𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑

𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐏𝐔𝐆𝐇 as 𝐘𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐀 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐀 / 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐖 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐘𝐀𝐓𝐓 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐋 as 𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑 / 𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓.

𝐖𝐘𝐀𝐓𝐓 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐒 𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑 / 𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓

Thunderbolts* (2025) The New Avengers.

       →  WORDS .

❛  i’m  sorry ,  you  don’t  enjoy  being  teased ? .  ❜ ❛  you  know  what  i’m  waiting  for .  ❜ ❛  keep  your  hands  where  they  are .  ❜ ❛  i want you to ride  [ me / my fingers ] .  ❜ ❛  you  make  the  prettiest  sounds .  ❜ ❛  say  please .  ❜ ❛  i  want  to  make  this  last .  ❜ ❛  look  at  me .  ❜ ❛  i’m  yours ,  only  yours -  ❜ ❛  yeah ,  just like that -  ❜ ❛  i’ve  barely  even  started .  ❜ ❛  i  need  you .  ❜ ❛  god ,  shut  up  and  fuck  me  already !  ❜ ❛  god ,  yes ,  [ name ] ,  don’t  stop .  ❜ ❛  you  have  no  idea  how  long  i’ve  wanted  to  do  this .  ❜ ❛  who  gets  to  touch  you  like  this ?  ❜ ❛  come  for  me .  ❜ ❛  ah ,  ah -  don’t  touch .  ❜ ❛  brace  your  hands  on  the  wall .  ❜ ❛  could  you  come  like  this ?  ❜ ❛  please ,  let  me  come -  ❜ ❛  god ,  you’re  beautiful -  ❜ ❛  i’ve  been  waiting  for  this  all  night .  ❜ ❛  you’re  such  a  tease .  ❜ ❛  take  these  off .  ❜ ❛  i  want  to  feel  your  [ mouth / fingers ] .  ❜ ❛  do  you  have  any  idea  how  good  you  taste ?  ❜ ❛  tell  me  what  you  want .  ❜ ❛  we  shouldn’t -  ah ,  we shouldn’t be doing this .  ❜ ❛  faster ,  [ name ] ,  i  need  more .  ❜ ❛  is  this  good ?  ❜ ❛  keep  your  eyes  open .  ❜ ❛  i  can’t  wait  to  find  out  what  else  you  can  do .  ❜ ❛  you  don’t  have  to  be  so  gentle .  ❜ ❛  i  want  to  hear  you  beg .  ❜ ❛  can  i  take  this  off ?  ❜ ❛  please ,  please ,  please -  ❜ ❛  you’re  doing  so  well  for  me .  ❜ ❛  please  touch  me .  ❜ ❛  keep  reading ,  i  want  to  see  how  long  you  last .  ❜ ❛  i’ll  buy  you  another  one .  ❜ ❛  say  my  name .  louder .  ❜ ❛  i  can’t  wait  any  longer .  ❜ ❛  you  feel  so  good .  ❜ ❛  you’re  going  to  leave  a  mark -  ❜ ❛  touch  yourself  for  me .  ❜ ❛  do  you  deserve  it ?   ❜ ❛  did  i  say  you  could  come ?  ❜ ❛  i’m  so  close -  ❜ ❛  they’re  going  to  catch  us -  ❜ ❛  i  want  you  right  here .  ❜ ❛  we  have  to  be  quiet .  ❜

         →  ACTIONS .

j.  walker: please,  i  dare  you  to  try  and  stop  me.   ,   @agtwalker.

THERE'S  AN  INCREDULOUS  LOOK  IN  THOSE  ICY  BLUE  EYES.   Looking  back  at  Walker  as  if  he  had  just  said  the  dumbest  thing  he  could  think  of.         (  not  to  dare  to  stop  him  like  he  was  going  to  entertain  that.  )   Head  tilted  to  the  side.   If  Walker  thought  he  was  just  gonna  sit  there  and  do  nothing  ,  ┈┈  he  was  about  to  be  sorely  mistaken.   That  wasn't  how  Bucky  did  things  ,  not  anymore.   The  day  they  all  decided  to  stick  together  on  this  was  the  day  they  became  a  team.   And  like  Walker  Bucky  held  that  with  more  meaning  than  most.

“  Wow.   You're  even  dumber  than  I  thought  if  you  think  I'm  just  gonna  let  ya  walk  int'that  alone.  ”   He  could  see  it  ,  ┈┈  the  determination  and  sheer  drive  that  Walker  got  when  he  set  his  mind  to  something.   He  pushed  off  the  cargo  box  he  was  leaning  against  ,         (  moving  to  match  pace  with  the  blonde  as  he  continued  on  his  course.  )   “  You  know  this  isn't  a  good  idea.   Not  without  backup.   So  why  don't  we  just  hold  up  a  sec  ,  and  think  this  one  through.  ”

John’s   jaw   worked   tight   as   he   stared   at   Bucky—at   those   piercing   eyes   full   of   judgment   and   that   tilt   of   his   head   like   Walker   had   just   grown   a   second   head.   The   condescension   wasn't   subtle.   It   never   was   with   Barnes.   That   was   the   thing—Bucky   didn’t   say   much,   but   when   he   did,   it   cut   deep.   He   didn’t   flinch   when   the   metal   hand   gripped   his   arm.   If   anything,   it   only   made   his   spine   straighten.   There   was   something   in   him,   something   loud   and   bitter,   that   wanted   to   shake   it   off   and   keep   moving   forward,   just   to   prove   a   point.   That   he   could.   That   he   didn’t   need   anyone.

But   the   words   stuck.   "You're   not   goin’   without   backup."   For   a   long   moment,   John   didn’t   say   anything.   The   cold   wind   off   the   dock   whipped   between   them,   filling   the   silence   with   the   sharp   bite   of   salt   and   steel.   Then   finally,   his   lips   pressed   into   a   tight   line   and   he   exhaled   through   his   nose.   “Don’t   pretend   like   you’re   doing   this   ‘cause   you   like   me,”   he   muttered,   not   looking   at   him   yet.   “We   both   know   you   think   I’m   reckless.   Dangerous.   Maybe   I   am.   But   I’m   not   stupid.”   He   turned,   finally   meeting   Bucky’s   eyes.   His   voice   was   lower   now,   steady.   “I   do   have   a   plan.   But   it   doesn’t   come   with   pretty   speeches   or   group   huddles.   You   want   me   to   walk   you   through   it?   Fine.   Just   don’t   act   like   you’re   the   only   one   here   who   gives   a   damn.”

Natalia watched, through half-lidded eyes, as the man crawled up the length of her body - dangerous spark lingering within his eyes. she did not shy away from the kiss, tongue plunging in to meet his in a playfull fight for dominance. at this point Natalia did not care who won or who lost, head still swimming with the afteshocks of pleasure, too blissed out to put the weight of a matter into anything else other than the weightless ecstasy pumping through her veins. "oh, this was only the begining." the redhead hummed as long, toned legs wrapped around his hips in what could have been a very dangerous act. INSTEAD, the Widow's core engaged as she brought Walker down onto the bed and ended up straddling his waist - flipping them around in the comfortable, surprisingly spatious bed.

John   breath   hitched   as   Natasha   lips   crashed   into   his,   her   tongue   sliding   against   his   with   a   playful   yet   commanding   force.   He   could   still   taste   her   on   his   lips,   the   faint   tang   of   her   arousal   lingering   like   a   secret   they   now   shared.   Her   legs,   long   and   toned,   wrapped   around   his   hips   with   a   strength   that   surprised   him,   pulling   him   closer   until   their   bodies   were   flush.   The   heat   of   her   skin   against   his   was   electric,   and   he   could   feel   the   rapid   thrum   of   her   heartbeat   echoing   his   own.

But   then,   in   a   move   that   left   him   momentarily   stunned,   she   flipped   them.   One   moment   he   was   above   her,   and   the   next,   he   was   on   his   back,   staring   up   at   her   as   she   straddled   his   waist.   Her   red   hair   cascaded   over   her   shoulders   like   a   fiery   curtain,   and   her   eyes—those   piercing,   calculating   eyes—were   half-lidded,   still   glazed   with   the   aftermath   of   pleasure   he’d   just   given   her.   She   smirked   down   at   him,   a   dangerous   spark   in   her   gaze   that   made   his   stomach   tighten.

The Tower is quiet when John steps off the elevator, the halls are dim, the kind of hush that only comes at nightfall in a place full of people trained to stay alert even in sleep.

Yelena isn’t in the common area. Not in the gym. He finds her in the guest quarters she never really made hers, curled up on top of the covers, one of his sweatshirts swallowed around her like armor, the sleeves cover her petite hands.

She hadn’t answered his texts. Not after the appointment. The appointment he had no idea about... There's a slightly crumpled up piece of paper on the nightstand, beside where her head rests, bold lettering that peeks: NEGATIVE.

Yelena can smell his familiar cologne, and she stirs. "Hey..." her voice cracks, eyes a little tender. Red-rimmed, but dry now. Braver, even in heartbreak. She sniffs and adjusts, a soft smile presenting, she's happy he's home. Happy to see him, even if there's a war happening behind her eyes--grief and pride and something else she’s never let herself say.

John   stands   in   the   doorway   longer   than   he   means   to.   He   takes   her   in—how   small   she   looks   despite   all   the   fire   he’s   seen   in   her,   wrapped   up   in   the   old   sweatshirt   she   always   teased   him   for   leaving   behind.   His.   His   throat   tightens   before   he   even   speaks.   She   wanted   to   talk,   and   a   part   of   him   fears   what   she   would   say.

He   crosses   the   room   slowly,   like   any   sudden   movement   might   make   her   disappear.   He   doesn’t   look   at   the   paper.   He   doesn’t   have   to.   “Hey,”   he   says   back,   quiet,   almost   a   breath.   There’s   no   lecture,   no   demand   to   explain.   Just   the   heaviness   of   what   they   both   didn’t   say.   What   she   didn’t   tell   him.   He   does   hope   she   will   tell   him,   after   the   awkward   small   talk   she   pretends   they   can   have.

He   sits   beside   her   on   the   edge   of   the   bed,   his   hand   finding   the   hem   of   the   sweatshirt   where   it   pools   around   her   arms.   He   doesn’t   pull   it   away—he   just   lays   his   hand   there,   anchoring   them   both.   He   finally   looks   at   her,   really   looks   at   her.   Not   the   assassin,   not   the   brave   face   or   the   teasing   smirk.   Just   her.   Red   eyes,   soft   smile,   war-torn   heart.

ㅤHe'd drifted back off into whatever dream or memory he'd been lost in, or perhaps some muddled mix of the two that came out of the blender his subconscious could be. It was a good one, not the softest or easiest he could have found because there had been nothing soft or easy about the war, but a moment of reprieve. He still couldn't place the voice or the form he was pressed into, but it wasn't important enough to pull any actual alertness into place - if he did that, he'd lose any chance of stealing these last moments of sleep. Nobody wanted that.

ㅤ"Remember Monty's tea before you declare war," he murmured, hopefully understandable, but not caring if he wasn't. Whether it was Jim or Gabe, they'd know what had happened to Monty's tea, and nobody wanted that kind of retaliation.

ㅤIn fairness, Jim or Gabe would also have let him sleep if there was no urgent reason to get them up, and that was the part that was escaping him right then. They'd both have been well-accustomed to him being the first one up, dragging all of them up to get to work before Hydra guards had to come do it - they learned early and fast that nothing good came of that, and somehow his dumb ass had been one of the highest ranking NCOs in the work camp. Worse, people listened to him, they liked him, guards included. The only time he'd faltered was when he'd gotten sick, and even then, he'd ran himself ragged. They'd let him steal precious moments to nap then, too.

ㅤThat nagged at him a little, even in his half-lucid dream-memory. He was prompted about using him as a pillow, called Barnes, and that wasn't that unusual, but shouldn't it have been something else? Sarge. Gabe had officially been under his command before the Commandos, but Morita hadn't been. He'd called him 'Sarge' like the others out of respect, though. Someone else? That was the unfortunate point, as quiet as it was, that made him actually stir. Confused, still not entirely awake but taking in more details. It didn't smell right, didn't feel right. Even when his eyes cracked open, he wasn't really getting it.

ㅤThe light was bright but soft, early morning, and that was nothing unusual except that there were windows. He was indoors, not in a tent like he'd first thought, and first impressions didn't say it was some bombed out shell of a building, either. It was comfortable, whole, the wrong era. That meant that it wasn't Jim or Gabe beside him, and the tension that snapped into his muscles would be a dead giveaway that he wasn't asleep anymore, not that it gave more than a fraction of a second's warning before he flinched awake hard enough that if someone was resting against him they were going to be knocked around some by the movement. His consciousness was rocketing through the possibilities, trying to piece together where he was, when he was, who he was and who was there with him, and coming up with too many uncertainties. "Steve?"

ㅤLast ditch effort, blond hair marked for memories that could be this calm and easy, but it wasn't Steve. Didn't smell right, didn't feel right, and just as fast as he'd woken and questioned it, he moved. With a rolling motion, Bucky's goal was straddling the other to pin him down with his substantial weight (metal and muscle did that), left hand going for his throat to slow any attempts at retaliation. It was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

John   froze   under   the   weight.   It   wasn't   the   hand   on   his   throat—he'd   been   in   chokes   before,   more   brutal   ones,   worse   ones.   It   wasn’t   even   the   weight   on   his   chest   or   the   edge   of   panic   in   the   air.   It   was   the   voice   before   all   that.   The   words,   the   drift,   the   soft   war-torn   dreaming—so   out   of   step   with   the   man   he   knew   Barnes   to   be.   This   was…   too   much   Bucky   and   not   enough   Winter   Soldier.   It   wasn’t   tactical.

He   gritted   his   teeth.   “Steve?”   That   had   been   the   trigger.   Not   the   pin,   not   the   weight.   That   name   was   a   loaded   gun   in   a   silent   room,   and   it   damn   well   went   off.   “…Not   Steve,”   John   said   flatly,   low   and   steady,   throat   barely   shifting   under   the   cold   grip   of   the   metal   hand.   His   own   hand   comes   to   try   and   pull   the   hand   away   from   his   throat.   Ever   the   shadow   of   Steve   Rogers,   he   feels   he   chokes   more   on   that   than   the   hand   pressuring   his   throat.

There   was   no   flinch   in   his   voice,   no   panic.   The   bitterness   of   someone   who’s   been   measured   against   ghosts   before   and   found   wanting.   He   let   his   hands   hover   by   his   sides,   not   grabbing,   not   escalating—not   yet.   He   could   throw   at   him   if   he   had   to,   but   something   in   Bucky’s   expression   told   him   this   wasn’t   about   violence.   “You   were   somewhere   else,”   John   added,   quieter   now.   “Didn’t   sound   like   a   nightmare.   Didn’t   look   like   one   either.”   His   eyes   flicked   up.   Bucky   hadn’t   let   go   yet.

“It's   Walker.”   he   said,   with   more   certainty   than   he   expected   to   feel.   Would   that   make   Bucky   want   to   choke   him   more   or   less?   At   that   point   he   is   not   sure.   “You   are   in   the   Tower.”   We   are   friends.   But   he   is   not   sure   what   they   are.   That   might   confuse   the   other   more,   perhaps.   Before   he   says   you   miss   him   so   much   it’s   leaking   out   of   your   damn   skin,   he   stops   himself   because   this   isn't   about   how   he   feels.   And   he   doesn't   want   to   be   choked   under   Bucky.

John   hesitated   in   the   doorway   for   just   a   second—long   enough   to   watch   the   way   Ava   barely   glanced   his   way   before   curling   back   under   her   blankets   like   she’d   been   expecting   him   all   along.   Like   this   was   normal.   Like   he   belonged   here.   That   thought   struck   something   deep,   something   half-formed   and   unspoken,   but   he   buried   it   quickly.   He   was   good   at   that.

He   let   the   door   click   shut   behind   him,   quiet   enough   not   to   disturb   the   stillness   she   seemed   wrapped   in,   and   started   across   the   room.   Her   voice—low,   rough,   mumbled—was   the   kind   of   thing   he   might’ve   missed   once,   but   not   now.   Not   after   so   many   nights   like   this   one.   Ava   dragged   herself   toward   the   edge   of   the   bed   without   even   looking   at   him,   making   space   like   she   always   did.   Like   she   didn’t   even   think   twice   about   it   anymore.   And   that—that   was   the   part   that   both   warmed   and   worried   him.   This   had   become   something,   and   he   didn’t   know   when   exactly   it   had   stopped   feeling   temporary.

He   sat   carefully   on   the   mattress,   boots   already   off,   jacket   slung   over   the   chair   earlier   in   the   evening   like   he   knew   he’d   end   up   here   again.   (He   had.)   Ava’s   arm   looped   around   his,   fingers   brushing   until   they   found   his   hand.   A   lazy   pull,   just   enough   to   put   him   away   from   his   thoughts   and   into   the   present.   The   truth   was,   sharing   a   bed   with   her,   just   like   this,   the   comfort   he   felt   in   the   moment   had   brought   some   of   the   nightmares   away.   It   was   strange   how   easy   he   and   Ava   fell   into   this   strange   routine.

there's  a  sense  of  relief  that  comes  with  the  dip  of  the  mattress,  the  tension  she  was  trying  so  desperately  to  ignore  evaporating  the  moment  he  settled  into  his  spot  next  to  her  and  she  could  curl  close.   (  don't  think  about  it.  )   it  shouldn't  be  comfortable  to  be  so  close  to  him  when  she's  spent  so  much  of  her  life  so  painfully  isolated,  shouldn't  be  something  that  she's  grown  to  crave  the  way  that  she  has.  it shouldn't be, but what should and shouldn't be true doesn't seem to matter anymore — not when it feels so entirely natural to burrow into his side, to use her free hand to tug the blanket she was tangled in free so she can haphazardly throw it over him too.

(  she  can  feel  it.  she's  still  tangible,  still  there,  able  to  feel  the  warmth  of  his  body  even  now  that  she's  half  -  asleep  and  her  thoughts  are  scattered.  she  doesn't  have  to  focus  to  feel  him,  or  the  weight  of  the  sheets,  or  the  softness  of  the  pillow.  it's  easier  during  the  day  to  pretend  that  she  doesn't  crave  simple  contact  like  this,  easier  to  excuse  the  idle  touches  to  a  teammate's  arm  or  shoulder  as  she  brushes  past  them  as  nothing  more  than  an  unintended  consequence  of  living  in  close  proximity,  but  the  nights  are  always  worse.  the  nights  had  been  unbearable  until  she  and  john  had  fallen  into  whatever  this  pattern  was  and  now  it  borders  on  impossible  to  sleep  without  him  there,  as  little  as  she  tries  to  think  about  that.  ) 

The   weight   of   her   against   him,   the   quiet   command   in   her   voice   masked   as   something   casual,   something   dismissive—he   knows   better.   Knows   the   difference   between   a   joke   and   a   need   dressed   up   as   one.   She   presses   herself   closer   and   he   doesn’t   flinch   or   shift   or   pull   away.   He   just   breathes.   Deep.   Steady.   Like   maybe   if   he   stays   still   enough,   if   he’s   quiet   enough,   this   won’t   break   apart   in   the   morning.

He   turns   his   head   just   slightly,   enough   that   his   chin   brushes   the   top   of   her   hair.   She   smells   like   ozone   and   sleep,   and   something   warmer   beneath   the   surface—like   trust,   maybe.   Or   maybe   that’s   just   wishful   thinking.   “You   forgot   to   add   the   right   commanding   tone.   "   His   voice   is   low,   rough   with   the   edge   of   exhaustion,   but   there’s   something   gentler   there   too,   a   joke   really.   A   rasp   of   something   softer   than   he   usually   lets   himself   be.   The   truth   is,   she   doesn’t   need   to   say   please.   Not   to   him.   Not   like   this.   Not   when   she’s   curled   into   his   side   like   the   space   was   carved   out   just   for   her.

She   gives   him   that   half-joke,   calling   him   captain,   and   he   huffs   a   quiet   breath   that   could   almost   be   a   laugh   if   it   wasn’t   so   close   to   being   something   else.   He   doesn’t   comment   on   the   kiss,   doesn’t   call   her   on   it,   even   if   he   notices   it   like   a   bruise   blooming   slow   beneath   the   skin.   He   shifts   just   slightly—his   arm   coming   around   her   waist   without   needing   to   be   asked,   not   tight   but   solid.   He   doesn’t   say   I’ll   stay   because   it’s   already   a   given.