still throbbed.

Your nipples still ached.

Your cunt still ached for him.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Bucky sat back on his heels beside you, eyes trailing over your form with something like worship—something like worry.

His hand reached out slowly. Brushed your sweat-slicked hair off your forehead. Pressed a soft kiss there.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice gentling. “You with me, sweetheart?”

You nodded once, eyes glassy. Your throat was too dry to speak right away.

“Breathe for me. C’mon.”

His thumb stroked your cheek.

“You look wrecked.”

“I am…”

Your voice came out hoarse.

“I’m so tired.”

That broke his heart a little—you could see it in the way his brows creased. His jaw clenched like he was trying to talk himself down from his own feral hunger.

“Then let’s stop, okay?” he offered softly. “Let me clean you up, hold you for a bit. You need rest.”

But your hand was already moving.

Shaky, slow—but determined.

You reached between his legs and wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock.

Still hard.

Still thick and flushed and leaking at the tip like he’d never finished.

His breath caught.

“Baby—”

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, tears suddenly springing to your lashes.

“Please, don’t stop. I need you.”

He looked stricken.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he murmured. “I don’t wanna take too much.”

“Then be gentle,” you gasped, stroking him slowly.

“But don’t pull away. I need more. I want you again. I want you.”

His restraint cracked like glass.

With a low, ragged sound, Bucky leaned down to kiss you—soft, shaky, like a prayer being answered. He whispered against your lips.

“Tell me when to stop, baby. Or I won’t.”

You nodded.

Wrapped your arms around his neck.

Pulled him into you.

He guided your legs open with reverent hands—watching your face the entire time, watching for any flinch or hesitation. You were sensitive. Sore. Spent.

But not done.

“I love you,” he said quietly, kissing the inside of your thigh.

“So much it hurts.”

You barely had breath left to answer.

“Then have me,” you whispered. “Take what’s already yours.”

His cock slid into you slow—so slow—inch by inch, the stretch deep and aching, but your body welcomed him like he’d never left.

He moaned into your throat.

“Fuck, baby… still so tight. I can feel your pulse around me.”

He moved gently. Just the slow grind of his hips, the full drag of his cock over soaked, sensitive walls. His hand slid under your back, pulling you flush to his chest.

“You tell me when to stop. You hear me?”

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered. “Just keep giving me all of you.”

And so he did.

With every thrust, he kissed you. With every shift of his hips, he whispered your name. His fingers stroked your side, your hip, your waist—every inch of skin he could reach. You shook beneath him, moaning soft and high each time he bottomed out.

“You’re incredible,” he rasped. “You’re still taking me like it’s the first time. My perfect girl.”

Your orgasm crept in like fog, soft and wet and overwhelming.

You came with a shuddered cry, barely able to hold him, but your body squeezed around him tight—fluttering, spasming, claiming him all over again.

“That's my girl,” he whispered, voice shaking. “So fucking good for me.”

And then he followed—hips stuttering, forehead pressed to yours as he groaned your name like a benediction. His cock throbbed deep inside, spilling more warmth into the mess already flooding between your legs.

He collapsed next to you, immediately pulling you into his arms. Your body was trembling. His thumb stroked your cheek.

“No more unless you ask,” he murmured against your hair.

“I’ll only give you what you want.”

—

The sky was beginning to lighten.

A dusky indigo bled into grey, softening the skyline behind the Watchtower’s windows. But inside the room, time was a blur of candlelight, heat, and the thick, dizzying scent of sweat and sex.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d fully caught your breath.

Your whole body felt glass-thin. Shivering. Sensitive. The sheets clung to your skin with sweat, and your legs barely worked. But the ache was still there. Nestled low. Pulsing. It didn’t fade.

Bucky’s palm slid over your thigh—soft, slow, as if testing your response.

His voice came a moment later, raspy and hesitant. “Sweetheart… we can stop. You need rest. I can wait.”

But you turned to him, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. Your fingers found his, laced through them.

“I want more,” you whispered. “Please… take me there.”

He exhaled like you’d just saved his life.

Guiding you gently toward the windows—your legs shaky, but moving—he kissed your shoulder and whispered, “I’ll be gentle. Just let me see you.”

The whole room swam around you, golden in candlelight and glimmering sweat.

The skyline stretched before you. Towering buildings, distant lights. No eyes. Just your reflection—flushed, ruined, hair damp and tangled across your shoulders.

“Fuck,” Bucky exhaled when he saw you.

“Look at yourself, baby. Look what I’ve done to you.”

You braced your palms against the cool glass, breasts pressing to it as your body arched. The contrast of heat and chill made you gasp. Bucky moved in behind you, spreading your thighs with his knee. One hand on your hip. The other wrapped around his cock, dragging the head through your soaked folds.

“Still dripping,” he muttered. “Even now. Jesus, you never stop, do you?”

“I need it,” you whispered. “Still need you.”

He didn’t make you wait.

Not this time.

He slid into you with one deep, brutal thrust—your bodies colliding with a smack so loud it echoed off the glass. Your moan fogged the window instantly, your hands flattening harder against it.

“Bucky—fuck—”

He set a hard rhythm, pulling your hips back to meet every thrust, the wet sound of your bodies filling the room. You could barely stand, legs shaking, forehead pressed to the glass.

“That’s it. Just like that,” he groaned. “So fucking perfect like this. My girl. My pussy.”

His hand slid around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, grounding. His mouth hovered by your ear.

“You were made for me,” he said. “Fucking built for this.”

“Harder,” you begged. “Please—please don’t stop.”

“Look at your reflection,” he rasped. “Look how good you look. Look how you’re taking me.”

You opened your eyes—and the sight of yourself, cock-stuffed, sweat-slick, wild-eyed, flushed and wrecked against the window, nearly sent you over the edge.

He thrust harder. Faster. Your thighs trembled violently.

“Gonna come,” you sobbed. “Can’t—Bucky—I can’t hold it—”

“Then don’t,” he growled. “Come for me, baby. Come with the whole fucking city watching.”

You shattered.

Legs giving out.

A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm slammed through you like lightning. Your vision blurred. Your body buckled. Bucky caught you before you hit the ground—arm locking around your waist as he kept moving, groaning into your neck.

“Fuck—fuck—gonna fill you again—”

His hips snapped hard, once, twice—and then he came with a guttural sound, spilling inside you with a heat that pushed out around the edges. His head dropped to your shoulder, body shuddering as he emptied himself again.

You stood there for a long time—pressed to the glass, panting, twitching. Your hands limp against the windowpane. Bucky held you like you were breakable.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded faintly.

“Good. ‘Cause we’re not done.”

—

The sun was climbing now.

Pale gold spilled across the Watchtower skyline, casting long streaks of light onto the floor like it was forgiving the sins you were still committing.

Your whole body ached—but not in the way that begged for rest.

It was a deep, needy pulse. Faint, but still there. A hunger that wouldn’t let go.

You stumbled barefoot into the kitchenette, still bare, still slick between your thighs, wearing nothing but Bucky’s hickeys. Your hair was tangled. Your lips were swollen. Your legs trembled with every step.

Your hand landed on a protein bar. You peeled it open with shaking fingers and leaned on the counter for support.

“You better be looking for food,” you said over your shoulder, breathless and hoarse.

You heard the footsteps.

But they didn’t head for the fridge.

Bucky’s body pressed into you from behind—solid, burning hot, and still hard. He slid one arm around your waist, the other reaching up to gently move your hair aside so he could press a kiss to your neck.

“I am hungry,” he rasped, his voice low and feral.

“Just not for that.”

“Bucky,” you groaned, half-laughing, half-destroyed. “I can’t even feel my legs—”

“Good,” he whispered. “You don’t need ‘em.”

Before you could blink, he bent you over the kitchen island.

Your palms slapped down on the cold countertop, and you gasped as your bare nipples brushed the smooth marble.

You didn’t even get the chance to speak.

He lined himself up and pushed in fast—no prep, no warning, just the slick glide of his cock stretching you open again, sliding back into your wrecked body like it was home.

“Fuck, Bucky—!”

“Still so wet,” he growled behind you.

“Still squeezing me like you want more.”

His hands slid to your hips, gripping tight, pulling you back against him with every hard thrust.

This wasn’t slow.

This wasn’t tender.

It was filthy, frantic, barely-in-control fucking. Not because he didn’t care—but because he still needed you that badly.

The sound of skin slapping echoed in the tiny space. The sticky squelch of your soaked cunt taking him again and again filled the air. Your moans bounced off stainless steel and tiled walls.

You dropped your head onto your forearm.

“We… already did this—eight times,” you whimpered.

“I know,” he growled, fucking into you deeper.

“And you’re still fuckin’ perfect. Still taking it all.”

“You’re gonna kill me—”

“Then what a fucking way to go, sweetheart.”

He slid a hand around your front, fingers seeking out your clit, stroking with maddening precision. The way he touched you was still worshipful—even in this chaos.

Your whole body clenched.

“You want one more?” he asked, voice thick, rough, hungry.

“You got one more in you for me, doll?”

“Yes—yes—please—just one more—!”

You came hard. Your scream was ragged, echoing through the kitchen, and your knees nearly gave out from the force of it. The overstimulation blurred your vision with white-hot static, but your body still took every inch of him.

Bucky groaned deep and low, hips jerking as he spilled inside you one last time—his cock pulsing, his chest pressed to your back as he moaned your name like a blessing.

He didn’t sag against you. Didn’t drop.

He stayed upright, body still buzzing, cock still twitching inside you. You could feel him—full, ready again. You were the one shaking. Not him.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered. “You’re still hard.”

“Told you,” he murmured, breath warm against your ear.

“I could do this for days.”

“James…”

He slid his arms around your waist from behind and pulled you upright, holding you there with his cock still buried deep.

“I’ll stop if you need me to,” he whispered.

“Just say the word.”

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, heart thudding weakly.

“…I think my soul already came twice.”

Bucky laughed softly. Kissed the crown of your head.

“Rest, baby. I’ll still be here when you wake up. Hard as a fucking rock.”

—

You didn’t know what time it was when you finally woke.

Only that the light outside was warmer. Honey-gold, slipping through the windows in slow streaks. The world felt distant. Blurry. But the weight behind you wasn’t.

Bucky’s arm was still around your waist, his chest pressed along your back. Warm. Steady. His breath ghosted over the back of your neck in a soft, familiar rhythm.

Your body ached in the best ways—sore thighs, puffy lips, bruised hips—but it was the ache in your chest that hummed the loudest.

You blinked. Shifted slowly.

He stirred.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice still sleep-rough.

“You okay?”

You turned to face him—carefully, slowly—and found his eyes already open, watching you.

“Mhm. Everything hurts,” you whispered. “In a good way.”

Bucky smiled. Just a little. One of those soft, private smiles he saved for no one but you.

“Told you I’d wreck you.”

“You did. Multiple times.”

He chuckled, then leaned forward to kiss you.

No tongue. No hunger. Just warmth. Lips brushing yours with slow reverence, like he was re-learning your taste now that the storm had passed.

You melted into it.

Pressed your forehead to his.

His fingers traced lazy lines across your spine, slow and aimless.

“Missed this,” he whispered. “Missed you.”

You whispered it back. Quiet. Honest.

Then let the silence settle over you both for a while—safe, sacred, slow.

Eventually, after a second nap and a shower where no one tried to fuck anyone against the tiles (God bless you), you both managed to drag yourselves into clothes and make your way toward the common area.

Bucky wore a black tee and gray sweatpants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. You were in a loose hoodie and biker shorts—though judging by the soreness between your thighs, sitting might be a challenge.

His arm was around your waist the whole walk.

Your legs still wobbled slightly, and he adjusted his pace to match yours. Not a word about it. Just his warm palm pressing steady against your hipbone like a grounding wire.

—

The squad was already gathered around the Watchtower’s long dining table.

It was pasta night.

Yelena sat at the end, spooning pesto onto her plate with war-like intensity. Ava nursed a glass of wine. Bob looked half-asleep. Alexei was double-fisting garlic bread.

John Walker looked up the moment you stepped into view.

“Oh look,” he said dryly. “It lives.”

You flipped him off without stopping.

“Someone got their back blown out,” Ava added sweetly, raising her glass.

“We heard everything,” Alexei boomed. “Whole floor shook.”

“I had to wear my noise-canceling headphones,” Bob mumbled, half amused, half scarred.

Yelena didn’t even look up from her plate.

“I placed eight rounds in the pool. I win. Pay up, losers.”

You covered your face with your hands.

Bucky didn’t blink.

Just leaned in close, mouth brushing your ear, voice low and smug.

“We could’ve made it nine.”

You choked on your wine, burst out laughing, and slapped his chest as he grinned like the devil himself.

And when his hand slipped onto your thigh under the table—warm, firm, possessive—you didn’t move it.

You just smiled.

And yeah…

You weren’t done.

💜 @iamthatonefangirl @sonja-blayde

[vermililion]

soft john thought: helping him maintain his beard! (he gave you beard burn once and that was far too many times) while he doesn't need you to do it, it's kind of nice to be taken care of in this way. washing it, trimming it, buying him fancy beard oils to try, etc etc. i need to scratch under his chin like he's a dog

TWO BITS

INCLUDES -> john walker x reader WARNINGS -> like 65% john character study and the rest is fluff! WORD COUNT -> 1.6k

NOTES -> honestly, this was supposed to be a cute little "taking care of john" kind of blurb, and then it ran away from me. idk what happened. idk how i wrote over 1k words about BEARD CARE of all things. but the first part is like almost exclusively a character study LMAO. he's just so fascinating to me i fear

after long missions, john gets neurotic about his beard. it's not like he has the time to maintain it between getting shot at, trying to keep the team alive, and arguing with them on top of it all. sometimes things aren't quite in that order. the day yelena learned just how quickly he could move with the shield is one he will forever rue.

but it's safe to say that he simply doesn't have the chance to even try. even when there is some downtime, he can't be careful in the way he likes to be. it isn't part of his routine in the way that he's used to at home. his entire system falls out of wack on the days—or sometimes weeks—spent on missions.

so when he's finally home, when he gets to collapse into bed next to you and fall back into that same daily rhythm that keeps him going? yeah, his beard is one of the first things to get taken care of.

maybe it's that old military training kicking in. the requirement to be well-groomed at all times. only, he wasn't allowed to have a beard then. as a captain, he conformed to that sameness demanded of him and every other soldier and officer around him. it gave him a routine to stick to when he woke up.

up at 5:30 sharp, regardless of whether there was morning training or not—he'd do it on his own if he had to—a quick shower, the same breakfast every morning, and brushing his teeth and shaving to top it all off. he made quick work of it all, back when that was required of him.

now, he wakes up at 7:30—sometimes even 8:00 on a slow, lazy day, since he's allowed to have those now—with you tucked into his side. he lets himself have more variety with his breakfast options, lets his showers become something more than simply a mechanical cleaning.

he has a beard, too, and that's different. it was something that just happened after his discharge. he got sucked out of that routine for months, trapped in a cycle of reading through every inflammatory article about him, getting talked down from anxiety driven spirals by olivia, and miraculously finding a way out of bed and into his uniform to work for valentina of all people.

but after the thunderbolts, after you, it stuck. it's him now, or at least that's what you say. he likes the way you care about it, how adamant you are that it's good he has a preference for it—getting rid of all that "military bullshit," as you put it.

he doesn't tell you he mostly maintains it because you seem to like it. he keeps that to himself when you buy him some new product—maybe it's a fancy shaving cream, or a beard oil—but it matters to him all the same. because you're the one getting it for him.

so now, he adds beard care onto his new and improved routine.

when he's not strung along on a mission, that is.

after a week of being in some dusty old hydra base, doing a frankly miserable amount of recon, and uncovering nothing that gives the team any actual leads, john is more than ready to go home to you. and his beard is getting out of hand.

the new growth is stubble down his neck and scratchy against his chinstrap. it's irritating, grating in a way he's itching to fix. it's starting to climb up his cheeks, too, and that's what drives him up the wall the most. he can't run an exasperated hand down his own face without stubble scratching at his palms like some incessant reminder of his long forsaken routine whose loss he mourns every waking minute he has to spend on this mission and away from you.

or maybe he's just being dramatic.

once they finally land back in the watchtower, john makes a beeline for your shared room. he's covered in mission-related grime, and the thought of a warm, relaxing shower is more than enough to put a hop in his step. that, and it's one more step in the right direction to seeing you again.

hot water is beating down on him in no time, easing the aches buried deep in the muscles of his back. the mission sloughs off him in weighty chunks and swirls down the drain. he's so caught up in scrubbing everything away—all the dirt, the aches, the exhaustion—that he nearly misses you knocking on the door in that old “shave and a haircut” pattern.

you never come in without knocking first, especially after a mission. he gets twitchy and irritable after bad ones and needs the time to decompress, something you'd unfortunately learned the hard way a month or two ago. he hadn't meant to snap at you, but-

"hey, john?" your voice rings through the door clear. "can i grab something real quick?"

"sure, honey," he fires back, and he hears the telltale sound of the rustling of products as you search for something in the cabinet.

"did the mission go okay?" he hears a little "a-ha!" a moment after, and the cabinets shut softly.

"it went fine, nothing crazy."

"shave after the shower, then?" you ask, but he's sure you already know the answer. john is a creature of habit first and foremost.

"you want to do it?"

and that's how you find yourself perched on the bathroom sink in front of him, clippers in hand and an eyebrow raised. he stands in front of you wearing a well-worn west point shirt, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your knee.

"you ready?" you always ask, and he always is.

john rolls his eyes anyway. "you say that like this is some kind of mission."

"it is! a mission to make my wonderful boyfriend even prettier." you wield the clippers like they're a weapon and waste no time getting to cutting through his overgrown beard. your hands are unimaginably soft against his chin. fingers gently direct him as you trim.

once you're satisfied, you pick up the shaving cream and work it into a lather. it's one of the new ones you bought for him a little while ago. it came wrapped neatly in a little care package you put together for him. since then, it sits in the top drawer of the sink, alongside the rest of his favorites.

"ready for the scary part?"

"honey, i fight supervillains every other week."

"scary for me, john," you say with a cheeky smile, "what if i ruin all this?"

"you won't. i trust you." his eyes are intent upon yours, solid as stone.

it makes you suck in a sharp breath.

and then the razor is against his skin, gliding smooth on his cheek. john relishes in the feather-light touch of your fingertips guiding his face. it's a wonder your hands are so steady. his never are when he shaves—and he's been doing it for much longer than you have.

there's something that blooms quiet in his chest when you direct his head upward so you can clean up his jaw and neck. you're impossibly delicate, cradling him with little more than a few fingers as you drag the razor against his pulse point. it's overwhelming, the urge to kiss you. it's like his chest is too tight, and he can't quite get enough air in his lungs. but you pay it no mind, simply focused on the task at hand.

if anyone else were doing this, he'd have surely flinched back by now. that thought swims sluggishly through his mind—that no one else would be this safe—until he feels a sudden sting at the corner of his jaw.

"shit, sorry," you say hurriedly, voice low as if to keep from disturbing the careful peace in the room. your hands work quickly at dabbing away the blood from the nick with a tissue.

"it's fine," he replies, "i've seen worse."

"at least that was the end of it, right?" you're still focused on his jaw, tongue poking out between your lips as you patch him up to the best of your ability—not that there's much to patch up. it's hardly even a scratch, but still, you press a soothing kiss to his jaw.

he hums, missing the warmth of your touch even as you pull away. you give him a pat on the shoulder as a signal for him to step back, and he does it without a further thought.

“none of the fancy stuff this time?”

"i thought you said it was silly," you tease, prodding a gentle finger into his shoulder as you pack away the shaving kit, but you leave out the beard oil anyways.

he waits for you to finish up, itching to wrap his arms around you. he's missed you more than he's willing to admit out loud. it's different somehow when he can just hold you, when he doesn't have to say a thing and you know. you always know, somehow.

and your hands are back on his face, fingers scratching through his beard. he hears himself let out a long breath—almost a sigh—and you grin up at him. you take your time, like you always do, with the oil. it's soothing and slow, and he's almost sure that he could fall asleep standing upright like this.

"there," you mutter, and turn to pack away the oil along with everything else.

his hands wrap themselves around your waist as he watches over your shoulder. "thank you."

"anytime." you turn to face him, arms over his shoulders. your eyes flit across his face for a moment, satisfied with your work. he is too. "bed?"

"please," john's voice is all rasp and gravel. he follows after you like a lost puppy and nearly collapses into the bed. you, of course, are pulled close the minute you lay down next to him.

bad missions leave john on edge, but slow ones? the ones that drag on with no end in sight? they leave him clingy and exhausted to his core. they leave him missing you above all else.

so it's no surprise when the next morning is decidedly a lazy one.

[vermililion]

one of my absolute fav john walker fics! the dialogue is just perfect!

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.”

[vermililion]

[vermililion]

this was so beautiful to read - you write tension and longing so well omffffg. If you write more john i would die!! Love this version of reader too <3

weapons don't dream | john walker

summary: You and John Walker have a past — you're a mind-reading ex-Hydra assassin and he's a disgraced soldier — similar in one too many ways. When forced to work together, old ghosts resurface, sparks ignite, and the line between enemy and something more begins to blur.

pairing: john walker x fem!reader

word count: 2.6k

warning(s): enemies to whatever the hell this is, angst, mentions of violence, slightly dark, comfort fic — possibly a very screwed up timeline that makes absolutely no sense (sue me, marvel is too complicated for me)

a/n: hello there! Long time no see haha...This is my first attempt at diving into the thunderbolts universe (which I have totally fallen in love with)... I hope you all enjoy this quick little fic! Feedback is always appreciated <3

New Avengers Tower, 2027.

The Thunderbolts compound smells like gunpowder, sweat and recycled air. A place you once called home reduced to a mere mimicry of its former glory – now devoid of all the people that once made it so. Its body…its bones still look the same…but its organs are missing. 

Bile rises up your throat. You can’t help but hate it already.

The walls are sterile, everything’s matte black and seemingly made of soulless steel. There's a chill in the air that doesn’t come from the AC but from the place itself—like the ghosts of bad decisions still linger. There’s no traces of Tony’s greatness or the visions he had for this tower. Nothing but the stench of business business business – lifeless and cold. It’s like everything you once knew is gone. All that’s left behind are the shadows of your past, one only you can remember.

You wonder how Bucky can stomach it. How he can work with this team knowing what it once was – knowing that even the greatest of heroes couldn’t make it out alive – let alone a group of morally grey individuals whose abilities to work as a team, you seriously question. 

Undoubtedly, they’re a ticking time bomb. One that Sam has warned you against joining, and yet, you can’t let your curiosities die. Always yearning for a little danger. 

You’ve only just arrived when the briefing room door swings open. And of course he’s the first one you see.

John Walker—U.S. Agent. Patriot. Killer. Whatever they’re calling him these days…whatever branding Valentina is using to polish the blood off. 

He stops cold when your eyes meet. Not in shock, not even in regret. There’s something more dangerous floating across his cerulean orbs. Like familiarity wrapped in friction. Just that tight expression of someone biting down on something too bitter to say aloud.

“Well, shit.” He mutters. “They let you in?”

You don’t answer. You don't even bother dignifying it with a smile. You already know what he’s thinking.

His thoughts come in low and sharp.

‘Still cold. Still reading minds. Still dangerous.’

You let him feel your presence scrape along his mind’s edges. Not enough to intrude, just enough to remind him: you're still here. And you're still listening.

He flinches when he realizes you heard him. Good. Let him flinch.

“Nice to see you too, Walker.” You say completely unenthused, dropping your go-bag beside a chair. “Didn’t think you’d be the Thunderbolts’ official welcoming committee.”

“I’m not.” He grunts. “But I guess someone’s gotta make sure you don’t stab anyone before you meet the rest of the team.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Tempting.”

Silence oozes with tension as you take a seat at the table in front of you, gaze trained solely on him. John’s doing a good job keeping his thoughts shielded from you – something he’d always struggled to maintain. 

His stare breaks from yours, and a sigh passes from his lips. Apprehensive. Curious.

“So what, does Barnes just dig you up every time the assignment smells like Hydra?” He asks, dropping into a chair across from you.

You shrug off your jacket, revealing the shoulder holster beneath. “Better than digging up another American PR disaster.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. You don’t look at him again, but you can feel the weight of him—his thoughts, his regrets, the bruised, barely patched ego that still aches from everything he lost in that goddamn suit. Because of the shield.

You were there when he wore it. When he fell apart in it.

Madripoor. 2023. The rooftop.

He was bleeding from the mouth, hands shaking, and you watched him pace like a caged animal, the blood of that man still drying on his knuckles.

John was spiralling. You knew the signs—you'd lived them. Years ago, in another life, in what felt like another body.

“You don’t know what it’s like.” He snapped.

You didn’t flinch, staring at him calmly, even as his presence loomed. “Don’t I?”

You let your walls drop just enough for him to feel it—your past, your training, the blood on your hands. The screams. The pain you didn’t ask for. For just a second, you let your mind touch his—like the graze of a knife across skin. Not deep enough to bleed. Just enough to show him the flash of what you once were.

The reprogramming. The red room. The memories that weren’t yours but lived inside you anyway. The manipulation. The misuse of your powers—used to hurt the people you cared for most. 

He went still.

He stared at you for a long time after that. Said nothing. Didn’t need to.

‘It’s going to be okay.’ You spoke into his mind, repeating it like a prayer he needed to hear. 

For one second, he saw you. And you saw him. This was the first time he looked at you like a person. And the last time you’d see him for nearly four years. 

Then everything went to hell, and the government gave him a new shield and a black suit and told him to behave. John Walker—a trained soldier—didn’t want to follow those orders. But what choice did he have?

And you? You went underground. For four years.

Until Bucky called. The New Avengers – a chance at a new home. A chance at redemption.

Dahlonega, Georgia. 2027.

Valentina helps make the mission assignments, much to your (and Bucky’s) dismay. She seems to have an obsession pairing you with Walker. Maybe it’s because she can sense the history between you—the glaring dislike you have for one another is a crumbling facade.  

You don’t hate him because of who he is. You hate him because he’s too much like you. Your own self-hatred has left John Walker at a disadvantage. 

They've send you both to extract a rogue HYDRA biochemist hiding in Georgia. Rural, backwoods, half-flooded farmland. A decaying plantation house tucked behind a screen of swamp trees and slow-draining rivers.

You hate the symmetry. You hate the assignment.

You hate that it’s just the two of you. That leaves you vulnerable.

“I’ll take point,” John says as the quinjet descends.

“No.” You snap, already checking your gear. “You’re too loud. I'll go first.”

He rolls his eyes. “Jesus. Are you still pulling the lone wolf crap?”

You glance at him. “I don’t like being shot because you can’t shut up.”

The pilot makes a show of not hearing.

You drop from the jet into wet grass, your boots sinking into the mud like the land itself is trying to swallow you. The air smells like mildew and rot. You ghost through the tree line, eyes sharp, mind open just wide enough to catch stray thoughts drifting in the mist.

The compound is buried behind a cornfield, stalks yellowed and rotting from stagnant water. Vines curl over rusted fencing. Drones buzz faintly overhead, but you dispatch one with a silenced shot before it can alert the perimeter.

You signal Walker to move. Valentina had put you in charge – a fact John refuses to admit to himself. He hates that it makes sense.

He approaches from the southern fence line—less subtle than you, but fast. Efficient. You both converge at the target's front steps.

“Basement lab.” You murmur. “Underground. Reinforced. One heat signature. Two upstairs.”

“Copy that.” He says gruffly. He doesn’t question how you know. He’s learned not to. Even in the short time you’ve been back in his life, he feels like he’s known you forever.

He supposes he has. Outside of Bucky, he’s known you longer than anyone on the team.

You breach from the roof—silent, practiced, a shard of darkness slipping through rotted rafters. You land light on your feet and sweep the hall.

Glass from the skylight cuts your forearm, but adrenaline surges. Below, Walker busts in through the ground-level entrance, clearing the stairwell like a battering ram. That had been exactly the plan. 

You move in tandem. Like a dance choreographed by grudging familiarity. You clear the top floor while he moves to extract the target.

You round a corner—And then: static. Your radio hisses. Your head pulses.

Something’s off.

An unnatural hum surges in your skull, vibrating at the edge of your telepathy like barbed wire.

“Walker.” You hiss into the comm, but there’s no answer.

You take the stairs two at a time. The basement door is ajar. You step into a white, sterile hallway—

—then everything explodes.

You don’t hear it. You feel it. The floor bucks, the air implodes. Fire licks up the stairwell. Heat and pressure slam into your body like a truck.

You hit the ground with a sickening thud, shoulder screaming, ribs cracking against concrete. There’s glass in your thigh and the taste of blood in your mouth.

Your vision sways. Your ears ring. And then, barely, just as the world goes dark—

“Hey—HEY! Stay with me—don’t you dare—”

John screams your name. Not your code name. Not a title.

Your name.

His voice.

John.

Back at the compound, you sit on a gurney in the infirmary, arm stitched, pride shattered. Head absolutely pouding. You’ve just woken up, unaware of how long you’ve been out. It has to have been hours. 

John leans against the wall, arms crossed, bruised and breathing heavy. He looks like he hasn’t moved since dragging you from the basement in Georgia.

You haven’t said a word since awakening.

“You could say thank you, ya know?”” He murmurs as a joke.

You surprise him when you respond with a quiet and genuine thank you John. He wasn’t expecting you to listen—wasn’t expecting you to be so nice after almost dying. 

You sit up, wincing at the movement. “How bad is it?” You don’t know if you’re asking about his injuries or yours.

“I’m fine, just a couple scrapes and superficial bruises.” His arms are crossed as he takes a step toward you, gesturing to your physique. “The Doctor says you’ve got a dislocated shoulder and a minor concussion. I helped take care of it—popped that baby right back in place.”

You blink at him. “You took care of me?”

He shrugs. “Don’t look so surprised.”

Silence. Then: “Why?” You ask. Quiet. “Why did you pull me out?”

His jaw clenches. “Because I’ve seen enough people die on me. Especially ones who know what it’s like to be used up and tossed away.”

That silences you. Because under the anger and ego, you remember what lives in him.

Shame. Guilt. Loss. The same things you carry in your chest like weapons.

You look away.

His voice is softer now. “I didn’t forget what happened in Madripoor. You didn’t look at me like everyone else did.”

“I saw what you were capable of.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t run.”

“No,” you say, voice breaking just slightly, “because I’m capable of it too.”

Silence.

And just like that, his mind opens up for half a second, unguarded. You feel the way he’s always looked at you—with resentment, sure, but also curiosity. Attraction. Fear.

He doesn’t hate you. He hates how much you remind him of himself.

“I should go.” He whispers.

But he doesn't move.

Neither do you.

You spar in the gym three days later. It's supposed to be rehab. It's not.

Punch. Block. Kick. Grab. Repeat.

You sweep his leg. He slams you into the mat.

You flip him over. He rolls, pins you.

Your chest rises and falls beneath him, fast and hot and ragged. You’re nose to nose, panting.

He doesn’t move.

You blink. His hands are on either side of your face like he forgot how to touch softly. John’s mind flares—desire, restraint, something raw and frantic trying not to surface. But you can feel it. You can hear it in his thoughts. 

You try to resist it. Try to let him keep that part of himself a secret. But it’s like your own desire is mixing with his, not allowing you the chance to preserve his privacy. 

“I should hit you.” You whisper.

His voice is low. “I’d let you.”

Silence. One beat, then two, then three. 

Your hands grip his shirt. His thumb brushes your jaw.

“I don’t know what this is.” You murmur. “And I know you’re trying, but I’m not someone you can fix John.”

His name feels foreign on your tongue. 

“I don’t want to fix you.” He responds. “I just want to stop pretending like you’re not under my skin.”

Then, he leans in. Stops. Breath brushes your lips. You could kiss him. You could kill him.

Instead, you shove him off and walk out. It’s too much, too real, too raw. He doesn’t follow. But he doesn’t leave either.

Seven days of avoidance and aching tension. Of him watching you from across the compound, always with that haunted, heated look.

Until one night, you find him on the roof, staring at the midnight inky black void like it might offer him redemption. It feels eerily similar to that night in Madripoor. Different skyline, same ghosts. 

You step beside him.

He doesn’t look at you. Just says, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

You hesitate. Then: “I used to dream in Russian. Still do, sometimes.” You’ve never told anyone that. It’s such a trivial piece of information to withhold but telling him feels good. 

He exhales. “I still hear his screams. The guy I…” He can’t bring himself to say it.

You nod. Understanding flashes in your eyes. “We don’t get to undo what we were made into Walker. Only decide what we do with what’s left.”

His voice cracks. “I don’t think I know how.”

You look at him, really look. See the broken soldier, the boy who wanted to be Captain America, the man who lost everything and kept going anyway.

“You start by letting someone in.” You whisper.

He turns to you. “You offering?”

Your heart stutters.

Then you say it—soft, brave, real: “Yeah. I think I am.”

You find yourself leaning, and so does he, until you meet each other, your breath whispering across his face. There’s a faint hint of a smile on his features – he wants this more than anything. And without much thought, he kisses you.

And his mind goes silent. You can’t hear anything but the sound of breaths colliding. 

It’s not gentle and it’s certainty not sweet.

It’s desperate. Hungry. Two broken people clawing toward something they don’t fully understand.

John’s hands cradle your face like you’re fragile. Yours grip his shirt like you’ll fall apart otherwise. They move up his back achingly; blonde tufts of hair find your fingertips like you’re spinning gold strings. 

When you break apart, you rest your forehead against his.

You whisper, “We may never feel like true heroes John, but maybe it means we’re not just weapons anymore.”

“Hmm,” he hums with a smile, “That’s something.”

And for now, something is enough. For the first time in a long time, you’ll go to sleep without ghosts clawing at your door. 

So will John.

tags: @bmyva1entine @kjmonster111

thank you to anyone who took the time to read this fic. I'd love to write more for walker and the other thunderbolts in the future.

[vermililion]

[vermililion]

don't mind me, i'd just be foaming at the mouth if any of the boys threw me over their shoulder and smacked my ass. i think i'd respectfully melt if you wrote that...please

Prompt: Bucky, John, and Bob throw you over their shoulder

Warning: NSFW 18+ minors DNI, just a lot of sexual tension and innuendos, some banter, the boys being dominant, physical intimidation/possessive behavior, dark romance themes, wanted to put a warning on it anyways.

Note: Writing this had me giggling and kicking my feet :)

Bucky: It was late at night. You were halfway down the hallway with socked feet, hoodie zipped up halfway, and a will of determination to make it to the kitchen without anyone noticing. You hadn't been feeling good the last couple days and had been ordered by the doctor to be on bed rest. But you were starving.

“Where do you think you’re going?” That all too familiar voice called out from behind you. You stopped in the middle of your tracks, caught red handed doing the one thing they told you not to do.

You winced and turned. “I’m just getting tea.”

"It's the middle of the night," Bucky observed, putting his hands on his hips and giving you that dad look. "You have a fever. The doctor said you need to be on bed rest."

You scoffed. “It’s just chamomile. I’ll live.”

He narrowed his eyes,; his jaw tightening with that quiet intensity that always meant you’re pushing your luck. He took one slow, deliberate step toward you.

You started to backpedal. “Don’t you dare—”

“Don’t make me do this.” Bucky drew a little closer.

You barely made it two steps down the hallway before he caught up to you. Suddenly, your feet left the ground with a startled yelp and his arm secured you firmly around your thighs. He slung you over his shoulder like it was nothing.

“Bucky! Put me down!” you protested, pounding your fists weakly against his back.

“Nope,” Bucky replied, utterly unmoved, strolling back toward your room. “You still have a fever; you're supposed to be in bed. You’re not wandering around the tower on my watch."

“You’re overreacting.” You threw the insult over your shoulder.

He chuckled, clearly amused. His hand landing a firm, warm pat on the back of your thigh which pulled another surprised yelp from you.

“No, you underestimated how stubborn I am.” Bucky corrected.

“Bucky, I swear—” You tried.

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” he said casually, like that wouldn’t be thinking about those words for the rest of your life. “But if you bite me, we’re gonna have a real problem.”

Entering into your bedroom, Bucky kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot hard. He didn’t speak, simply crossed the space in long purposeful strides. When Bucky came to your bed, he had no intentions of easing you down gently. He knelt one knee onto the mattress, let you slide off his shoulder into his arms and then onto the mattress with a thump that jolted your breath.

You landed on your back, looking up at him with a shocked expression. He stood over you, chest rising and falling, hair slightly disheveled from the walk.

"You done running your body into the ground now?” Bucky asked and crossed his arms over his chest, which meant he was all business.

You propped yourself up on your elbows. “You’re the one manhandling me.”

“You call that handling?” Bucky challenged. You swallowed hard.

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already leaning in again. His one knee pressing into the mattress between your legs as he climbed toward you—slow, steady, sure. A predator with nothing to prove.

He was so close to your face that you felt the heat from his breath fanning your face. You swore he saw just how red your face was turning just from his proximity. He waited and watched you squirm under him.

His metal arm came up and the tip of his finger pinched the tip of your chin, raising it gently to get your eyes level with his. The coolness from his touch felt intoxicating. His voice dropped low and the words that came out felt laced with seduction.

"Be a good girl and stay in bed for me, will ya?"

John: You were in the middle of a mission together. Swiftly navigating towards the ramp of the quinjet, John was hot on your heels. He kept calling your name to stop you, but you ignored him. That was until he caught up with you and came to stand in front of you.

“You are not going out there like that,” John barked, standing between you and the exit.

“It’s recon! I’m not even engaging—” You tried and put your hands on your hips, more annoyed with him than anything.

“You’re limping.” John pointed to your leg which had been patched up not ten minutes ago.

You rolled your eyes. “Barely.”

“That’s enough.” John snapped, tired of listening to you.

“Since when are you in charge of my decisions?” You scoffed.

He stepped closer, radiating that particular brand of unyielding, all-american confidence that always made your pulse tick. You matched him by taking your own step back, slightly worried about this side of him.

“I don’t have to be in charge. I just have to know when you’re being a pain in the ass and stop you.” John spoke.

“John—” You held your hand out to stop him.

“I asked nicely,” John took another step forward. He was giving you one last chance. “You can come back into the jet or I can make you.”

“You wouldn’t—” You narrowed your eyes at him.

It was only then that the corners of his mouth lifted in challenge.

“You want to test that theory, sweetheart?” John wondered.

You made the mistake of lunging for the door. He caught you mid-stride and effortlessly swung your body over his shoulder. He began walking back the way you came and you protested to feeling his hard shoulder digging into your stomach.

“John Walker, put me down right now!” You hit his back once or twice, but you knew it was no use.

He let out a short laugh and tightened his grip. His hand gripped your thigh tighter as he adjusted you, almost like you were slipping—but you weren’t.

“Not until you agree to stay in the jet.” He called back to you.

“I hate you.” You pouted sourly.

“No, you don’t,” John smirked to himself, swatting your backside once to pull a small gasp of disbelief from you. “You just hate that I’m right.”

Safely back inside the quinjet, John let you slide from his shoulder and caught your waist halfway down, standing you upright, but pinning you flush against the wall. You gasped, both palms landing flat against his chest from the force.

He didn’t back away.

He loomed, crowding your space with his body, hands still on your hips. His blue eyes burned down into yours.

“You gonna listen to me now?” John asked in a low and deep tone.

Your jaw tightened along with your stubbornness. “You think throwing me around is how you win an argument?”

“No,” John seemed to smirk down at you like he was enjoying getting you riled up. “I think it’s how I keep you alive.”

You stared up at him. Your heart hammering in your chest. When you tried to push away from him, he just held you firmly and liked to watch you squirm. You only stopped the moment his palm landed flat beside your head, caging you in further and taking you by surprise. The power behind it was unmistakable.

He leaned down to get close to your face, which caused your breath to hitch in the back of your throat. He stared at your; his eyes unwavering. He was not messing around anymore and he didn't want you doing the same. So he spoke once and he spoke very clearly:

“You act up again, I will correct it. You know that, don’t you?”

Bob: You should never underestimate this man. Because you didn’t expect him to move that fast.

One moment, you were glaring at him from across the room, arms crossed, refusing to budge out of your own stubbornness. Just as you went to turn away, you felt a pair of hands grab up. And the floor tilted beneath you.

“Bob—!” you shouted, half a protest, half pure surprise.

But it was too late. He’d already hoisted you up, strong arm locked around the backs of your thighs, your upper body dangling behind him. He wasn’t rough, not quite, but you could feel the effort in the way he held you. Like he was restraining from a much more violent impulse.

“You weren’t listening,” Bob claimed. He sounded too calm, too controlled, too casual. “And I don’t really feel like arguing tonight.”

His body was warm. It always was. Like the sun had stitched itself beneath his skin. His grip was unshakable, but not cruel.

“You can’t just throw people around, Bob!” You tried to argue right back. You squirmed around in his hold, desperate to break free but it was no use.

He let out a soft, almost sad chuckle. “I can do a lot of things I’m not supposed to.”

Your heart stuttered. And you wonder if he heard it.

“I’m being nice,” Bob added and threw a look over his shoulder to address you. You pouted in defeat.

The hallway blurred past as he carried you with terrifying ease. Somewhere between being handled like glass… and being reminded that glass can still be broken.

Then Bob stopped walking.

The silence hung too long before he finally, carefully, bent down. His arms moved with precision, almost clinical, as if afraid he’d break you just by touching.

He set you down on your feet, gently this time. His hands lingering just a little too long at your waist, not for control, but with caution.

“Sorry,” Bob muttered, not meeting your eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

You thought for a second, nibbling your lips gently. You could see the conflict written across his face— like he was still desperately trying to stay in control of himself and that maybe he felt something darker coiled tight beneath the surface.

You took a deep breath to ground yourself. And Bob looked up to meet your gaze.

"I didn’t say I didn’t like it."

SORRY IF THAT WASN'T SUPER GOOD. FELT LIKE I STRUGGLED WITH BOB'S ONE